A moment later the swan stepped out of its body and ruffled fresh but slightly transparent wings.

'Now what?' it said.

THAT'S UP TO YOU. IT'S ALWAYS UP TO YOU.

Mr Bucket leaned back in his creaky leather chair with his eyes shut until his director of music had finished.

'So,' Bucket said. 'Let me see if I've got this right. There's this Ghost. Every time anyone loses a hammer in this place, it's been stolen by the Ghost. Every time someone cracks a note, it's because of the Ghost. But also, every time someone finds a lost object, it's because of the Ghost. Every time someone has a very good scene, it must be because of the Ghost. He sort of comes with the building, like the rats. Every so often someone sees him, but not for long because he comes and goes like a... well, a Ghost. Apparently we let him use Box Eight for free on every first-night performance. And you say people like him?'

' "Like" isn't quite the right word,' said Salzella. 'It would be more correct to say that... well, it's pure superstition, of course, but they think he's lucky. Thought he was, anyway.'

And you wouldn't understand a thing about that, would you, you coarse little cheesemonger, he added to himself. Cheese is cheese. Milk goes rotten naturally. You don't have to make it happen by having several hundred people wound up until their nerves go twang...

'Lucky,' said Bucket flatly.

'Luck is very important,' said Salzella, in a voice in which pained patience floated like ice cubes. 'I imagine that temperament is not an important factor in the cheese business?'

'We rely on rennet,' said Bucket. ,

Salzella sighed. 'Anyway, the company feel that the Ghost is... lucky. He used to send people little notes of encouragement. After a really good performance, sopranos would find a box of chocolates in their dressing-room, that sort of thing. And dead flowers, for some reason.'

'Dead flowers?'

'Well, not flowers at all, as such. Just a bouquet of dead rose-stems with no roses on them. It's something of a trademark of his. It's considered lucky.'

'Dead flowers are lucky?'

'Possibly. Live flowers, certainly, are terribly bad luck on stage. Some singers won't even have them in their dressing-room. So... dead flowers are safe, you might say. Odd, but safe. And it didn't worry people because everyone thought the Ghost was on their side. At least, they did. Until about six months ago.'

Mr Bucket shut his eyes again. 'Tell me,' he said.

'There have been... accidents.'

'What kind of accidents?'

'The kind of accidents that you prefer to call... accidents.'

Mr Bucket's eyes stayed closed. 'Like... the time when Reg Plenty and Fred Chiswell were working late one night up on the curdling vats and it turned out Reg had been seeing Fred's wife and somehow–' Bucket swallowed –'somehow he must have tripped, Fred said, and fallen–'

'I am not familiar with the gentlemen concerned but... that kind of accident. Yes.'

Bucket sighed. 'That was some of the finest Farmhouse Nutty we ever made.'

'Do you want me to tell you about our accidents?'

'I'm sure you're going to.'

'A seamstress stitched herself to the wall. A deputy stage manager was found stabbed with a prop sword. Oh, and you wouldn't like me to tell you what happened to the man who worked the trapdoor. And all the lead mysteriously disappeared from the roof, although personally I don't think that was the work of the Ghost.'

'And everyone... calls these... accidents?'

'Well, you wanted to sell your cheese, didn't you? I can't imagine anything that would depress the house like news that dead bodies are dropping like flies out of the flies.'

He took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

'The Ghost likes to leave little messages,' he said. 'There was one by the organ. A scenery painter spotted him and ....nearly had an accident.'

Bucket sniffed the envelope. It reeked of turpentine.

The letter inside was on a sheet of the Opera House's own notepaper. In neat, copperplate writing, it said:

Ahahahahaha! Ahahahaha! Aahahaha!

BEWARE!!!!!

       Yrs Sincerely,

                 The Opera Ghost

'What sort of person,' said Salzella patiently, 'sits down and writes a maniacal laugh? And all those exclamation marks, you notice? Five? A sure sign of someone who wears his underpants on his head. Opera can do that to a man. Look, at least let's search the building. The cellars go on for ever. I'll need a boat–'

'A boat? In the cellar?'

'Oh. Didn't they tell you about the sub-basement?'

Bucket smiled the bright, crazed smile of a man who was nearing double exclamation marks himself.

'No,' he said. 'They didn't tell me about the subbasement. They were too busy not telling me that someone goes around killing the company. I don't recall anyone saying "Oh, by the way, people are dying a lot, and incidentally there's a touch of rising damp-" '

'They're flooded.'

'Oh, good!' said Bucket. 'What with? Buckets of blood?'

'Didn't you have a look?'

'They said the cellars were fine!'

'And you believed them?'

'Well, there was rather a lot of champagne...'

Salzella sighed.

Bucket took offence at the sigh. 'I happen to pride myself that I am a good judge of character,' he said. 'Look a man deeply in the eye and give him a firm handshake and you know everything about him.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Salzella.

'Oh, blast... Senor Enrico Basilica will be here the day after tomorrow. Do you think something might happen to him?'

'Oh, not much. Cut throat, perhaps.'

'What? You think so?'

'How should I know?'

'What do you want me to do? Close the place? As far as I can see it doesn't make any money as it is! Why hasn't anyone told the Watch?'

'That would be worse,' said Salzella. 'Big trolls in rusty chainmail tramping everywhere, getting in everyone's way and asking stupid questions. They'd close us down.'

Bucket swallowed. 'Oh, we can't have that,' he said. 'Can't have them... putting everyone on edge.'

Salzella sat back. He seemed to relax a little. 'On edge? Mr Bucket,' he said, 'this is opera. Everyone is always on edge. Have you ever heard of a catastrophe curve, Mr Bucket?'

Seldom Bucket did his best. 'Well, I know there's a dreadful bend in the road up by–'

'A catastrophe curve, Mr Bucket, is what opera runs along. Opera happens because a large number of things amazingly fail to go wrong, Mr Bucket. It works because of hatred and love and nerves. All the time. This isn't cheese. This is opera. If you wanted a quiet retirement, Mr Bucket, you shouldn't have bought the Opera House. You should have done something peaceful, like alligator dentistry.'

Nanny Ogg was easily bored. But, on the other hand, she was also easy to amuse.

'Certainly an interestin' way to travel,' she said. 'You do get to see places.'

'Yes,' said Granny. 'Every five miles, it seems to me.'

'Can't think what's got into me.'

'I shouldn't think the horses have managed to get faster'n a walk all morning.'

They were, by now, alone except for the huge snoring man. The other two had got out and joined the travellers on top.

The main cause of this was Greebo. With a cat's unerring instinct for people who dislike cats he'd leapt heavily into their laps and given them the 'young masser back on de ole plantation' treatment. And he'd treadled them into submission and then settled down and gone to sleep, claws gripping not sufficiently to draw blood but definitely to suggest that this was an option should the person move or breathe. And then, when he was sure they were resigned to the situation, he'd started to smell.

No one knew where it came from. It was not associated with any known orifice. It was just that, after five minutes' doze, the air above Greebo had a penetrating smell of fermented carpets.

He was now trying it out on the very large man. It wasn't working. At last Greebo had found a stomach too big for him. Also, the continuing going up and down was beginning to make him feel ill.

The snores reverberated around the coach.

'Wouldn't like to come between him and his pudding,' said Nanny Ogg.

Granny was staring out of the window. At least, her face was turned that way, but her eyes were focused on infinity.

'Gytha?'

'Yes, Esme?'

'Mind if I ask you a question?'

'You don't normally ask if I mind,' said Nanny.

'Doesn't it ever get you down, the way people don't think properly?'

Oh-oh, thought Nanny. I reckon I got her out just in time. Thank goodness for literature.

'How d'you mean?' she said.

'I means the way they distracts themselves.'

'Can't say I ever really thought about it, Esme.'

'Like...s'pose I was to say to you, Gytha Ogg, your house is on fire, what's the first thing you'd try to take out?'

Nanny bit her lip. 'This is one of them personality questions, ain't it?' she said.

'That's right.'

'Like, you try to guess what I'm like by what I say...'

'Gytha Ogg, I've known you all my life, I knows what you're like. I don't need to guess. But answer me, all the same.'

'I reckon I'd take Greebo.'

Granny nodded.

' 'Cos that shows I've got a warm and considerate nature,' Nanny went on.

'No, it shows you're the kind of person who tries to work out what the right answer's supposed to be,' said Granny. 'Untrustworthy. That was a witch's answer if ever I heard one. Devious.'

Nanny looked proud.

The snores changed to a blurt-blurt noise and the handkerchief quivered.

'...treacle pudding, with lots of custard...'

'Hey, he just said something,' said Nanny.

'He talks in his sleep,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'He's been doing it on and off.'

'I never heard him!'

'You were out of the coach.'

'Oh.'

'At the last stop he was going on about pancakes with lemon,' said Granny. 'And mashed potatoes with butter.'

