Maskerade

'It's taken me all morning, but I've worked out we pay more than fifteen hundred dollars a year for ballet shoes,' said Bucket, waving a piece of paper in the air.

Salzella nodded. 'Yes, they do rather go through them at the toes.'

'I mean, it's ridiculous! I've still got a pair of boots belonging to my father!'

'But ballet shoes, sir, are rather more like foot gloves,' Salzella explained.

'You're telling me! They cost seven dollars a pair and they last hardly any time at all! A few performances! There must be some way we can make a saving... ?'

Salzella gave his new employer a long, cool stare. 'Possibly we could ask the girls to spend more time in the air?' he said. 'A few extra grands jetes?'

Bucket looked puzzled. 'Would that work?' he said suspiciously.

'Well, their feet wouldn't be on the ground for so long, would they?' said Salzella, in the tones of one who knows for a fact that he's much more intelligent than anyone else in the room.

'Good point. Good point. Have a word with the ballet mistress, will you?'

'Of course. I am sure she will welcome the suggestion. You may well have halved costs at a stroke.'

Bucket beamed.

'Which is perhaps just as well,' said Salzella. 'There is, in fact, another matter that I've come to see you about...'

'Yes?'

'It is to do with the organ we had.'

'Had? What do you mean, had?' said Bucket, adding, 'You're going to tell me something expensive, are you? What have we got now?'

'A lot of pipes and some keyboards,' said Salzella. 'Everything else has been smashed.'

'Smashed? Who by?'

Salzella leaned back. He was not a man to whom amusement came easily, but he realized that he was rather enjoying this.

'Tell me,' he said, 'when Mr Pnigeus and Mr Cavaille sold you this Opera House, did they mention anything... supernatural?'

Bucket scratched his head. 'Well... yes. After I'd signed and paid. It was a bit of a joke. They said: "Oh, and by the way, people say there's some man in evening dress who haunts the place, haha, ridiculous, isn't it, these theatrical people, like children really, haha, but you may find it keeps them happy if you always keep Box Eight free on first nights, haha." I remember that quite well. Handing over thirty thousand dollars concentrates the memory a bit. And then they rode off: Quite a fast carriage, now I come to think about it.'

'Ah,' said Salzella, and he almost smiled. 'Well, now that the ink is dry, I wonder if I might fill you in on the fine detail...'

'You make yourself useful, Esme Weatherwax,' said the voice from the bushes, 'by obligin' me and findin' any dock or burdock plants that might happen to be around out there, thank you very much.'

'Herbs? What're you plannin' with them?'

'I'm plannin' to say, "Thank goodness, big leaves, just what I need." '

Birds sang. The wind rattled the dried seed‑heads of moorland flowers.

Granny Weatherwax poked in the ditches to see if there were any interesting herbs hereabouts.

High over the hills, a buzzard screamed and wheeled.

The coach stood by the side of the road, despite the fact that it should have been speeding along at least twenty miles away.

At last Granny grew bored, and sidled towards a clump of gorse bushes.

'How're you doing, Gytha?'

'Fine, fine,' said a muffled voice.

'Only I reckon the coach driver is getting a bit impatient.'

'You can't hurry Nature,' said Nanny Ogg.

'Well, don't blame me. You was the one who said it was too draughty on the broomsticks.'

Some distance from the bushes where Nanny Ogg was communing with Nature there was, placid under the autumn sky, a lake.

In the reeds, a swan was dying. Or was due to die. There was, however, an unforeseen snag.

Death sat down on the bank.

NOW LOOK, he said, I KNOW HOW IT IS SUPPOSED TO GO. SWANS SING JUST ONCE, BEAUTIFULLY, BEFORE THEY DIE. THAT'S WHERE THE WORD 'SWANSONG' ORIGINATES. IT IS VERY MOVING. NOW, LET US TRY THIS AGAIN...

He produced a tuning fork from the shadowy recesses of his robe and twanged it on the side of his scythe.

THERE'S YOUR NOTE...

'Uh‑uh,' said the swan, shaking its head.

WHY MAKE IT DIFFICULT?

'I like it here,' said the swan.

THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.

'Did you know I can break a man's arm with a blow of my wing?'

HOW ABOUT IF I GET YOU STARTED? DO YOU KNOW 'MOONLIGHT BAY'?

'That's no more than a barbershop ditty! I happen to be a swan!'

'LITTLE BROWN JUG'? Death cleared his throat. HA HA HA, HEE HEE HEE, LITTLE­–

'That's a song?' The swan hissed angrily and swayed from one crabbed foot to the other. 'I don't know who you are, sirrah, but where I come from we've got better taste in music.'

REALLY? WOULD YOU CARE TO SHOW ME AN EXAMPLE?

'Uh‑uh!'

DAMN.

'Thought you'd got me there, didn't you,' said the swan. 'Thought you'd tricked me, eh? Thought I might unthinkingly give you a couple of bars of the Pedlar's Song from Lohenshaak, eh?'

I DON'T KNOW THAT ONE.

The swan took a deep, laboured breath.

'That's the one that goes "Schneide meinen eigenen Hals‑" '