Maskerade

'So, Mrs Nitt,' she observed, around about the third cake and fourth cup of tea, 'how's that daughter of yours? Agnes it is to whom I refer.'

'Oh, didn't you hear, Mrs Ogg? She's gone off to Ankh­-Morpork to be a singer.'

Nanny Ogg's heart sank.

'That's nice,' she said. 'She has a good singing voice, I remember. Of course, I gave her a few tips. I used to hear her singing in the woods.'

'It's the air here,' said Mrs Nitt. 'She's always had such a good chest.'

'Yes, indeed. Noted for it. So... er... she's not here, then?'

'You know our Agnes. She never says much. I think she thought it was a bit dull.'

'Dull? Lancre?' said Nanny Ogg.

'That's what I said,' said Mrs Nitt. 'I said we get some lovely sunsets up here. And there's the fair every Soul Cake Tuesday, regular.'

Nanny Ogg thought about Agnes. You needed quite large thoughts to fit all of Agnes in.

Lancre had always bred strong, capable women. A Lancre farmer needed a wife who'd think nothing of beating a wolf to death with her apron when she went out to get some firewood. And, while kissing initially seemed to have more charms than cookery, a stolid Lancre lad looking for a bride would bear in mind his father's advice that kisses eventually lost their fire but cookery tended to get even better over the years, and direct his courting to those families that clearly showed a tradition of enjoying their food.

Agnes was, Nanny considered, quite good-looking in an expansive kind of way; she was a fine figure of typical young Lancre womanhood. This meant she was approximately two womanhoods from anywhere else.

Nanny also recalled her as being rather thoughtful and shy, as if trying to reduce the amount of world she took up.

But she had shown signs of craft ability. That was only to be expected. There was nothing like that not fitting in feeling to stimulate the old magical nerves; that was why Esme was so good at it. In Agnes's case this had manifested itself in a tendency to wear soppy black lace gloves and pale makeup and call herself Perdita plus an initial from the arse of the alphabet, but Nanny had assumed that would soon burn off when she got some serious witchcraft under her rather strained belt.

She should have paid more attention to the thing about music. Power found its way out by all sorts of routes...

Music and magic had a lot in common. They were only two letters apart, for one thing. And you couldn't do both.

Damn. Nanny had rather been counting on the girl.

'She used to send off to Ankh‑Morpork for music,' said Mrs Nitt. 'See?'

She handed Nanny several piles of papers.

Nanny leafed through them. Song‑sheets were common enough in the Ramtops, and a singsong in the parlour was considered the third best thing to do on long dark evenings. But Nanny could see this wasn't ordinary music. It was far too crowded for that.

'Cosi fan Hita,' she read. 'Die Meistersinger von Scrote.'

'That's foreign,' said Mrs Nitt proudly.

'It certainly is,' said Nanny.

Mrs Nitt was looking expectantly at her.

'What?' said Nanny, and then, 'Oh.'

Mrs Nitt's eyes flickered to her emptied teacup and back again.

Nanny Ogg sighed and laid the music aside. Occasionally she saw Granny Weatherwax's point. Sometimes people expected too little of witches.

'Yes, indeedy,' she said, trying to smile. 'Let us see what destiny in the form of these dried‑up bits of leaf has in store for us, eh?'

She set her features in a suitable occult expression and looked down into the cup.

Which, a second later, smashed into fragments when it hit the floor.

It was a small room. In fact it was half a small room, since a thin wall had been built across it. Junior members of the chorus ranked rather lower than apprentice scene‑shifters in the opera.

There was room for a bed, a wardrobe, a dressing-table and, quite out of place, a huge mirror, as big as the door.

'Impressive, isn't it?!' said Christine. 'They tried to take it out but it's built into the wall, apparently!! I'm sure it will be very useful!!'

Agnes said nothing. Her own half‑room, the other half of this one, didn't have a mirror. She was glad of that. She did not regard mirrors as naturally friendly. It wasn't just the images they showed her. There was something... worrying... about mirrors. She'd always felt that. They seemed to be looking at her. Agnes hated being looked at.

Christine stepped into the small space in the middle of the floor and twirled. There was something very enjoyable about watching her. It was the sparkle, Agnes thought. Something about Christine suggested sequins.

'Isn't this nice?!' she said.

Not liking Christine would be like not liking small fluffy animals. And Christine was just like a small fluffy animal. A rabbit, perhaps. It was certainly impossible for her to get a whole idea into her head in one go. She had to nibble it into manageable bits.