'Makes me feel hungry just listening to that,' said Nanny. 'I've got a pork pie in the bag somewhere–'

The snoring stopped abruptly. A hand came up and moved the handkerchief aside. The face beyond was friendly, bearded and small. It gave the witches a shy smile which turned inexorably towards the pork pie.

'Want a slice, mister?' said Nanny. 'I've got some mustard here, too.'

'Oo, would you, dear lady?' said the man, in a squeaky voice. 'Don't know when I last had a pork pie–oh, dear...'

He grimaced as if he'd just said something wrong, and then relaxed.

'Got a bottle of beer if you want a drop, too,' said Nanny. She was one of those women who enjoy seeing people eat almost as much as eating itself.

'Beer?' said the man. 'Beer? You know, they don't let me drink beer. Hah, it's supposed to be the wrong ambience. I'd give anything for a pint of beer–'

'Just a "thank you" would do,' said Nanny, passing it over.

'Who's this "they" to whom you refers?' said Granny.

' 'S my fault really,' said the man, through a faint spray of pork crumbs. 'Got caught up, I suppose...'

There was a change in the sounds from outside. The lights of a town were going past and the coach was slowing down.

The man forced the last of the pie into his mouth and washed it down with the dregs of the beer.

'Oo, lovely,' he said. Then he leaned back and put the handkerchief over his face.

He raised a corner. 'Don't tell anyone I spoke to you,' he said, 'but you've made a friend of Henry Slugg.'

'And what do you do, Henry Slugg?' said Granny, carefully.

'I'm... I'm on the stage.'

'Yes. We can see,' said Nanny Ogg.

'No, I meant–'

The coach stopped. Gravel crunched as people climbed down. The door was pulled open.

Granny saw a crowd of people peering excitedly through the doorway, and reached up automatically to straighten her hat. But several hands reached out for Henry Slugg, who sat up, smiled nervously, and let himself be helped out. Several people also shouted out a name, but it wasn't the name of Henry Slugg.

'Who's Enrico Basilica?' said Nanny Ogg.

'Don't know,' said Granny. 'Maybe he's the person Mr Slugg's afraid of.'

The coaching inn was a run-down shack, with only two bedrooms for guests. As helpless old ladies travelling alone, the witches got one, simply because all hell would have been let loose if they hadn't.

Mr Bucket looked pained.

'I may just be a big man in cheese to you,' he said, 'you may think I'm just some hard-headed businessman who wouldn't know culture if he found it floating in his tea, but I have been a patron of the opera here and elsewhere for many years. I can hum nearly the whole of–'

'I am sure you've seen a lot of opera,' said Salzella. 'But... how much do you know about production?'

'I've been behind the scenes in lots of theatres–'

'Oh, theatre,' said Salzella. 'Theatre doesn't even approach it. Opera isn't theatre with singing and dancing. Opera's opera. You might think a production like Lohenshaak is full of passion, but it's a sandpit of toddlers compared to what goes on behind the scenes. The singers all loathe the sight of one another, the chorus despises the singers, they both hate the orchestra, and everyone fears the conductor; the staff on one prompt side won't talk to the staff on the opposite prompt side, the dancers are all crazed from hunger in any case, and that's only the start of it, because what is really–'

There was a series of knocks at the door. They were painfully irregular, as if the knocker were having to concentrate quite hard.

'Come in, Walter,' said Salzella.

Walter Plinge shuffled in, a pail dangling at the end of each arm. 'Come to fill your coalscuttle Mr Bucket!'

Bucket waved a hand vaguely, and turned back to the director of music. 'You were saying?'

Salzella stared at Walter as the man carefully piled lumps of coal in the scuttle, one at a time.

'Salzella?'

'What? Oh. I'm sorry... what was I saying?'

'Something about it being only the start?'

'What? Oh. Yes. Yes... you see, it's fine for actors. There's plenty of parts for old men. Acting's something you can do all your life. You get better at it. But when your talent is singing or dancing... Time creeps up behind you, all the...' He fumbled for a word, and settled lamely for 'Time. Time is the poison. You watch backstage one night and you'll see the dancers checking all the time in any mirror they can find for that first little imperfection. You watch the singers. Everyone's on edge, everyone knows that this might be their last perfect night, that tomorrow might be the beginning of the end. That's why everyone worries about luck, you see? All the stuff about live flowers being unlucky, you remember? Well, so's green. And real jewellery worn on stage. And real mirrors on stage. And whistling on stage. And peeking at the audience through the main curtains. And using new makeup on a first night. And knitting on stage, even at rehearsals. A yellow clarinet in the orchestra is very unlucky, don't ask me why. And as for stopping a performance before its proper ending, well, that's worst of all. You might as well sit under a ladder and break mirrors.'

Behind Salzella, Walter carefully placed the last lump of coal on the pile in the scuttle and dusted it carefully.

'Good grief,' said Bucket; at last. 'I thought it was tough in cheese.'

He waved a hand at the pile of papers and what passed for the accounts. 'I paid thirty thousand for this place,' he said. 'It's in the centre of the city! Prime site! I thought it was hard bargaining!'

'They'd have probably accepted twenty-five.'

'And tell me again about Box Eight. You let this Ghost have it?'

'The Ghost considers it is his for every first night, yes.'

'How does he get in?'

'No one knows. We've searched and searched for secret entrances...'

'He really doesn't pay?'

No.

'It's worth fifty dollars a night!'

'There will be trouble if you sell it,' said Salzella.

'Good grief, Salzella, you're an educated man! How can you sit there so calmly and accept this sort of madness? Some creature in a mask has the run of the place, gets a prime Box all to himself, kills people, and you sit there saying there will be trouble?'

'I told you: the show must go on.'

'Why? We never said "the cheese must go on"! What's so special about the show going on?'

Salzella smiled. 'As far as I understand it,' he said, 'the... power behind the show, the soul of the show, all the effort that's gone into it, call it what you will... it leaks out and spills everywhere. That's why they burble about "the show must go on". It must go on. But most of the company wouldn't even understand why anyone should ask the question.'

Bucket glared at the pile of what passed for the Opera House's financial records.

'They certainly don't understand book-keeping! Who does the accounts?'

'All of us, really,' said Salzella.

'All of you?'

'Money gets put in, money gets taken out...' said Salzella vaguely. 'Is it important?'

Bucket's jaw dropped. 'Is it important?'

'Because,' Salzella went on, smoothly, 'opera doesn't make money. Opera never makes money.'

'Good grief, man! Important? What'd I ever have achieved in the cheese business, I'd like to know, if I'd said that money wasn't important?'

Salzella smiled humourlessly. 'There are people out on the stage right now, sir,' he said, 'who'd say that you would probably have made better cheeses.' He sighed, and leaned over the desk. 'You see,' he said, 'cheese does make money. And opera doesn't. Opera's what you spend money on.'

'But... what do you get out of it?'

'You get opera. You put money in, you see, and opera comes out,' said Salzella wearily.

'There's no profit?'

'Profit... profit,' murmured the director of music, Scratching his forehead. 'No, I don't believe I've come across the word.'

'Then how do we manage?'

'We seem to rub along.'

Bucket put his head in his hands. 'I mean,' he muttered, half to himself, 'I knew the place wasn't making much, but I thought that was just because it was run badly. We have big audiences! We charge a mint for tickets! Now I'm told that a Ghost runs around killing people and we don't even make any money!'

Salzella beamed. 'Ah, opera,' he said.

Greebo stalked over the inn's rooftops.

Most cats are nervous and ill at ease when taken out of their territory, which is why cat books go on about putting butter on their paws and so on, presumably because constantly skidding into the walls will take the animal's mind off where the walls actually are.

But Greebo travelled well, purely because he took it for granted that the whole world was his dirtbox.

He dropped heavily on to an outhouse roof and padded towards a small open window.

Greebo also had a cat's approach to possessions, which was simply that nothing edible had a right to belong to other people.

From the window came a variety of smells which included pork pies and cream. He squeezed through and dropped on to the pantry shelf.

Of course, sometimes he got caught. At least, sometimes he got discovered...

There was cream. He settled down.

He was halfway down the bowl when the door opened.

Greebo's ears flattened. His one good eye sought desperately for an escape route. The window was too high, the person opening the door was wearing a long dress that militated against the old 'through the legs' routine and... and... and... there was no escape...

His claws scrabbled on the floor...

Oh no... here it came...

Something flipped in his body's morphogenic field. Here was a problem a cat shape couldn't deal with. Oh, well, we know another one...

Crockery crashed around him. Shelves erupted as his head rose. A bag of flour exploded outwards to make room for his broadening shoulders.

The cook stared up at him. Then she looked down. And then up. And then, her gaze dragged as though it were on a winch, down again.

She screamed.

Greebo screamed.

He grabbed desperately at a bowl to cover that part which, as a cat, he never had to worry about exposing.

He screamed again, this time because he'd just poured lukewarm pork dripping all over himself.

