Witches Abroad

"You just can't get it down here," said the spokesdwarf, to the ground. "It's the water, or something. It falls to bits after hardly any years at all."

"They puts flour in it," said someone behind him, sourly.

"It's worse'n that. The baker over in Genua puts dried fruit in it," said another dwarf.

"Well, now," said Granny, rubbing her hands together, "I may be able to help you here. Could be I've got some dwarf bread to spare."

"Nah. Not proper dwarf bread," said the spokesdwarf moodily. "Proper dwarf bread's got to be dropped in rivers and dried out and sat on and left and looked at every day and put away again. You just can't get it down here."

"This could be," said Granny Weatherwax, "your lucky day."

"To be frank," said Nanny Ogg, "I think the cat pissed on some of it."

The spokesdwarf looked up, his eyes aglow.

"Hot damn!"

Dear Jason et everybody,

What a life, all kinds of thing gain on, what with talkin wolves and women asleep in castles, I shall have a story or two to tell you when I gets back and no mistake. Also, dont tawk to me about farmhouses, which reminds me, please send somone to Mr Vemissage over in Slice and present Mrs Ogg's compluments and what a good hat he makes, he can say ‘As Approved by Nanny Ogg', it stops 100% of all known farmhouses, also, if you writes to people saying how good their stuff is sometimes you get free stuff, there could be a new hat in this for me so see to it.

Lilith stepped out from her room of mirrors. Shadowy images of herself trailed after her, fading.

Witches ought to be squashed when a farmhouse lands on them. Lilith knew that. All squashed, except for their boots sticking out.

Sometimes she despaired. People just didn't seem able to play their parts properly.

She wondered whether there was such a thing as the opposite of a fairy godmother. Most things had their opposite, after all. If so, she wouldn't be a bad fairy godmother, because that's just a good fairy godmother seen from a different viewpoint.

The opposite would be someone who was poison to stories and, thought Lilith, quite the most evil creature in the world.

Well, here in Genua was one story no-one could stop. It had momentum, this one. Try to stop it and it'd absorb you, make you part of its plot. She didn't have to do a thing. The story would do it for her. And she had the comfort of knowing that she couldn't lose. After all, she was the good one.

She strolled along the battlements and down the stairs to her own room, where the two sisters were waiting. They were good at waiting. They could sit for hours without blinking.

The Duc refused even to be in the same room as them.

Their heads turned as she came in.

She'd never given them voices. It wasn't necessary. It was enough that they were beautiful and could be made to understand.

"Now you must go to the house," she said. "And this is very important. Listen to me. Some people will be coming to see Ella tomorrow. You must let them do so, do you understand?"

They were watching her lips. They watched anything that moved.

"We shall need them for the story. It won't work properly unless they try to stop it. And afterwards... perhaps I will give you voices. You'll like that, won't you?"

They looked at one another, and then at her. And then at the cage in the corner of the room.

Lilith smiled, and reached in, and took out two white mice.

"The youngest witch might be just your type," she said. "I shall have to see what I can do with her. And now... open..."

The broomsticks drifted through the afternoon air.

For once, the witches weren't arguing.

The dwarfs had been a taste of home. It would have done anyone's heart good to see the way they just sat and stared at the dwarf bread, as if consuming it with their eyes, which was the best way to consume dwarf bread. Whatever it was that had driven them to seek ruby-coloured boots seemed to wear off under its down-to-earth influence. As Granny said, you could look a long way before you found anything realer than dwarf bread.

Then she'd gone off alone to talk to the head dwarf.

She wouldn't tell the others what he'd told her, and they didn't feel bold enough to ask. Now she flew a little ahead of them.

Occasionally she'd mutter something like ‘Godmothers!" or ‘Practising!"

But even Magrat, who hadn't had as much experience, could feel Genua now, as a barometer feels the air pressure. In Genua, stories came to life. In Genua, someone set out to make dreams come true.