Witches Abroad

"Then the first thing that's going to happen is the end of the ball. Right now! I'm going to find the carnival. I've always wanted to dance in the carnival." She looked around at the worried faces. "It's not compulsory for anyone else to come," she added.

The nobles of Genua had enough experience to know what it means when a ruler says something is not compulsory.

Within minutes the hall was empty, except for three figures.

"But... but... I wanted revenge," said the Baron. "I wanted death. I wanted our daughter in power."

TWO OUT OF THREE ISN'T BAD.

Mrs Gogol and the Baron turned around. Death put down his drink and stepped forward. Baron Saturday straightened up. "I am ready to go with you," he said.

Death shrugged. Ready or not, he seemed to indicate, was all the same to him.

"But I held you off," the Baron added. "For twelve years!" He put his arm around Erzulie's shoulders. "When they killed me and threw me in the river, we stole life from you!"

YOU STOPPED LIVING. YOU NEVER DIED. I DID NOT COME FOR YOU THEN.

"You didn't?"

I HAD AN APPOINTMENT WITH YOU TONIGHT.

The Baron handed his cane to Mrs Gogol. He removed the tall black hat. He shrugged off the coat.

Power crackled in its folds.

"No more Baron Saturday," he said.

PERHAPS. IT'S A NICE HAT.

The Baron turned to Erzulie.

"I think I have to go."

"Yes."

"What will you do?"

The voodoo woman looked down at the hat in her hands.

"I will go back to the swamp," she said.

"You could stay here. I don't trust that foreign witch."

"I do. So I will go back to the swamp. Because some stories have to end. Whatever Ella becomes, she'll have to make it herself."

It was a short walk to the brown, heavy waters of the river.

The Baron paused at the edge.

"Will she live happily ever after?" he said.

NOT FOREVER. BUT PERHAPS FOR LONG ENOUGH.

And so stories end.

The wicked witch is defeated, the ragged princess comes into her own, the kingdom is restored. Happy days are here again. Happy ever after. Which means that life stops here.

Stories want to end. They don't care what happens next...

Nanny Ogg panted along a corridor.

"Never seen Esme like that before," she said. "She's in a very funny mood. She could be a danger to herself."

"She's a danger to everyone else," said Magrat. "She - "

The snake women stepped out into the passageway ahead of them.

"Look at it like this," said Nanny, under her breath, "what can they do to us?"

"I can't stand snakes," said Magrat quietly.

"They've got those teeth, of course," said Nanny, as if conducting a seminar. "More like fangs, really. Come on, girl. Let's see if we can find another way."

"I hate them."

Nanny tugged at Magrat, who did not move.

"Come on!"

"I really hate them."

"You'll be able to hate them even better from a long way off !"

The sisters were nearly on them. They didn't walk, they glided. Perhaps Lily wasn't concentrating now, because they were more snake-like than ever. Nanny thought she could see scale patterns under the skin. The jawline was all wrong.

"Magrat!"

One of the sisters reached out. Magrat shuddered.

The snake sister opened its mouth.

Then Magrat looked up and, almost dreamily, punched it so hard that it was carried several feet along the passage.

It wasn't a blow that featured in any Way or Path. No-one ever drew this one as a diagram or practised it in front of a mirror with a bandage tied round their head. It was straight out of the lexicon of inherited, terrified survival reflexes.

"Use the wand!" shouted Nanny, darting forward. "Don't ninj at them! Use the wand! That's what it's for!"

The other snake instinctively turned to follow the movement, which is why instinct is not always the keynote to survival, because Magrat clubbed it on the back of the head. With the wand. It sagged, losing shape as it fell.

The trouble with witches is that they'll never run away from things they really hate.

And the trouble with small furry animals in a corner is that, just occasionally, one of them's a mongoose.

Granny Weatherwax had always wondered: what was supposed to be so special about a full moon? It was only a big circle of light. And the dark of the moon was only darkness.

But half-way between the two, when the moon was between the worlds of light and dark, when even the moon lived on the edge... maybe then a witch could believe in the moon.

Now a half-moon sailed above the mists of the swamp.

Lily's nest of mirrors reflected the cold light, as they reflected everything else. Leaning against the wall were the three broom-sticks.

Granny picked up hers. She wasn't wearing the right colour and she wasn't wearing a hat; she needed something she was at home with.

Nothing moved.

"Lily?" said Granny softly.

Her own image looked out at her from the mirrors.