His groping fingers found a large copper jellymould. Clasping it to his groinal areas, he barrelled forward and fled out of the pantry and out of the kitchen and out of the dining-room and out of the inn and into the night.

The spy, who was dining with the travelling salesman, put down his knife.

'That's something you don't often see,' he said.

'What?' said the salesman, who'd had his back to the excitement.

'One of those old copper jelly-moulds. They're worth quite a lot now. My aunt had a very good one.'

The hysterical cook was given a big drink and several members of staff went out into the darkness to investigate.

All they found was a jelly-mould, lying forlornly in the yard.

At home Granny Weatherwax slept with open windows and an unlocked door, secure in the knowledge that the Ramtops' various creatures of the night would rather eat their own ears than break in. In dangerously civilized lands, however, she took a different view.

'I really don't think we need to shove the bed in front of the door, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg, heaving on her end.

'You can't be too careful,' said Granny. 'Supposing some man started rattlin' the knob in the middle of the night?'

'Not at our time of life,' said Nanny sadly.

'Gytha Ogg, you are the most–'

Granny was interrupted by a watery sound. It came from behind the wall and went on for some time.

It stopped, and then started again–a steady splashing that gradually became a trickle. Nanny started to grin.

'Someone fillin' a bath?' said Granny.

'...or I suppose it could be someone fillin' a bath,' Nanny conceded.

There was the sound of a third jug being emptied. Footsteps left the room. A few seconds later a door opened and there was a rather heavier tread, followed after a brief interval by a few splashes and a grunt.

'Yes, a man gettin' into a bath,' said Granny. 'What're you doin', Gytha?'

'Seem' if there's a knothole in this wood somewhere,' said Nanny. 'Ah, here's one–'

'Come back here!'

'Sorry, Esme.'

And then the singing started. It was a very pleasant tenor voice, given added timbre by the bath itself.

'Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go to bed–'

'Someone's enjoyin' themselves, anyway,' said Nanny.

'-wherever I may roam–'

There was a knock at the distant bathroom door, upon which the singer slipped smoothly into another language:

'– per via di terra, mare o schiuma–'

The witches looked at one another.

A muffled voice said, 'I've brought you your hotwater bottle, sir.'

'Thank you verr' mucha,' said the bather, his voice dripping with accent.

Footsteps went away in the distance.

'–Indicame la strada... to go home.' Splash, Splash. 'Good eeeeevening, frieeeends...'

'Well, well, well,' said Granny, more or less to herself. 'It seems once again that our Mr Slugg is a secret polyglot.'

'Fancy! And you haven't even looked through the knothole,' said Nanny.

'Gytha, is there anything in the whole world you can't make sound grubby?'

'Not found it yet, Esme,' said Nanny brightly.

'I meant that when he mutters in his sleep and sings in his bath he talks just like us, but when he thinks people are listening he comes over all foreign.'

'That's probably to throw that Basilica person off the scent,' Nanny said.

'Oh, I reckon Mr Basilica is very close to Henry Slugg,' said Granny. 'In fact, I reckon that they're one and–'

There was a gentle knock at the door.

'Who's there?' Granny demanded.

'It's me, ma'am. Mr Slot. This is my tavern.'

The witches pushed the bed aside and Granny opened the door a fraction.

'Yes?' she said suspiciously.

'Er... the coachman said you were... witches?'

'Yes?'

'Maybe you could... help us?'

'What's wrong?'

'It's my boy...'

Granny opened the door further and saw the woman standing behind Mr Slot. One look at her face was enough. There was a bundle in her arms.

Granny stepped back. 'Bring him in and let me have a look at him.'

She took the baby from the woman, sat down on the room's one chair, and pulled back the blanket. Nanny Ogg peered over her shoulder.

'Hmm,' said Granny, after awhile. She glanced at Nanny, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

'There's a curse on this house, that's what it is,' said Slot. 'My best cow's been taken mortally sick, too.'

'Oh? You have a cowshed?' said Granny. 'Very good place for a sickroom, a cowshed. It's the warmth. You better show me where it is.'

'You want to take the boy down there?'

'Right now.'

The man looked at his wife, and shrugged. 'Well, I'm sure you know your business best,' he said. 'It's this way.'

He led the witches down some back stairs and across a yard and into the foetid sweet air of the byre. A cow was stretched out on the straw. It rolled an eye madly as-they entered, and tried to moo.

Granny took in the scene and stood looking thoughtful for a moment.

Then she said, 'This will do.'

'What do you need?' said Slot.

'Just peace and quiet.'

The man scratched his head. 'I thought you did a chant or made up some potion or something,' he said.

'Sometimes.'

'I mean, I know where there's a toad...'

'All I shall require is a candle,' said Granny. 'A new one, for preference.'

'That's all?'

'Yes.'

Mr Slot looked a little put out. Despite his distraction, something about his manner suggested that Granny Weatherwax was possibly not that much of a witch if she didn't want a toad.

'And some matches,' said Granny, noting this. 'A pack of cards might be useful, too.'

'And I'll need three cold lamb chops and exactly two pints of beer,' said Nanny Ogg.

The man nodded. This didn't sound too toad-like, but it was better than nothing.

'What'd you ask for that for?' hissed Granny, as the man bustled off. 'Can't imagine what good those'd do! Anyway, you already had a big dinner.'

'Well, I'm always prepared to go that extra meal. You won't want me around and I'll get bored,' said Nanny.

'Did I say I didn't want you around?'

'Well... even I can see that boy is in a coma, and the cow has the Red Bugge if I'm any judge. That's bad, too. So I reckon you're planning some... direct action.'

Granny shrugged.

'Time like that, a witch needs to be alone,' said Nanny. 'But you just mind what you're doing, Esme Weatherwax.'

The child was brought down in a blanket and made as comfortable as possible. The man followed behind his wife with a tray.

'Mrs Ogg will do her necessary procedures with the tray in her room,' said Granny haughtily. 'You just leave me in here tonight. And no one is to come in, right? No matter what.'

The mother gave a worried curtsey. 'But I thought I might look in about midn–'

'No one. Now, off you go.'

When they'd been gently but firmly ushered out, Nanny Ogg stuck her head around the door. 'What exactly are you planning, Esme?'

'You've sat up with the dyin' often enough, Gytha.'

'Oh, yes, it's...' Nanny's face fell. 'Oh, Esme... you're not going to...'

'Enjoy your supper, Gytha.'

Granny closed the door.

She spent some time arranging boxes and barrels so that she had a crude table and something to sit on. The air was warm and smelled of bovine flatulence. Periodically she checked the health of both patients, although there was little enough to check.

In the distance the sounds of the inn gradually subsided. The last one was the clink of the innkeeper's keys as he locked the doors. Granny heard him walk across to the cowshed door and hesitate. Then he went away, and began to climb the stairs.

She waited a little longer and then lit the candle. Its cheery flame gave the place a warm and comforting glow.

On the plank table she laid out the cards and attempted to play Patience, a game she'd never been able to master.

The candle burned down. She pushed the cards away, and sat watching the flame.

After some immeasurable piece of time the flame flickered. It would have passed unnoticed by anyone who hadn't been concentrating on it for some while.

She took a deep breath and–

'Good morning,' said Granny Weatherwax.

GOOD MORNING, said a voice by her ear.

Nanny Ogg had long ago polished off the chops and the beer, but she hadn't got into bed. She lay on it, fully clothed, with her arms behind her head, staring at the dark ceiling.

After a while there was a scratching on the shutters. She got up and opened them.

A huge figure leapt into the room. For a moment the moonlight lit a glistening torso and a mane of black hair. Then the creature dived under the bed.

'Oh, deary deary me,' said Nanny.

She waited for a while, and then fished a chop bone off her tray. There was still a bit of meat on it. She lowered it towards the floor.

A hand shot out and grabbed it.

Nanny sat back.

'Poor little man,' she said.

It was only on the subject of Greebo that Nanny's otherwise keen sense of reality found itself all twisted. To Nanny Ogg he was merely a larger version of the little fluffy kitten he had once been. To everyone else he was a scarred ball of inventive malignancy.

But now he had to deal with a problem seldom encountered by cats. The witches had, a year ago, turned him into a human, for reasons that had seemed quite necessary at the time. It had taken a lot of effort, and his morphogenic field had reasserted itself after a few hours, much to everyone's relief.

But magic is never as simple as people think. It has to obey certain universal laws. And one is that, no matter how hard a thing is to do, once it has been done it'll become a whole lot easier and will therefore be done a lot. A huge mountain might be scaled by strong men only after many centuries of failed attempts, but a few decades later grandmothers will be strolling up it for tea 'and then wandering back afterwards to see where they left their glasses.

In accordance with this law, Greebo's soul had noted that there was one extra option for use in a tight corner (in addition to the usual cat assortment of run, fight, crap or all three together) and that was: Become Human.

