Maskerade

'But maybe... if your wife's got any old clothes, p'raps, I'm a size 12, black for preference, or bakes the odd cake, no plums, they gives me wind, or got a bit of old mead put by, could be, or p'raps you'll be killing a hog about now, best back's my favourite, maybe some ham, a few pig knuckles... anything you can spare, really. No obligation. I wouldn't go around puttin' anyone under obligation, just 'cos I'm a witch. Everyone all right in your house, are they? Blessed with good health, I hope?'

She watched this sink in.

'And now let me help you out of the door,' she added.

Weaver was never quite certain about what happened next. Granny, usually so sure on her feet, seemed to trip over one of his sticks as she went through the door, and fell backward, holding his shoulders, and somehow her knee came up and hit a spot on his backbone as she twisted sideways, and there was a click–

'Aargh!'

'Sorry!'

'Me back! Me back!'

Still, Jarge reasoned later, she was an old woman. And she might be getting clumsy and she'd always been daft, but she made good potions. They worked damn' fast, too. He was carrying his sticks by the time he got home.

Granny watched him go, shaking her head.

People were so blind, she reflected. They preferred to believe in gibberish rather than chiropracty.

Of course, it was just as well this was so. She'd much rather they went 'oo' when she seemed to know who was approaching her cottage than work out that it conveniently overlooked a bend in the track, and as for the door‑latch and the trick with the length of black thread...

But what had she done? She'd just tricked a rather dim old man.

She'd faced wizards, monsters and elves... and now she was feeling pleased with herself because she'd fooled Jarge Weaver, a man who'd twice failed to become Village Idiot through being overqualified.

It was the slippery slope. Next thing it'd be cackling and gibbering and luring children into the oven. And it wasn't as if she even liked children.

For years Granny Weatherwax had been contented enough with the challenge that village witchcraft could offer. And then she'd been forced to go travelling, and she'd seen a bit of the world, and it had made her itchy–especially at this time of the year, when the geese were flying overhead and the first frost had mugged innocent leaves in the deeper valleys.

She looked around at the kitchen. It needed sweeping. The washing‑up needed doing. The walls had grown grubby. There seemed to be so much to do that she couldn't bring herself to do any of it.

There was a honking far above, and a ragged V of geese sped over the clearing.

They were heading for warmer weather in places Granny Weatherwax had only heard about.

It was tempting.

The selection committee sat around the table in the office of Mr Seldom Bucket, the Opera House's new owner. He'd been joined by Salzella, the musical director, and Dr Undershaft, the chorus master.

'And so,' said Mr Bucket, 'we come to... let's see... yes, Christine... Marvellous stage presence, eh? Good figure, too.' He winked at Dr Undershaft.

'Yes. Very pretty,' said Dr Undershaft flatly. 'Can't sing, though.'

'What you artistic types don't realize is this is the Century of the Fruitbat,' said Bucket. 'Opera is a production, not just a lot of songs.'

'So you say. But...'

'The idea that a soprano should be fifteen acres of bosom in a horned helmet belongs to the past, like.'

Salzella and Undershaft exchanged glances. So he was going to be that kind of owner...

'Unfortunately,' said Salzella sourly, 'the idea that a soprano should have a reasonable singing voice does not belong to the past. She has a good figure, yes. She certainly has a... sparkle. But she can't sing.'

'You can train her, can't you?' said Bucket. 'A few years in the chorus...'

'Yes, maybe after a few years, if I persevere, she will be merely very bad,' said Undershaft.

'Er, gentlemen,' said Mr Bucket. 'Ahem. All right. Cards on the table, eh? I'm a simple man, me. No beating about the bush, speak as you find, call a spade a spade–'

'Do give us your forthright views,' said Salzella. Definitely that kind of owner, he thought. Self‑made man proud of his handiwork. Confuses bluffness and honesty with merely being rude. I wouldn't mind betting a dollar that he thinks he can tell a man's character by testing the firmness of his handshake and looking deeply into his eyes.

'I've been through the mill, I have,' Bucket began, 'and I made myself what I am today–'

Self‑raising flour? thought Salzella.

'–but I have to, er, declare a bit of a financial interest. Her dad did, er, in fact, er, lend me a fair whack of money to help me buy this place, and he made a heartfelt fatherly request in regard to his daughter. If I bring it to mind correctly, his exact words, er, were: "Don't make me have to break your legs." I don't expect you artistes to understand. It's a business thing. The gods help those who help themselves, that's my motto.'