Maskerade

There was something like a desk in the tiny area of floor not occupied by the props. And then Nanny realized that it had a keyboard and a stool, and there were neat piles of paper on top of it.

Walter was watching her with a big, proud grin.

Nanny ambled over to the thing. 'It's a harmonium, ain't it? A tiny organ?'

'That's right Mrs Ogg!'

Nanny picked up one of the sheaves of paper. Her lips moved as she read the meticulous copperplate writing.

'An opera about cats?' she said. 'Never heard of an opera about cats...'

She thought for a moment, and then added to herself But why not? It's a damn good idea. The lives of cats are just like operas, when you come to think about it.

She leafed through the other piles. 'Guys and Trolls? Hubwards Side Story? Miserable Les? Who's he? Seven Dwarfs for Seven Other Dwarfs? What're all these, Walter?'

She sat down on the stool and pressed a few of the cracked yellow keys, which moved with an audible creak. There were a couple of large pedals under the harmonium. You pedalled these and that worked the bellows and these spongy keys produced something which was to organ music what 'poot' was to cursing.

So this was where Wal... where the Ghost sat, thought Nanny, down under the stage, among the discarded wreckage of old performances; down under the huge windowless room where, night after night, music and songs and rampant emotion echoed back and forth and never escaped or entirely died away. The Ghost worked down here, with a mind as open as a well, and it filled up with opera. Opera went in at the ears, and something else came out of the mind.

Nanny pumped the pedals a few times. Air hissed from inefficient seams. She tried a few notes. They were reedy. But, she considered, sometimes the old lie was true, and size really did not matter. It really was what you did with it that counted.

Walter watched her expectantly.

She took down another wad of paper and peered at the first page. But Walter leaned over and snatched at the script.

'That one's not finished Mrs Ogg!'

The Opera House was still in uproar. Half the audience had gone outside and the other half was hanging around in case further interesting events were going to transpire. The orchestra was in a huddle in the pit, preparing its request for a special Being Upset By A Ghost Allowance. The curtains were closed. Some of the chorus had stayed on stage; others had hurried off to take part in the chase. The air had the excited electric feel it gets when normal civilized life is temporarily short‑circuited.

Agnes bounced frantically from rumour to rumour. The Ghost had been caught, and it was Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by someone else. The Ghost had escaped. The Ghost was dead.

There were arguments breaking out everywhere.

'I still can't believe it was Walter! I mean, good grief... Walter?'

'What about the show? We can't just stop! You never stop the show, not even if someone dies!'

'Oh, we have stopped when people died...'

'Yes, but only as long as it took to get the body off‑stage!'

Agnes stepped back into the wings, and trod on something. 'Sorry,' she said automatically.

'It was only my foot,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'So... how is life in the big city, Agnes Nitt?'

Agnes turned. 'Oh... hello, Granny...' she mumbled. 'And I'm not Agnes here, thank you,' she added, a shade more defiantly.

'It's a good job, is it, bein' someone else's voice?'

'I'm doing what I want to do,' said Agnes. She drew herself up to her full width. 'And you can't stop me!'

'But you ain't part of it, are you?' said Granny conversationally. 'You try, but you always find yourself watchin' yourself watchin' people, eh? Never quite believin' anything? Thinkin' the wrong thoughts?'

'Shut up!'

'Ah. Thought so.'

'I have no intention of becoming a witch, thank you very much!'

'Now, don't go getting upset just because you know it's going to happen. A witch you're going to be because a witch you are, and if you turn your back on him now then I don't know what's going to happen to Walter Plinge.'

'He's not dead?'

No.

Agnes hesitated. 'I knew he was the Ghost,' she began. 'But then I saw he couldn't be.'

'Ah,' said Granny. 'Believed the evidence of your own eyes, did you? In a place like this?'

'One of the stage‑hands just told me they chased him up on to the roof and then down into the street and beat him to death!'

'Oh, well,' said Granny, 'you'll never get anywhere if you believe what you hear. What do you know?'

'What do you mean, what do I know?'

'Don't try cleverness on me, miss.'

Agnes looked at Granny's expression, and knew when to fold. 'I know he's the Ghost,' she said.

'Right.'

'But I can see that he isn't.'

'Yes?'

'And I know... I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean any harm.'