It tended to wear off after a short time, most of which he spent searching desperately for a pair of pants.

There were snores from under the bed. Gradually, to Nanny's relief, they turned into a purr.

Then she sat bolt upright. She was some way from the cowshed but...

'He's here,' she said.

Granny breathed out, slowly.

'Come and sit where I can see you. That's good manners. And let me tell you right now that I ain't at all afraid of you.'

The tall, black-robed figure walked across the floor and sat down on a handy barrel, leaning its scythe against the wall. Then it pushed back its hood. Granny folded her arms and stared calmly at the visitor, meeting his gaze eye-to-socket.

I AM IMPRESSED.

'I have faith.'

REALLY? IN WHAT PARTICULAR DEITY?

'Oh, none of them.'

THEN FAITH IN WHAT?

'Just faith, you know. In general.'

Death leaned forward. The candlelight raised new shadows on his skull.

COURAGE IS EASY BY CANDLELIGHT. YOUR FAITH, I SUSPECT, IS IN THE FLAME.

Death grinned.

Granny leaned forward, and blew out the candle. Then she folded her arms again and stared fiercely ahead of her.

After some length of time a voice said, ALL RIGHT, YOU'VE MADE YOUR POINT.

Granny lit a match. Its flare illuminated the skull opposite, which hadn't moved.

'Fair enough,' she said, as she relit the candle. 'We don't want to be sitting here all night, do we? How many have you come for?'

ONE.

'The cow?'

Death shook his head.

'It could be the cow.'

NO. THAT WOULD BE CHANGING HISTORY.

'History is about things changing.'

NO.

Granny sat back.

'Then I challenge you to a game. That's traditional. That's allowed.'

Death was silent for a moment.

THIS IS TRUE.

'Good.'

CHALLENGING ME BY MEANS OF A GAME IS ALLOWABLE.

'Yes.'

HOWEVER... YOU UNDERSTAND THAT TO WIN ALL YOU MUST GAMBLE ALL?

'Double or quits? Yes, I know.'

BUT NOT CHESS.

'Can't abide chess.'

OR CRIPPLE MR ONION. I'VE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO UNDERSTAND THE RULES.

'Very well. How about one hand of poker? Five cards each, no draws? Sudden death, as they say.'

Death thought about this, too.

YOU KNOW THIS FAMILY?

No.

THEN WHY?

'Are we talking or are we playing?'

OH, VERY WELL.

Granny picked up the pack of cards and shuffled it, not looking at her hands, and smiling at Death all the time. She dealt five cards each, and reached down. . .

A bony hand grasped hers.

BUT FIRST, MISTRESS WEATHERWAX–WE WILL EXCHANGE CARDS.

He picked up the two piles and transposed them, and then nodded at Granny.

MADAM?

Granny looked at her cards, and threw them down.

FOUR QUEENS. HMM. THAT IS VERY HIGH.

Death looked down at his cards, and then up into Granny's steady, blue-eyed gaze.

Neither moved for some time.

Then Death laid the hand on the table.

I LOSE, he said. ALL I HAVE IS FOUR ONES.

He looked back into Granny's eyes for a moment. There was a blue glow in the depth of his eye sockets. Maybe, for the merest fraction of a second, barely noticeable even to the closest observation, one winked off.

Granny nodded, and extended a hand.

She prided herself on the ability to judge people by their gaze and their handshake, which in this case was a rather chilly one.

'Take the cow,' she said.

IT IS A VALUABLE CREATURE.

'Who knows what the child will become?'

Death stood up, and reached for his scythe.

He said, OW.

'Ah, yes. I couldn't help noticing,' said Granny Weatherwax, as the tension drained out of the atmosphere, 'that you seem to be sparing that arm.'

OH, YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. REPETITIVE ACTIONS AND SO ON...

'It could get serious if you left it.'

HOW SERIOUS?

'Want me to have a look?'

WOULD YOU MIND? IT CERTAINLY ACHES ON COLD NIGHTS.

Granny stood up and reached out, but her hands went straight through.

'Look, you're going to have to make yourself a bit more solid if I'm to do anything–'

POSSIBLY A BOTTLE OF SUCKROSE AND AKWA?

'Sugar and water? I expect you know that's only for the hard of thinking. Come on, roll up that sleeve. Don't be a big baby. What's the worst I can do to you?

Granny's hands touched smooth bone. She'd felt worse. At least these had never had flesh on them.

She felt, thought, gripped, twisted...

There was a click.

OW.

'Now try it above the shoulder.'

ER. HMM. YES. IT DOES SEEM CONSIDERABLY MORE FREE. YES, INDEED. MY WORD, YES. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

'If it gives you trouble again, you know where I live.'

THANK YOU. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

'You know where everyone lives. Tuesday mornings is a good time. I'm generally in.'

I SHALL REMEMBER. THANK YOU.

'By appointment, in your case. No offence meant..'

THANK YOU.

Death walked away. A moment later there was a faint gasp from the cow. That and a slight sagging of the skin were all that apparently marked the transition from living animal to cooling meat.

Granny picked up the baby and laid a hand on its forehead.

'Fever's gone,' she said.

MISTRESS WEATHERWAX? said Death from the doorway.

'Yes, Sir?'

I HAVE TO KNOW. WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF I HAD NOT... LOST?

'At the cards, you mean?'

YES. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?

Granny laid the baby down carefully on the straw, and smiled.

'Well,' she said, 'for a start... I'd have broken your bloody arm.'

Agnes stayed up late, simply because of the novelty. Most people in Lancre, as the saying goes, went to bed with the chickens and got up with the cows.[4] But she watched the evening's performance, and watched the set being struck afterwards, and watched the actors leave or, in the case of younger chorus members, head off for their lodgings in odd corners of the building. And then there was no one else, except Walter Plinge and his mother sweeping up.

She headed for the staircase. There didn't seem to be a candle anywhere back here, but the few left burning in the auditorium were just enough to give the darkness a few shades.

The stairs went up the wall at the rear of the stage, with nothing but a rickety handrail between them and the drop. Besides leading to the attics and storeroom on the upper floors, they were also one route to the fly loft and the other secret platforms where men in flat hats and grey overalls worked the magic of the theatre, usually by means of pulleys–

There was a figure on one of the gantries over the stage. Agnes saw it only because it moved slightly. It was kneeling down, looking at something. In the darkness.

She stepped back. The stair creaked.

The figure jerked around. A square of yellow light opened in the darkness, its beam pinning her against the brickwork.

'Who's there?' she said, raising a hand to shade her eyes.

'Who's that?' said a voice. And then, after a moment, 'Oh. It's... Perdita, isn't it?'

The square of light swung towards her as the figure made its way over the stage.

'André?' she said. She felt inclined to back away, if only the brickwork would let her.

And suddenly he was on the stairs, quite an ordinary person, no shadow at all, holding a very large lantern.

'What are you doing here?' said the organist.

'I... was just going to bed.'

'Oh, Yes.' He relaxed a little. 'Some of you girls have got rooms here. The management thought it was safer than having you going home alone late at night.'

'What are you doing up here?' said Agnes, suddenly aware that there was just the two of them.

'I was... looking at the place where the Ghost tried to strangle Mr Cripps,' said André.

,Why?.

'I wanted to make certain everything was safe now, of course.'

'Didn't the stage-hands do that?'

'Oh, you know them. I just thought I'd better make certain.'

Agnes looked down at the lantern.

'I've never seen one like that before. How did you make it light up so quickly?'

'Er. It's a dark lantern. There's this flap, you see,' he demonstrated, 'so you can shut it right down and open it up again...'

'That must be very useful when you're looking for the black notes.'

'Don't be sarcastic. I just don't want there to be any more trouble. You'll find that you start looking around when–'

'Goodnight, André.'

'Goodnight, then.'

She hurried up the rest of the flights and ducked into her bedroom. No one followed her.

When she'd calmed down, which took some time, she undressed in the voluminous tent of her red flannel nightdress and got into bed, resisting any temptation to pull the covers over her head.

She stared at the dark ceiling.

'That's stupid,' she thought, eventually. 'He was on the stage this morning. No one could move that fast...'

She never knew whether she actually got some sleep or whether it happened just as she was dozing off, but there was a very faint knock at the door.

'Perdita!?'

Only one person she knew could exclaim a whisper.

Agnes got up and padded over to the door. She opened the door a fraction, just to check, and Christine half-fell into the room.

'What's the matter?'

'I'm frightened!!'

'What of?'

'The mirror!! It's talking to me!! Can I sleep in your room?!'

Agnes looked around. It was crowded enough with the two of them standing up in it.

'The mirror's talking?'

'Yes!!'

'Are you sure?'

Christine dived into Agnes's bed and pulled the covers over her. 'Yes!!' she said, indistinctly.

Agnes stood alone in the darkness.

