Maskerade

Her breath puffed in the air as she walked through the woods. Her boots crunched on the leaves. The wind had died away, leaving the sky wide and clear and open for the first frost of the season, a petal­nipping, fruit‑withering little scorcher that showed you why they called Nature a mother...

A third witch.

Three witches could sort of... spread the load.

Maiden, mother and... crone. There.

The trouble was that Granny Weatherwax com­bined all three in one. She was a maiden, as far as Nanny knew, and she was at least in the right age-­bracket for a crone; and, as for the third, well... cross Granny Weatherwax on a bad day and you'd be like a blossom in the frost.

There was bound to be a candidate for the vacancy, though. There were several young girls in Lancre who were just about the right age.

Trouble was, the young men of Lancre knew it too. Nanny wandered the summer hayfields regu­larly, and had a sharp if compassionate eye and damn' good over‑the‑horizon hearing. Violet Frottidge was walking out with young Deviousness Carter, or at least doing something within ninety degrees of walking out. Bonnie Quarney had been gathering nuts in May with William Simple, and it was only because she'd thought ahead and taken a little advice from Nanny that she wouldn't be bearing fruit in February. And pretty soon now young Mildred Tinker's mother would have a quiet word with Mildred Tinker's father, and he'd have a word with his friend Thatcher and he'd have a word with his son Hob, and then there'd be a wedding, all done in a properly civilized way except for maybe a black eye or two. No doubt about it, thought Nanny with a misty‑eyed smile: innocence, in a hot Lancre summer, was that state in which innocence is lost.

And then a name rose out of the throng. Oh, yes. Her. Why hadn't she thought of her? But you didn't, of course. Whenever you thought about the young girls of Lancre, you didn't remember her. And then you said, 'Oh, yes, her too, of course. O' course, she's got a wonderful personality. And good hair, of course.'

She was bright, and talented. In many ways. Her voice, for one thing. That was her power, finding its way out. And of course she also had a wonderful personality, so there'd be not much chance of her being... disqualified...

Well, that was settled, then. Another witch to bully and impress would set Granny up a treat, and Agnes would be bound to thank her eventually.

Nanny Ogg was relieved. You needed at least three witches for a coven. Two witches was just an argument.

She opened the door of her cottage and climbed the stairs to bed.

Her cat, the tom Greebo, was spread out on the eiderdown like a puddle of grey fur. He didn't even awake as Nanny lifted him up bodily so that, nightdress-­clad, she could slide between the sheets.

Just to keep bad dreams at bay, she took a swig out of a bottle that smelled of apples and happy braindeath. Then she pummelled her pillow, thought 'Her... yes,' and drifted off to sleep.

Presently Greebo awoke, stretched, yawned and hopped silently to the floor. Then the most vicious and cunning a pile of fur that ever had the intelligence to sit on a bird table with its mouth open and a piece of toast balanced on its nose vanished through the open window.

A few minutes later, the cockerel in the garden next door stuck up his head to greet the bright new day and died instantly mid–'doodle‑doo'.

There was a huge darkness in front of Agnes while, at the same time, she was half‑blinded by the light. Just below the edge of the stage, giant flat candles floated in a long trough of water, producing a strong yellow glare quite unlike the oil lamps of home. Beyond the light, the auditorium waited like the mouth of a very big and extremely hungry animal.

From somewhere on the far side of the lights a voice said, 'When you're ready, miss.'

It wasn't a particularly unfriendly voice. It just wanted her to get on with it, sing her piece, and go.

'I've, er, got this song, it's a–'

'You've given your music to Miss Proudlet?'

'Er, there isn't an accompaniment actually, it–'

'Oh, it's a folk song, is it?'

There was a whispering in the darkness, and someone laughed quietly.

'Off you go then... Perdita, right?'

Agnes launched into the Hedgehog Song, and knew by about word seven that it had been the wrong choice. You needed a tavern, with people leering and thumping their mugs on the table. This big brilliant emptiness just sucked at it and made her voice hesitant and shrill.

She stopped at the end of verse three. She could feel the blush starting somewhere around her knees. It'd take some time to get to her face, because it had a lot of skin to cover, but by then it'd be strawberry pink.

She could hear whispering. Words like 'timbre' emerged from the susurration and then, she wasn't surprised to hear, came 'impressive build'. She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She didn't have to feel good about it.

The voice spoke up.

'You haven't had much training, have you, dear?'