People always tended to assume that she could cope, as if capability went with mass, like gravity. And merely saying briskly, 'Nonsense, mirrors don't talk', would probably not be any help, especially with one half of the dialogue buried beneath the bedclothes.

She felt her way into the next room, stubbing her foot on the bed in the darkness.

There must be a candle in here, somewhere. She felt for the tiny bedside table, hoping to start the reassuring rattle of a matchbox.

A faint glimmer from the midnight city filtered through the window. The mirror seemed to glow.

She sat down on the bed, which creaked ominously under her.

Oh well... one bed was as good as another...

She was about to lie back when something in the darkness went:... ting.

It was a tuning fork.

And a voice said: 'Christine... please attend.'

She sat upright, staring at the darkness.

And then realization dawned. No men, they'd said. They'd been very strict about that, as if opera were some kind of religion. It was not a problem in Agnes's case, at least in the way they meant, but for someone like Christine... They said love always found a way and, of course, so did a number of associated activities.

Oh, good grief. She felt the blush start. In darkness! What kind of a reaction was that?

Agnes's life unrolled in front of her. It didn't look as though it were going to have many high points. But it did hold years and years of being capable and having a lovely personality. It almost certainly held chocolate rather than sex and, while Agnes was not in a position to make a direct comparison, and regardless of the fact that a bar of chocolate could be made to last all day, it did not seem a very fair exchange.

She felt the same feeling she'd felt back home. Sometimes life reaches that desperate point where the wrong thing to do has to be the right thing to do.

It doesn't matter what direction you go. Sometimes you just have to go.

She gripped the bedclothes and replayed in her mind the way her friend spoke. You had to have that little gulp, that breathless tinkle in the tone that people got whose minds played with the fairies half the time. She tried it out in her head, and then delivered it to her vocal cords.

'Yes?! Who's there?!'

'A friend.'

Agnes pulled the bedclothes up higher. 'In the middle of the night?!'

'Night is nothing to me. I belong to the night. And I can help you.' It was a pleasant voice. It seemed to be coming from the mirror.

'Help me to do what?!'

'Don't you want to be the best singer in the opera?'

'Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!'

There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: 'But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her.'

Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam.

'Tomorrow you will sing the part of Iodine. But I will teach you how to sing it perfectly...'

Next morning the witches had the interior of the coach almost to themselves. News like Greebo gets around. But Henry Slugg was there, if that was indeed his name, sitting next to a very well-dressed, thin little man.

'Well, here we are again, then,' said Nanny Ogg. Henry smiled nervously.

'That was some good singing last night,' Nanny went on.

Henry's face set in a good-natured grimace. In his eyes, terror waved a white flag.

'I am afraid Senor Basilica doesn't speak Morporkian, ma'am,' said the thin man. 'But I will translate for you, if you like.'

'What?' said Nanny. 'Then how come– Ow!'

'Sorry,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'My elbow must have slipped.'

Nanny Ogg rubbed her side. 'I was saying,' she said, 'that he was– Ow!'

'Dear me, I seem to have done it again,' said Granny. 'This gentleman was telling us that his friend doesn't speak our language, Gytha.'

'Eh? But–What? Oh. But- Ah. Really? Oh. All right,' said Nanny. 'Oh, yes. Eats our pies, though, when– Ow!'

'Excuse my friend, it's her time of life. She gets confused,' said Granny. 'We did enjoy his singing. Heard him through the wall.'

'You were very fortunate,' said the thin man primly. 'Sometimes people have to wait years to hear Senor Basilica–'

'-probably waiting for him to finish his dinner–' a voice muttered.

'-in fact, at La Scalda in Genua last month his singing made ten thousand people shed tears.'

'-hah, I can do that, I don't see there's anything special about that–'

Granny's eyes hadn't left Henry 'Senor Basilica' Slugg's face. He had the expression of a man whose profound relief was horribly tempered by a dread that it wouldn't last very long.

'Senor Basilica's fame has spread far and wide,' said the manager primly.

'–just like Senior Basilica,' muttered Nanny. 'On other people's pies, I expect. Oh, yes, too posh for us now, just because he's the only man you could find on an atlas–Ow!'

'Well, well,' said Granny, smiling in a way that everyone except Nanny Ogg would think of as innocent. 'It's nice and warm in Genua. I expect Senor Basilica really misses his home. And what do you do, young sir?'

'I am his manager and translator. Er. You have the advantage of me, ma'am.'

'Yes, indeed.' Granny nodded.

'We have some good singers where we come from too,' said Nanny Ogg, rebelliously.

'Really?' said the manager. 'And where do you ladies come from?'

'Lancre.'

The man politely endeavoured to position Lancre on his mental map of great centres of music. 'Do you have a conservatory there?'

'Yes, indeed,' said Nanny Ogg stoutly, and then, just to make sure, she added, 'You should see the size of my tomatoes.'

Granny rolled her eyes. 'Gytha, you haven't got a conservatory. It's just a big windowsill.'

'Yes, but it catches the sun nearly all day – Ow...'

'I expect Senor Basilica is going to Ankh-Morpork?' said Granny.

'We,' said the manager, primly, 'have allowed the Opera House to engage us for the rest of the season–'

His voice faltered. He'd looked up at the luggage rack. 'What's that?'

Granny glanced up. 'Oh, that's Greebo,' she said.

'And Mister Basilica's not to eat him,' said Nanny.

'What is it?'

'He's a cat.'

'It's grinning at me.' The manager shifted uneasily. 'And I can smell something,' he said.

' 'S funny,' said Nanny. 'I can't smell a thing.'

There was a change in the sound of the hooves outside, and the coach lurched as it slowed.

'Ah,' said the manager awkwardly, 'I... er...I see we're stopping to change horses. It's a, a nice day. I think I may just, er, see if there's room on the seats outside.'

He left when the coach stopped. When it started again, a few minutes later, he hadn't come back.

'Well, well,' said Granny, as they lurched away again, 'it seems there's just you and me, Gytha. And Senor Basilica, who doesn't speak our language. Does he, Mr Henry Slugg?'

Henry Slugg took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. 'Ladies! Dear ladies! I beg you, for pity's sake...'

'Have you done anything bad, Mr Slugg?' said Nanny. 'Took advantage of women who dint want to be took advantage of? Stole? (Apart from lead on roofs and other stuff people wouldn't miss.) Done any murders of anyone who dint deserve it?'

'No.!'

'He tellin' the truth, Esme?'

Henry writhed under Granny Weatherwax's stare.

'Yes.'

'Oh, well, that's all right, then,' said Nanny. 'I understand. I don't have to pay taxes myself, but I know all about people not wantin' to.'

'Oh, it's not that, I assure you,' said Henry. 'I have people to pay my taxes for me...'

'That's a good trick,' said Nanny.

'Mr Slugg's got a different trick,' said Granny. 'I reckon I know the trick. It's like sugar and water.'

Henry waved his hands uncertainly. 'It's just that if they knew...' he began.

'Everything's better if it comes from a long way away. That's the secret,' said Granny.

'It's... yes, that's part of it,' said Henry. 'I mean, no one wants to listen to a Slugg.'

'Where're you from, Henry?' said Nanny.

'Really from,' said Granny.

'I grew up in Rookery Yard in the Shades. They're in Ankh-Morpork,' said Henry. 'It was a terrible rough place. There were only three ways out. You could sing your way out or you could fight your way out.'

'What was the third way?' said Nanny.

'Oh, you could go down that little alleyway into Shamlegger Street and then cut down into Treacle Mine Road,' said Henry. 'But no one ever amounted to anything who went that way.'

He sighed. 'I made a few coppers singing in taverns and suchlike,' he said, 'but when I tried for anything better they said "What is your name?" and I said "Henry Slugg" and they'd laugh. I thought of changing my name, but everyone in Ankh-Morpork knew who I was. And no one wanted to listen to anyone called plain Henry Slugg.'

Nanny nodded. 'It's like with conjurers,' she said. 'They're never called Fred Wossname. It's always something like The Great Astoundo, Fresh From the Court of the King of Klatch, and Gladys.'

'And everyone takes notice,' said Granny, 'and are always careful not to ask themselves: if he's come from the King of Klatch, why's he doing card tricks here in Slice, population seven.'

'The trick is to make sure that everywhere you go, you are from somewhere else,' said Henry. 'And then I was famous, but...'

'You'd got stuck as Enrico,' said Granny.

He nodded. 'I was only going to do it to make some money. I was going to come back and marry my little Angeline–'

'Who was she?' said Granny.

'Oh, a girl I grew up with,' said Henry, vaguely.

'Sharing the same gutter in the back streets of Ankh-Morpork, kind of thing?' said Nanny, in an understanding voice.

'Gutter? In those days you had to put your name down and wait five years for a gutter,' said Henry. 'We thought people in gutters were nobs. We shared a drain. With two other families. And a man who juggled eels.'

He sighed. 'But I moved on, and then there was always somewhere else to go, and they liked me in Brindisi... and... and...'

He blew his nose on the handkerchief, carefully folded it up, and produced another one from his pocket.

'I don't mind the pasta and the squid,' he said. 'Well, not much... But you can't get a .decent pint for love nor money and they put olive oil on everything and tomatoes give me a rash and there isn't what I'd call a good hard cheese in the whole country.'

He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief.

'And people are so kind,' he said. 'I thought I'd get a few beefsteaks when I travelled but, wherever I go, they do pasta especially for me. In tomato sauce! Sometimes they fry it! And what they do to the squid...' He shuddered. 'Then they all grin and watch me eat it. They think I enjoy it! What I'd give for a plate of nice roast mutton with clootie dumplings. . .'

'Why don't you say?' said Nanny.

He shrugged. 'Enrico Basilica eats pasta,' he said. 'There's not much I can do about it now.'

He sat back. 'You're interested in music, Mrs Ogg?'

Nanny nodded proudly. 'I can get a tune out of just about anything if you give me five minutes to study it,' she said. 'And our Jason can play the violin and our Kev can blow the trombone and all my kids can sing and our Shawn can fart any melody you care to name.

'A very talented family, indeed,' said Enrico. He fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and took out two oblongs of cardboard. 'So please, ladies, accept these as a small token of gratitude from someone who eats other people's pies. Our little secret, eh?' He winked desperately at Nanny. 'They're open tickets for the opera.'

'Well, that's amazin',' said Nanny, 'because we're going to–Ow!'

'Why, thank you very much,' said Granny Weatherwax, taking the tickets. 'How very gracious of you. We shall be sure to go.'

'And if you'll excuse me,' said Enrico, 'I must catch up on my sleep.'

'Don't worry, I shouldn't think it's had time to get far away,' said Nanny.

The singer leaned back, pulled the handkerchief over his face and, after a few minutes, began to snore the happy snore of someone who had done his duty and now with any luck wouldn't have to meet these rather disconcerting old women ever again.

'He's well away,' said Nanny, after a while. She glanced at the tickets in Granny's hand. 'You want to visit the opera?' she said.

Granny stared into space.

'I said, do you want to visit the opera?'

Granny looked at the tickets. 'What I want don't signify, I suspect;' she said.

Nanny Ogg nodded.

Granny Weatherwax was firmly against fiction. Life was hard enough without lies floating around and changing the way people thought. And because the theatre was fiction made flesh, she hated the theatre most of all. But that was it–hate was exactly the right word. Hate is a force of attraction. Hate is just love with its back turned.

She didn't loathe the theatre, because, had she done so, she would have avoided it completely. Granny now took every opportunity to visit the travelling theatre that came to Lancre, and sat bolt upright in the front row of every performance, staring fiercely. Even honest Punch and Judy men found her sitting among the children, snapping things like ' 'Tain't so!' and 'Is that any way to behave?' As a result, Lancre was becoming known throughout the Sto Plains as a really tough gig.

But what she wanted wasn't important. Like it or not, witches are drawn to the edge of things, where two states collide. They feel the pull of doors, circumferences, boundaries, gates, mirrors, masks...

...and stages.

Breakfast was served in the Opera House's refectory at half-past nine. Actors were not known for their habit of early rising.

Agnes started to fall forward into her eggs and bacon, and stopped herself just in time.

'Good morning!!'

Christine sat down with a tray on which was, Agnes was not surprised to see, a plate holding one stick of celery, one raisin and about a spoonful of milk. She leaned towards Agnes and her face very briefly expressed some concern. 'Are you all right?! You look a little peaky!!'

Agnes caught herself in mid-snore.

'I'm fine,' she said. 'Just a bit tired...'

'Oh, good!!' This exchange having exhausted her higher mental processes,. Christine went back to operating on automatic. 'Do you like my new dress?!' she exclaimed. 'Isn't it fetching?!'

Agnes looked at it. 'Yes,' she said. 'Very... white. Very lacy. Very figure-hugging.'

'And do you know what?!'

'No. What?'

'I already have a secret admirer!! Isn't that thrilling?! All the great singers have them, you know!!'

'A secret admirer...'

'Yes!! This dress!! It arrived at the stage door just now!! Isn't that exciting?!'

'Amazing,' said Agnes, glumly. 'And it's not as if you've even sung. Er. Who's it from?'

'He didn't say, of course!! It has to be a secret admirer!! He'll probably want to send me flowers and drink champagne out of my shoe!!'

'Really?' Agnes made a face. 'Do people do that?'

'It's traditional!!'

Christine, boiling over with cheerfulness, had some to share...

'You do look very tired!' she said. Her hand went to her mouth. 'Oh!! We swapped rooms, didn't we!! I was so silly!! And, d'you know,' she added with that look of half-empty cunning that was the nearest she came to guile, 'I could have sworn I heard singing in the night... someone trying scales and things?!'

Agnes had been brought up to tell the truth. She knew she should say: 'I'm sorry, I appear to have got your life by mistake. There seems to have been a bit of a confusion...'

But, she decided, she'd also been brought up to do what she was told, not to put herself first, to be respectful to her elders and to use no swearword stronger than 'poot'.

She could borrow a more interesting future. Just for a night or two. She could give it up any time she liked.

'You know, that's funny,' she said, 'because I'm right next door to you and I didn't.'

'Oh?! Well, that's all right, then!!'

Agnes stared at the tiny meal on Christine's tray. 'Is that all you're having for breakfast?'

'Oh, yes! I can just blow up like a balloon, dear!! It's lucky for you, you can eat anything!! Don't forget it's practice in half an hour!'

And she skipped off.

She's got a head full of air, Agnes thought. I'm sure she doesn't mean to say anything hurtful.

But, deep inside her, Perdita X Dream thought a rude word.

Mrs Plinge took her broom out of the cleaning cupboard, and turned.

'Walter!'

Her voice echoed around the empty stage.

'Walter?'

She tapped the broom-handle warily. Walter had a routine. It had taken her years to train him into it. It wasn't like him not to be in the right place at the right time.

She shook her head, and started work. She could see it'd be a mop job later. It would probably be ages before they got rid of the smell of turpentine.

Someone came walking across the stage. They were whistling.

Mrs Plinge was shocked.

'Mr Pounder!'

The Opera House's professional ratcatcher stopped, and lowered his struggling sack. Mr Pounder wore an old opera hat to show that he was a cut above your normal rodent operative, and its brim was thick with wax and the old candle ends he used to light his way through the darker cellars.

He'd worked among the rats so long that there was something rat-like about him now. His face seemed to be merely a rearward extension of his nose. His moustache was bristly. His front teeth were prominent. People found themselves looking for his tail.

'What's that, Mrs Plinge?'

'You know you mustn't whistle on stage! That's terrible bad luck!'

'Ah, well, it's 'cos of good luck, Mrs Plinge. Oh, yes! If you did know what I d'know, you'd be a happy man, too. O' course, in your case you'd be a happy woman, on account of you being a woman. Ah! Some of the things I've seen, Mrs Plinge!'

'Found gold down there, Mr Pounder?'

Mrs Plinge knelt down carefully to scrape away a spot of paint.

Mr Pounder picked up his sack and continued on his way.

'Could be gold, Mrs Plinge. Ah. Could very well be gold–'

It took a moment for Mrs Plinge to coax her arthritic knees into letting her stand up and shuffle around.

'Pardon, Mr Pounder?' she said.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a soft thump as a bundle of sandbags landed gently on the boards.

The stage was big and bare and empty, except for a sack which was scuttling determinedly for freedom.

Mrs Plinge looked both ways very carefully.

'Mr Pounder? Are you there?'

It suddenly seemed to her that the stage was even bigger and even more distinctly empty than before.

'Mr Pounder? Cooo-eee?'

She craned around.

'Hello? Mr Pounder?'

Something floated down from above and landed beside her.

It was a grubby black hat, with candle ends around the brim.

She looked up.

'Mr Pounder?' she said.

Mr Pounder was used to darkness. It held no fears for him. And he'd always prided himself on his night vision. If there was any light at all, any speck, any glimmer of phosphorescent rot, he could make use of it. His candled hat was as much for show as anything else.

His candled hat... he'd thought I He'd lost it but, it was strange, here it was, still on his head. Yes, indeed. He rubbed his throat thoughtfully. There was something important he couldn't quite remember...

It was very dark.

SQUEAK?

He looked up.

Standing in the air, at eye-level, was a robed figure about six inches high. A bony nose, with bent grey whiskers, protruded from the hood. Tiny skeletal fingers gripped a very small scythe.

Mr Pounder nodded thoughtfully to himself. You didn't rise to membership of the Inner Circle of the Guild of Ratcatchers without hearing a few whispered rumours. Rats had their own Death, they said, as well as their own kings, parliaments and nations. No human had ever seen it, though.

Up until now.

He felt honoured. He'd won the Golden Mallet for most rats caught every year for the past five years, but he respected them, as a soldier. might respect a cunning and valiant enemy.

'Er... I'm dead, aren't I... ?'

SQUEAK.

Mr Pounder felt that many eyes were watching him. Many small, shining eyes.

'And... what happens now?'

SQUEAK.

The soul of Mr Pounder looked at his hands. They seemed to be elongating, and getting hairier. He could feel his ears growing, and a certain rather embarrassing elongation happening at the base of his spine. He'd spent most of his life in a single-minded activity in dark places, yet even so...

'But I don't believe in reincarnation!' he protested.

SQUEAK.

And this, Mr Pounder understood with absolute rodent clarity, meant: reincarnation believes in you.

Mr Bucket went through his mail very carefully, and finally breathed out when the pile failed to disgorge another letter with the Opera House crest.

He sat back and pulled open his desk drawer for a pen.

There was an envelope there.

He stared at it, and then slowly picked up his paperknife.

Sliiiiit...

...rustle...

I will be obliged if Christine sings the role of Iodine in 'La Triviata' tonight.

The weather continues fine. I trust you are well.

       Yrs.

                 The Opera Ghost

'Mr Salzella! Mr Salzella!'

Bucket pushed back his chair and hurried to the door, opening it just in time to confront a ballerina, who screamed at him.

Since his nerves were already strained, he responded by screaming back at her. This seemed to have the effect that usually a wet flannel or a slap was necessary to achieve. She stopped and gave him an affronted look.

'He's struck again, hasn't he!' moaned Bucket.

'He's here! It's the Ghost!' said the girl, determined to get the line out even though it was not required.

'Yes, yes, I think I know,' muttered Bucket. 'I just hope it wasn't anybody expensive.'

He stopped halfway along the corridor and then spun around. The girl cringed away from his wavering finger.

'At least stand on tiptoe!' he shouted. 'You probably cost me a dollar just running up here!'

There was a crowd in a huddle on the stage. In the centre was that new girl, the fat one, kneeling down and comforting an old woman. Bucket vaguely recognized the latter. She was one of the staff that had come with the Opera House, as much part of the whole thing as the rats or the gargoyles that infested the rooftops.

She was holding something in front of her. 'It just fell out of the flies,' she said. 'His poor hat!'

Bucket looked up. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made out a shape up among the battens, spinning slowly...

'Oh, dear,' he said. 'And I thought he'd written such a polite letter...'

'Really? Then now read this one,' said Salzella, coming up behind him.

'Must I?'

'It's addressed to you.'

Bucket unfolded the piece of paper.

Hahahaha! Ahahahaha!

Yrs.

The Opera Ghost

PS: Ahahahaha!!!!

He gave Salzella an agonized look. 'Who's the poor fellow up there?'

'Mr Pounder, the ratcatcher. Rope dropped around his neck, other end attached to some sandbags. They went down. He went... up.'

'I don't understand! Is this man mad?'

Salzella put an arm around his shoulders and led him away from the crowd. 'Well, now,' he said, as kindly as he could. 'A man who wears evening dress all the time, lurks in the shadows and occasionally kills people. Then he sends little notes, writing maniacal laughter. Five exclamation marks again, I notice. We have to ask ourselves: is this the career of a sane man?'

'But why is he doing it?' wailed Bucket.

'That is only a relevant question if he is sane,' said Salzella calmly. 'He may be doing it because the little yellow pixies tell him to.'

'Sane? How can he be sane?' said Bucket. 'You were right, you know. The atmosphere in this placed drive anyone crazy. I very well may be the only one here with both feet on the ground!' He turned. His eyes narrowed when he saw a group of, chorus girls whispering nervously.

'You girls! Don't just stand there! Let's see you jump up and down!' he rasped. 'On one leg!'

He turned back to Salzella. 'What was I saying?'

'You were saying,' said Salzella, 'that you have both feet on. the ground. Unlike the corps de ballet. And the corpse de Mr Pounder.'

'I think that comment was in rather poor taste,' said Bucket coldly.

'My view,' said the director of music, 'is that we should shut down, get all the able-bodied men together, issue them with torches, go through this place from top to bottom, flush him out, chase him through the city, catch him and beat him to a pulp, and then throw what's left into the river. It's the only way to be sure.'

'You know we can't afford to shut down,' Bucket said. 'We seem to make thousands a week but we seem to spend thousands a week, too. I'm sure I don't know where it goes- I thought running this place was just a matter of getting bums on seats, but every time I look up there's a bum spinning gently in the air- What's he going to do next, I ask myself–'

They looked at one another and then, as if pulled by some kind of animal magnetism, their gazes turned and flew out over the auditorium until they found the huge, glittering bulk of the chandelier.

'Oh, no...' moaned Bucket. 'He wouldn't, would he? That would shut us down.'

Salzella sighed. 'Look, it weighs more than a ton,' he said. 'The supporting rope is thicker than your arm. The winch is padlocked when it's not in use. It's safe.'

They looked at one another.

'I'll have a man guard it every minute there's a performance,' said Salzella. 'I'll do it personally, if you like.'

'And he wants Christine to sing Iodine tonight! She's got a voice like a whistle!'

Salzella raised his eyebrows. 'That at least is not ,a problem, is it?' he said.

'Isn't it? It's a key role!'

Salzella put his arm around the owner's shoulders. 'I think perhaps it is time for you to explore a few more little-known corners of the wonderful world that is opera,' he said.

The stagecoach rolled to. a halt in Sator Square, Ankh-Morpork. The coach agent was waiting impatiently.

'You're fifteen hours late, Mr Reever!' he shouted.

The coach-driver nodded impassively. He laid the reins down, jumped off the box, and inspected the horses. There was a certain woodenness about his movements.

Passengers were grabbing their baggage and hurrying away.

'Well?' said the agent.

'We had a picnic,' said the coach-driver. His face was grey.

'You stopped for a picnic?'

'And a bit of a singsong,' said the driver, pulling the horses' feedbags from under the seat.

'You are telling me that you stopped the mail coach for a picnic and a singsong?'

'Oh, and the cat got stuck up a tree.' He sucked his hand, and the agent noticed that a handkerchief was tied around it.

A hazy look of recollection clouded the driver's eyes. 'And then there were the stories,' he said.

'What stories?'

'The little fat one said everyone had to tell a story to help pass the time.'

'Yes? Well? I don't see how that could slow you down!'

'You should've heard her story. The one about the very tall man and the piano? I was so embarrassed I fell off the coach. I wouldn't use words like that even to my own dear grandmother!'

'And of course,' said the agent, who prided himself on his ironic approach, 'the word timetable never crossed your mind while all this was going on?'

The driver turned to look directly at him for the first time. The agent took a step back. Here was a man who had hang-glided over Hell.

'You tell them,' said the driver, and walked away.

The agent stared after him, and then walked around to the door.

A small man with a hunted look climbed out, dragging a huge fat man behind him and gabbling urgently in a language the agent didn't understand.

And then the agent was left alone with a coach and horses and an expanding circle of hurrying passengers.

He opened the door and peered inside.

'Good morning, mister,' said Nanny Ogg.

He looked, in some puzzlement, from her to Granny Weatherwax.

'Is everything all right, ladies?'

'Very nice journey,' said Nanny Ogg, taking his arm. 'We shall def'nitly patronize you another time.'

'The driver seemed to think there was a problem...,

'Problem?' said Granny. 'I didn't notice any problems. Did you, Gytha?'

'He could've been a bit quicker fetching the ladder,' said Nanny, climbing down. 'And I'm sure he muttered something under his breath that time we stopped to admire the view. But I'm prepared to be gracious about it.'

'You stopped to admire the view?' said the agent. 'When?'

'Oh, several times,' said Nanny. 'No sense in rushing around the whole time, is there? More haste less speed, ekcetra. Could you point us in the direction of Elm Street? Only we've lodgings at Mrs Palm's. Our Nev speaks highly of the place, he says no one ever looked for him there...'

The agent stepped back, as people generally did in the face of Nanny's pump-action chatter.

'Elm Street?' he stuttered. 'But... respectable ladies shouldn't go there...'

Nanny patted him on the shoulder. 'That's good,' she said. 'That way we won't run into anyone we know.'

As Granny walked past the horses they tried to hide behind the coach.

Bucket smiled brightly. There were little beads of sweat around the edges of his face.

'Ah, Perdita,' he said. 'Do sit down, lass. Er. You are enjoying your time with us so far?'

'Yes, thank you, Mr Bucket,' said Agnes dutifully. 'Good. That's good. Isn't that good, Mr Salzella? Don't you think that's good, Dr Undershaft?'

Agnes looked at the three worried faces.

'We're all very pleased,' said Mr Bucket. 'And, er, well, we have an amazing offer for you which I'm sure will help you to enjoy it even more.'

Agnes watched the assembled faces. 'Yes?' she said guardedly.

'I know you, er, have only been with us hardly any time but we have decided to, er'- Bucket swallowed, and glanced at the other two for moral support–'let you sing the part of Iodine in tonight's production of La Triviata.'

'Yes?'

'Um. It isn't the major role but of course it does include the famous "Departure" aria...'

'Oh. Yes?'

'Er... there is, er... that is, er...' Bucket gave up and looked helplessly at his director of music. 'Mr Salzella?'

Salzella leaned forward. 'What in fact we would like you to do... Perdita... is sing the role, indeed, but not, in fact... play the role.'

Agnes listened while they explained. She'd stand in the chorus, just behind Christine. Christine would be told to sing very softly. It had been done dozens of times before, Salzella explained. It was done far more often than the audiences ever realized–when singers had a sore throat, or had completely dried, or had turned up so drunk they could barely stand, or, in one notorious instance many years previously, had died in the interval and subsequently sung their famous aria by means of a broom-handle stuck up their back and their jaw operated with a piece of string.

It wasn't immoral. The show had to go on.

The ring of desperately grinning faces watched her.

I could just walk away, she thought. Walk away from these grinning faces and the mysterious Ghost. They couldn't stop me.

But there's nowhere to walk to except back.

'Yes, er, yes,' she said. 'I'm very... er... but why do it like this? Couldn't I simply take her place and sing the part?'

The men looked at one another, and then all started talking at once.

'Yes, but you see, Christine is... has... more stage experience–'

'–technical grasp–'

'–stage presence–'

'–apparent lyrical ability–'

'–fits the costume–'

Agnes looked down at her big hands. She could feel the blush advancing like a barbarian horde, burning everything as it came.

'We would like you, as it were,' said Bucket, 'to ghost the part...'

'Ghost?' said Agnes.

'It's a stage term,' said Salzella.

'Oh, I see,' said Agnes. 'Yes. Well, of course. I shall certainly do my best.'

'Jolly good,' said Bucket. 'We won't forget this. And I'm certain a very suitable part for you will come along very soon. See Dr Undershaft this afternoon and he will take you through the role.'

'Er. I know it quite well, I think,' said Agnes, uncertainly.

'Really? How?'

'I've been... taking lessons.'

'That is good, lass,' said Mr Bucket. 'Shows keenness. We're very impressed. But see Dr Undershaft in any case...'

Agnes got up and, still looking down, trooped out.

Undershaft sighed and shook his head.

'Poor child,' he said. 'Born too late. Opera used to be just about voices. You know, I remember the days of the great sopranos. Dame Violetta Gigh, Dame Clarissa Extendo... whatever became of them, I sometimes wonder.'

'Didn't the climate change?' said Salzella nastily.

'There goes a figure that should prompt a revival of The Ring of the Nibelungingung,' Undershaft went on. 'Now that was an opera.'

'Three days of gods shouting at one another and twenty minutes of memorable tunes?' said Salzella. 'No, thank you very much.'

'But can't you hear her singing Hildabrun, leader of the Valkyries?'

'Yes. Oh, yes. But unfortunately I can also hear her singing Nobbo the dwarf and lo, Chief of the Gods.'

'Those were the days,' said Undershaft sadly, shaking his head. 'We had proper opera then. I recall when Dame Veritasi stuffed a musician into his own tuba for yawning–'

'Yes, yes, but this is the Century of the Fruitbat,' said Salzella, standing up. He glanced at the door again, and shook his head.

'Amazing,' he said. 'Do you think she knows how fat she is?'

The door of Mrs Palm's discreet establishment opened at Granny's knock.

The person on the other side was a young woman. Very obviously a young woman. There was no possible way that she could have been mistaken for a young man in any language, especially Braille.

Nanny peered around the young lady's powdered shoulder at the red plush and gilt interior beyond, and then up at Granny Weatherwax's impassive face, and then back at the young lady.

'I'll tan our Nev's hide when I get home,' she muttered. 'Come away, Esme, you don't want to go in there. It'd take too long to explain–'

'Why, Granny Weatherwax!' said the girl happily. 'And who's this?'

Nanny looked up at Granny, whose expression hadn't changed.

'Nanny Ogg,' Nanny said eventually. 'Yes, I'm Nanny Ogg. Nev's mum,' she added darkly. 'Yes, indeed. Yes. On account of me bein' a'–the words 'respectable widow woman' tried to range themselves in her vocal cords, and shrivelled at the sheer enormity of the falsehood, forcing her to settle for 'mother to him. Nev. Yes. Nev's mum.'

'Hello, Colette,' said Granny. 'What fascinatin' earrings you are wearing. Is Mrs Palm at home?'

'She's always at home to important visitors,' said Colette. 'Do come in, everyone will be so pleased to see you again!'

There were cries of welcome as Granny stepped into the scarlet gloom.

'What? You've been here before?' said Nanny, eyeing the pink flesh and white late that made up much of the scenery.

'Oh, yes. Mrs Palm is an old friend. Practic'ly a witch.'

'You... you do know what kind of place this is, do you, Esme?' said Nanny Ogg. She felt curiously annoyed. She'd happily give way to Granny's expertise in the worlds of mind and magic, but she felt very strongly that there were some more specialized areas that were definitely Ogg territory, and Granny Weatherwax had no business even to know what they were.

'Oh, yes,' said Granny, calmly.

Nanny's patience gave out. 'It's a house of ill repute, is what it is!'

'On the contrary,' said Granny. 'I believe people speak very highly of it.'

'You knew? And you never told me?'

Granny raised an ironic eyebrow. 'The lady who invented the Strawberry Wobbler?'

'Well, yes, but–'

'We all live life the best way we can, Gytha. And there's a lot of people who think witches are bad.'

'Yes, but–'

'Before you criticize someone, Gytha, walk a mile in their shoes,' said Granny, with a faint smile.

'In those shoes she was wearin', I'd twist my ankle,' said Nanny, gritting her teeth. 'I'd need a ladder just to get in 'em.' It was infuriating, the way Granny tricked you into reading her half of the dialogue. And opened your mind to yourself in unexpected ways.

'And it's a welcoming place and the beds are soft,' said Granny.

'Warm too, I expect,' said Nanny Ogg, giving in. 'And there's always a friendly light in the window.'

'Dear me, Gytha Ogg. I always thought you were unshockable.'

'Shockable, no,' said Nanny. 'Easily surprised, yes.

Dr Undershaft the chorus master peered at Agnes over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

'The, um, "Departure" aria, as it is known,' he said, 'is quite a little masterpiece. Not one of the great operatic highlights, but very memorable nevertheless.'

His eyes misted over. ' "Questa maledetta" sings Iodine, as she tells Peccadillo how hard it is for her to leave him... "Questa maledetta porta si blocccccca, Si blocca comunque diavolo to faccccc-cio... !" '

He stopped and made great play of cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief.

'When Gigh sang it, there wasn't a dry eye in the house,' he mumbled. 'I was there. It was then that I decided that I would... oh, great days, indeed.' He put his glasses on and blew his nose.

'I'll run through it once,' he said, 'just so that you can understand how it is supposed to go. Very well, André.'

The young man who had been drafted in to play the piano in the rehearsal room nodded, and winked surreptitiously at Agnes.

She pretended not to have seen him, and listened with an expression of acute studiousness as the old man worked his way through the score.

'And now,' he said, 'let us see how you manage.'

He handed her the score and nodded at the pianist.

Agnes sang the aria, or at least a few bars of it. André stopped playing and leaned his head against the piano, trying to stifle a laugh.

'Ahem,' said Undershaft.

'Was I doing something wrong?'

'You were singing tenor,' said Undershaft, looking sternly at André.

'She was singing in your voice, sir!'

'Perhaps you can sing it like, er, Christine would sing it?'

They started again.

'Kwesta!? Maledetta!!...'

Undershaft held up both hands. André's shoulders were shaking with the effort of not laughing.

'Yes, yes. Accurately observed. I daresay you're right. But could we start again and, er, perhaps you would sing it how you think it should be sung?'

Agnes nodded.

They started again...

...and finished.

Undershaft had sat down, half-turned away. He wouldn't look round to face her.

Agnes stood watching him uncertainly. 'Er. Was that all right?' she said.

André the pianist got up slowly and took her hand. 'I think we'd better leave him,' he said softly, pulling her towards the door.

'Was it that bad?'

'Not... exactly.'

Undershaft raised his head, but didn't turn it towards her. 'More practice on those Rs, madam, and strive for greater security above the stave,' he said hoarsely.

'Yes. Yes, I will.'

André led her out into the corridor, shut the door, and then turned to her.

'That was astounding,' he said. 'Did you ever hear the great Gigh sing?'

'I don't even know who Gigh is. What was I singing?'

'You didn't know that either?'

'I don't know what it means, no.'

André looked down at the score in his hand. 'Well, I'm not much good at the language, but I suppose the opening could be sung something like this: