This damn' door sticks

This damn' door sticks

It sticks no matter what the hell I do

It's marked "Pull" and indeed I am pulling

Perhaps it should be marked "Push"?'

Agnes blinked. 'That's it?'

'Yes.'

'But I thought it was supposed to be very moving and romantic!'

'It is,' said André. 'It was. This isn't real life, this is opera. It doesn't matter what the words mean. It's the feeling that matters. Hasn't anyone told–? Look, I'm in rehearsals for the rest of the afternoon, but perhaps we could meet tomorrow? Perhaps after breakfast?'

Oh, no, thought Agnes. Here it comes. The blush was moving inexorably upwards. She wondered if one day it might reach her face and carry on going, so that it ended up as a big pink cloud over her head.

'Er, yes,' she said. 'Yes. That would be... very helpful.'

'Now I've got to go.' He gave her a weak little smile, and patted her hand. 'And... I'm really sorry it's happening this way. Because... that was astounding.'

He went to walk away, and then stopped. 'Uh...sorry if I frightened you last night,' he said.

'What?'

'On the stairs.'

'Oh, that. I wasn't frightened.'

'You... er... didn't mention it to anyone, did you? I'd hate people to think I was worrying over nothing.'

'Hadn't given it another thought, to tell you the truth. I know you can't be the Ghost, if that's what you're worried about. Eh?'

'Me? The Ghost. Haha!'

'Haha,' said Agnes.

'So, er... see you tomorrow, then...'

'Fine.'

Agnes headed back to her room, deep in thought.

Christine was there, looking critically at herself in the mirror. She spun around as Agnes entered; she even moved with exclamation marks.

'Oh, Perdita!! Have you heard?! I'm to sing the part of Iodine tonight!! Isn't that wonderful?!' She dashed across the room and endeavoured to pick Agnes up and hug her, settling eventually for just hugging her.

'And I heard they're already letting you in the chorus!?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Isn't that nice?! I've been practising all morning with Mr Salzella. Kesta!? Mallydetta!! Porter see bloker!!' She twirled happily. Invisible sequins filled the air with their shine.

'When I am very famous,' she said, 'you won't regret having a friend in me!! I shall do my very best to help you!! I am sure you bring me luck!!'

'Yes, indeed,' said Agnes, hopelessly.

'Because my dear father told me that one day a dear little pixie would arrive to help me achieve my great ambition, and, do you know, I think that little pixie is you!!'

Agnes smiled unhappily. After you'd known Christine for any length of time, you found yourself fighting a desire to look into her ear to see if you could spot daylight coming the other way.

'Er. I thought we had swapped rooms?'

'Oh, that!!' said Christine, smiling. 'Wasn't I silly?! Anyway, I shall need the big mirror now that I am to be a prima donna! You don't mind, do you!?'

'What? Oh. No. No, of course not. Er. If you're sure...'

Agnes looked at the mirror, and then at the bed. And then at Christine.

'No,' she said, shocked at the enormity of the idea that had just presented itself, delivered from the Perdita of her soul. 'I'm sure that will be fine.'

Dr Undershaft blew his nose and tried to tidy himself up.

Well, he didn't have to stand for it. Perhaps the child was somewhat on the heavy side, but Gigli, for example, had once crushed a tenor to death and no one had thought any worse of her for it.

He'd protest to Mr Bucket.

Dr Undershaft was a single-minded man. He believed in voices. It didn't matter what anyone looked like. He never watched opera with his eyes open. It was the music that mattered, not the acting and certainly not the shape of the singers.

What did it matter what shape she was? Dame Tessitura had a beard you could strike a match on and a nose flattened half across her face, but she was still one of the best basses who ever opened beer bottles with her thumb.

Of course, Salzella said that, while everyone accepted that large women of fifty could play thin girls of seventeen, people wouldn't accept that a fat girl of seventeen could do it. He said they'd cheerfully swallow a big lie and choke on a little fib. Salzella said that sort of thing.

Something was going wrong these days. The whole place seemed... sick, if a building could be sick. The crowds were still coming, but the money just didn't seem to be there any more; everything seemed to be so expensive... And now they were owned by a cheesemonger, for heaven's sake, some grubby counter jumper who'd probably want to bring in fancy ideas. What they needed was a businessman, some clerk who could add up columns of figures properly and not interfere. That was the trouble with all the owners he had experienced-they started off thinking of themselves as businessmen, and then suddenly began to think they could make an artistic contribution.

Still, possibly cheesemongers had to add up cheeses. just so long as this one stayed in his office with the books, and didn't go around acting as though he owned the place just because he happened to own the place...

Undershaft blinked. He'd gone the wrong way again. No matter how long you'd been here, this place was a maze. He was behind the stage, in the orchestra's room. Instruments and folding chairs had been stacked everywhere. His foot toppled a beer bottle.

The twang of a string made him look around. Broken instruments littered the floor. There were half a dozen smashed violins. Several oboes had been broken. The from had been pulled right out of a trombone.

He looked up into someone's face.

'But... why are you–'

The half-moon spectacles tumbled over and over, and smashed on the boards.

Then the attacker lowered his mask, as smooth and white as the skull of an angel, and stepped forward purposefully...

Dr Undershaft blinked.

There was darkness. A cloaked figure raised its head and looked at him through bony white sockets.

Dr Undershaft's recent memories were a little confused, but one fact stood out.

'Aha,' he said. 'Got you! You're the Ghost!'

YOU KNOW, YOU'RE RATHER AMUSINGLY WRONG.

Dr Undershaft watched another masked figure pick up the body of... Dr Undershaft, and drag it into the shadows.

'Oh, I see. I'm dead.'

Death nodded.

SUCH WOULD APPEAR TO BE THE CASE.

'That was murder! Does anyone know?'

THE MURDERER. AND YOU, OF COURSE.

'But him? How can-?' Undershaft began.

WE MUST GO, said Death.

'But he just killed me! Strangled me with his bare hands!'

YES. CHALK IT UP TO EXPERIENCE.

'You mean I can't do anything about it?'

LEAVE IT TO THE LIVING. GENERALLY SPEAKING, THEY GET UNEASY WHEN THE DECEASED TAKES A CONSTRUCTIVE ROLE IN A MURDER INVESTIGATION. THEY TEND TO LOSE CONCENTRATION.

'You know, you do have a very good bass voice.'

THANK YOU.

'Are there going to be... choirs and things?'

WOULD YOU LIKE SOME?

Agnes slipped out through the stage-door and into the streets of Ankh-Morpork.

She blinked in the light. The air felt slightly prickly, and sharp, and too cold.

What she was about to do was wrong. Very wrong. And all her life she'd done things that were right.

Go on, said Perdita.

In fact, she probably wouldn't even do it. But there was no harm in just asking where there was a herbal shop, so she asked.

And there was no harm in going in, so she went in.

And it certainly wasn't against any kind of law to buy the ingredients she bought. After all, she might get a headache later on, or be unable to sleep.

And it would mean nothing at all to take them back to her room and tuck them under the mattress.

That's right, said Perdita.

In fact, if you averaged out the moral difficulty of what she was proposing over all the little activities she had to undergo in order to do it, it probably wasn't that bad at all, really–

These comforting thoughts were arranging themselves in her mind as she headed back. She turned a corner and nearly walked into Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax.

She flung herself against the wall and stopped breathing.

They hadn't seen her, although Nanny's foul cat leered at her over its owner's shoulder.

They'd take her back! She just knew they would!

The fact that she was a free agent and her own mistress and quite at liberty to go off to Ankh-Morpork had nothing to do with it. They'd interfere. They always did.

She scurried back along the alley and ran as fast as she could to the rear of the Opera House.

The stage-doorkeeper took no notice of her.

Granny and Nanny strolled through the city towards the area known as the Isle of Gods. It wasn't exactly Ankh and it wasn't exactly Morpork, being situated where the river bent so much it almost formed an island. It was where the city kept all those things it occasionally needed but was uneasy about, like the Watch-house, the theatres, the prison and the publishers. It was the place for all those things which might go off bang in unexpected ways.

Greebo ambled along behind them. The air was full of new smells, and he was looking forward to seeing if any of them belonged to anything he could eat, fight or ravish.

Nanny Ogg found herself getting increasingly worried. 'This isn't really us, Esme,' she said.

'Who is it, then?'

'I mean the book was just a bit of fun. No sense in making ourselves unpopular, is there?'

'Can't have witches being done down, Gytha.'

'I don't feel done down. I felt fine until you told me I was done down,' said Nanny, putting her finger on a major sociological point.

'You've been exploited,' said Granny firmly.

'No I ain't.'

'Yes you have. You're a downtrodden mass.'

'No I ain't.'

'You've been swindled out of your life savings,' said Granny. ,

'Two dollars?'

'Well, it's all you'd actually saved,' said Granny, accurately.

'Only 'cos I spent everything else,' said Nanny. Other people salted away money for their old age, but Nanny preferred to accumulate memories.

'Well, there you are, then.'

'I was putting that by for some new piping for my still up at Copperhead,' said Nanny.[5] 'You know how that scumble eats away at the metal–'

'You were putting a little something by for some security and peace of mind in your old age,' Granny translated.

'You don't get peace of mind with my scumble,' said Nanny happily. 'Pieces, yes; but not peace. It's made from the finest apples, you know,' she added. 'Well, mainly apples.'

Granny stopped outside an ornate doorway, and peered at the brass plate affixed thereon.

'This is the place,' she said.

They looked at the door.

'I've never been one for front doors,' said Nanny, shifting from one foot to the other.

Granny nodded. Witches had a thing about front doors. A brief search located an alleyway which led around the back of the building. Here was a pair of much larger doors, wide open. Several dwarfs were loading bundles of books on to a cart. A rhythmic thumping came from somewhere beyond the doorway.

No one took any notice of the witches as they wandered inside.

Movable type was known in Ankh-Morpork, but if wizards heard about it they moved it where no one could find it. They generally didn't interfere with the running of the city, but when it came to movable type the pointy foot was put down hard. They had never explained why, ' and people didn't press the issue because you didn't press the issue with wizards, not if you liked yourself the shape you were. They simply worked around the problem, and engraved everything. This took a long time and meant that Ankh-Morpork was, for example, denied the benefit of newspapers, leaving the population to fool themselves as best they could.

A press was thumping gently at one end of the warehouse. Beside it, at long tables, a number of dwarfs and humans were stitching pages together and gluing on the covers.

Nanny took a book off a pile. It was The Joye of Snacks.

'Can I help you, ladies?' said a voice. Its tone suggested very clearly that it wasn't anticipating offering any kind of help whatsoever, except out into the street at speed.

'We've come about this book,' said Granny.

'I'm Mrs Ogg,' said Nanny Ogg.

The man looked her up and down.

'Oh yes? Can you identify yourself?'

'Certainly. I'd know me anywhere.'

'Hah! Well, I happen to know what Gytha Ogg looks like, madam, and she does not look like you.'

Nanny Ogg opened her mouth to reply, and then said, in the voice of one who has stepped happily into the road and only now remembers about the onrushing coach:'... Oh.'

'And how do you know what Mrs Ogg looks like?' said Granny.

'Oh, is that the time? We'd better be going–'said Nanny.

'Because, as a matter of fact, she sent me a picture,' said Goatberger, taking out his wallet.

'I'm sure we're not at all interested,' said Nanny hurriedly, pulling on Granny's arm.

'I'm extremely interested,' said Granny. She snatched a folded piece of paper out of Goatberger's hands, and peered at it.

'Hah! Yes... that's Gytha Ogg all right,' she said. 'Yes, indeed. I remember when that young artist came to Lancre for the summer.'

'I wore my hair longer in those days,' muttered Nanny.

'Just as well, considering,' said Granny. 'I didn't know you had copies, though.'

'Oh, you know how it is when you're young,' said Nanny dreamily. 'It was doodle, doodle, doodle all summer long.' She awoke from her reverie. 'And I still weigh the same now as I did then,' she added.

'Except that it's shifted,' said Granny, nastily.

She handed the sketch back to Goatberger. 'That's her all right,' she said. 'But it's out by about sixty years and several layers of clothing. This is Gytha Ogg, right here.'

'You're telling me this came up with Bananana Soup Surprise?'

'Did you try it?' said Nanny.

'Mr Cropper the head printer did, yes.'

'Was he surprised?'

'Not half as surprised as Mrs Cropper.'

'It can take people like that,' said Nanny. 'I think perhaps I overdo the nutmeg.'

Goatberger stared at her. Doubt was beginning to assail him. You only had to look at Nanny Ogg grinning back at you to believe she could write something like The Joye of Snacks.

'Did you really write this?' he said.

'From memory,' said Nanny, proudly.

'And now she'd like some money,' said Granny.

Mr Goatberger's face twisted up as though he'd just eaten a lemon and washed it down with vinegar.

'But we gave her the money back,' he said.

'See?' said Nanny, her face falling. 'I told you, Esme–'

'She wants some more,' said Granny.

'No, I don't–'

'No, she doesn't!' Goatberger agreed.

'She does,' said Granny. 'She wants a little bit of money for every book you've sold.'

'I don't expect to be treated like royalty,' said Nanny.[6]

'You shut up,' said Granny. 'I know what you want. We want some money, Mr Goatberger.'

'And what if I won't give it to you?'

Granny glared at him.

'Then we shall go away and think about what to do next,' she said.

'That's no idle threat,' said Nanny. 'There's a lot of people've regretted Esme thinking about what to do next.'

'Come back when you've thought, then!' snapped Goatberger. He stormed off: 'I don't know, authors wanting to be paid, good grief–'

He disappeared among the stacks of books.

'Er... do you think that could have gone better?' said Nanny.

Granny glanced at the table beside them. It was stacked with long sheets of paper. She nudged a dwarf, who had been watching the argument with some amusement.

'What're these?' she said.

'They're proofs for the Almanack.' He saw her blank expression. 'They're sort of a trial run for the book so's we can check that all the spelling mistakes have been left in.'

Granny picked it up. 'Come, Gytha,' she said.

'I don't want trouble, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg as she hurried after her. 'It's only money.'

'It ain't money any more,' said Granny. 'It's a way of keepin' score.'

Mr Bucket picked up a violin. It was in two pieces, held together by the strings. One of them broke.

'Who'd do something like this?' he said. 'Honestly, Salzella... what is the difference between opera and madness?'

'Is this a trick question?'

'No!'

'Then I'd say: better scenery. Ah... I thought so...'

Salzella rooted among the destruction, and stood up with a letter in his hand.

'Would you like me to open it?' he said. 'It's addressed to you.'

Bucket shut his eyes.

'Go on,' he said. 'Don't bother about the details. Just tell me, how many exclamation marks?'

'Five.'

'Oh.'

Salzella passed the paper over.

Bucket read:

Dear Bucket,

Whoops!

Ahahahahahahahaha!!!!!

       Yrs,

                 The Opera Ghost

 'What can we do?' he said. 'One moment he writes polite little notes, the next he goes mad on paper!'

'Herr Trubelmacher has got everyone out hunting for new instruments,' said Salzella.

'Are violins more expensive than ballet shoes?'

'There are few things in the world more expensive than ballet shoes. Violins happen to be among them,' said Salzella.

'Further expense!'

'It seems so, yes.'

'But I thought the Ghost liked music! Herr Trubelmacher tells me the organ is beyond repair!!!'

He stopped. He was aware that he had exclaimed a little less rationally than a sane man should.

'Oh, well,' Bucket continued wearily. 'The show must go on, I suppose.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Salzella.

Bucket shook his head. 'How's it all going for tonight?'

'I think it will work, if that's what you mean. Perdita seems to have a very good grasp of the part.'

'And Christine?'

'She has an astonishingly good grasp of wearing a dress. Between them, they make one prima donna.'

The proud owner of the Opera House got slowly to his feet. 'It all seemed so simple,' he moaned. 'I thought: opera, how hard can it be? Songs. Pretty girls dancing. Nice scenery. Lots of people handing over cash. Got to be better than the cut-throat world of yoghurt, I thought. Now everywhere I go there's–'

Something crunched under his shoe. He picked up the remains of a pair of half-moon spectacles.

'These are Dr Undershaft's, aren't they?' he said. 'What're they doing here?'

His eyes met Salzella's steady gaze.

'Oh, no,' he groaned.

Salzella turned slightly, and stared hard at a big doublebass case leaning against the wall. He raised his eyebrows.

'Oh, no,' said Bucket, again. 'Go on. Open it. My hands have gone all sweaty...'

Salzella padded across to the case and grasped the lid. 'Ready?'

Bucket nodded, wearily.

The case was flung open.

'Oh, no!'

Salzella craned round to see.

'Ah, yes,' he said. 'A broken neck, and the body has been kicked in considerably. That'll cost a dollar or two to repair, and no mistake.'

'And all the strings are busted! Are double basses more expensive to rebuild than violins?'

'I am afraid that all musical instruments are incredibly expensive to repair, with the possible exception of the triangle,' said Salzella. 'However, it could have been worse, hmm?'

'What?'

'Well, it could have been Dr Undershaft in there, yes?'

Bucket gaped at him, and then shut his mouth. 'Oh. Yes. Of course. Oh, yes. That would have been worse. Yes. Bit of luck there, I suppose. Yes. Um.'

'So that's an opera house, is it?' said Granny. 'Looks like someone built a great big box and glued the architecture on afterwards.'

She coughed, and appeared to be waiting for something.

'Can we have a look around?' said Nanny dutifully, aware that Granny's curiosity was equalled only by her desire not to show it.

'It can't do any harm, I suppose,' said Granny, as if granting a big favour. 'Seein' as we've nothing else to do right this minute.'

The Opera House was, indeed, that most efficiently multifunctional of building designs. It was a cube. But, as Granny had pointed out, the architect had suddenly realized late in the day that there ought to be some sort of decoration, and had shoved it on hurriedly, in a riot of friezes, pillars, corybants and curly bits. Gargoyles had colonized the higher reaches. The effect, seen from the front, was of a huge wall of tortured stone.

Round the back, of course, there was the usual drab mess of windows, pipes and damp stone walls. One of the rules of a certain type of public architecture is that it only happens at the front.

Granny paused under a window. 'Someone's singing,' she said. 'Listen.'

'La-la-la-la-la-LAH,' trilled someone. 'Do-Re-Mi-Fah-SoLa-Ti-Do...'

'That's opera, right enough,' said Granny. 'Sounds foreign to me.'

Nanny had an unexpected gift for languages; she could be comprehensibly incompetent in a new one within an hour or two. What she spoke was one step away from gibberish but it was authentically foreign gibberish. And she knew that Granny Weatherwax, whatever her other qualities, had an even bigger tin ear for languages than she did for music.

'Er. Could be,' she said. 'There's always a lot going on, I know that. Our Nev said they sometimes do different operations every night.'

'How did he find that out?' said Granny.

'Well, there was a lot of lead. That takes some shifting. He said he liked the noisy ones. He could hum along and also no one heard the hammering.'

The witches strolled onwards.

'Did you notice young Agnes nearly bump into us back there?' said Granny.

'Yes. It was all I could do not to turn around,' said Nanny.

'She wasn't very pleased to see us, was she? I practically heard her gasp.'

'That's very suspicious, if you ask me,' said Nanny. 'I mean, she sees two friendly faces from back home, you'd expect her . to come runnin' up...'

'We're old friends, after all. Old friends of her grandma and her mum, anyway, and that's practic'ly the same.'

'Remember those eyes in the teacup?' said Nanny. 'She could be under the gaze of some strange occult force! We got to be careful. People can be very tricky when they're in the grip of a strange occult force. Remember Mr Scruple over in Slice?'

'That wasn't a strange occult force. That was acid stomach.'

'Well, it certainly seemed strangely occult for a while. Especially if the windows were shut.'

Their perambulation had taken them to the Opera House's stage-door.

Granny looked up at a line of posters.

'La Triviata,' she read aloud. 'The Ring of the Nibelungingung... ?'

'Well, basically there are two sorts of opera,' said Nanny, who also had the true witch's ability to be confidently expert on the basis of no experience whatsoever. 'There's your heavy opera, where basically people sing foreign and it goes like "Oh oh oh, I am dyin', oh, I am dyin', oh, oh, oh, that's what I'm doin"', and there's your light opera, where they sing in foreign and it basically goes "Beer! Beer! Beer! Beer! I like to drink lots of beer!", although sometimes they drink champagne instead. That's basically all of opera, reely.'

'What? Either dyin' or drinkin' beer?'

'Basically, yes,' said Nanny, contriving to suggest that this was the whole gamut of human experience.

'And that's opera?'

'We-ll... there might be some other stuff. But mostly it's stout or stabbin'.'

Granny was aware of a presence.

She turned.

A figure had emerged from the stage-door, carrying a poster, a bucket of glue and a brush.

It was a strange figure, a sort of neat scarecrow in clothes slightly too small for it, although, to be truthful, there were probably no clothes that would have fit that body. The ankles and wrists seemed infinitely extensible and independently guided.

It encountered the two witches standing at the poster board, and stopped politely. They could see the sentence marshalling itself behind the unfocused eyes.

'Excuse me ladies! The show must go on!'

The words were all there and they made sense, but each sentence was fired out into the world as a unit.

Granny pulled Nanny to one side.

'Thank you!'

They watched in silence as the man, with great and meticulous care, applied paste to a neat rectangle and then affixed the poster, smoothing every crease methodically.

'What's your name, young man?' said Granny.

'Walter!'

'That's a nice beret you have there.'

'My mum bought it for me!'

Walter chased the last air bubble to the edge of the paper and stood back. Then, completely ignoring the witches in his preoccupation with his task, he picked up the paste-pot and went back inside.

The witches stared at the new poster in silence.

'Y'know, I wouldn't mind seein' an operation,' said Nanny, after a while. 'Senior Basilica did give us the tickets.'

'Oh, you know me,' said Granny. 'Can't be having with that sort of thing at all.'

Nanny looked sideways at her, and grinned to herself. This was a familiar Weatherwax opening line. It meant: Of course I want to, but you've got to persuade me.

'You're right, o' course,' she said. 'It's for them folks in all their fine carriages. It's not for the likes of us.'

Granny looked hesitant for a moment.

'I expect it's having ideas above our station,' Nanny went on. 'I expect if we went in they'd say: Be off, you nasty ole crones...'

'Oh, they would, would they?'

'I don't expect they want common folk like what we are comin' in with all those smart nobby people,' said Nanny.

'Is that a fact? Is that a fact, madam? You just come with me!'

Granny stalked round to the front of the building, where people were already alighting from coaches. She pushed her way up the steps and shouldered through the crowd to the ticket office.

She leaned forward. The man behind the grille leaned back.

'Nasty old crones, eh?' she snapped.

'I beg your pardon-?'

'Not before time! See here, we've got tickets for–' She looked down at the pieces of cardboard, and pulled Nanny Ogg over. 'It says here Stalls. The cheek of it! Stalls? Us?' She turned back to the ticket man. 'See here, Stalls aren't good enough, we want seats in'–she looked up at the board by the ticket window–'the Gods. Yes, that sounds about right.'

'I'm sorry? You've got tickets for Stalls seats and you want to exchange them for seats in the Gods?'

'Yes, and don't you go expecting us to pay any more money!'

'I wasn't going to ask you for–'

'Just as well!' said Granny, smiling triumphantly. She looked approvingly at the new tickets. 'Come, Gytha.'

'Er, excuse me,' said the man as Nanny Ogg turned away, 'but what is that on your shoulders?'

'It's... a fur collar,' said Nanny.

'Excuse me, but I just saw it flick its tail.'

'Yes. I happen to believe in beauty without cruelty.'

Agnes was aware of something happening backstage. Little groups of men were forming, and then breaking up as various individuals hurried away about their mysterious tasks.

Out in front the orchestra was already tuning up. The chorus was filing on to be A Busy Marketplace, in which various jugglers, gypsies, sword-swallowers and gaily dressed yokels would be entirely unsurprised at an apparently drunken baritone strolling on to sing an enormous amount of plot at a passing tenor.

She saw Mr Bucket and Mr Salzella deep in argument with the stage manager.

'How can we search the entire building? This place is a maze!'

'He might have just wandered off somewhere... ?'

'He's as blind as a bat without those glasses.'

'But we can't be certain something's happened to him.'

'Oh, Yes? You didn't say that when we opened the double-bass case. You were certain' he was going to be inside. Admit it.'

'I... wasn't expecting just to find a smashed double bass, yes. But I was feeling a bit mithered at that point.'

A sword-swallower nudged Agnes.

'What?'

'Curtain up in one minute, dear,' he said, smearing mustard on his sword.

'Has something happened to Dr Undershaft?'

'Couldn't say, dear. You wouldn't have any salt, would you?'

' 'Scuse me. 'Scuse me. Sorry. 'Scuse me. Was that your foot? 'Scuse me...'

Leaving a trail of annoyed and pained patrons in their wake, the witches trod their way to their seats.

Granny elbowed herself comfortable and then, having in some matters the boredom threshold of a four-year-old, said: 'What's happenin' now?'

Nanny's skimpy knowledge of opera didn't come to her aid. So she turned to the lady beside her.

' 'Scuse me, could I borrow your programme? Thank you. 'Scuse me, could I borrow your spectacles? So kind.'

She spent a few moments in careful study.

'This is the overture,' she said. 'It's kind of a free sample of what's going to happen. 'S got a summary of the story, too. La Triviata.'

Her lips moved as she read. Occasionally her brow wrinkled.

'Well, it's quite simple reely,' she said, at last. 'A lot of people are in love with one another, there's considerable dressing up as other people and general confusion, there's a cheeky servant, no one really knows who anyone is, a couple of ole dukes go mad, chorus of gypsies, etc. Your basic opera. Someone's prob'ly going to turn out to be someone else's longlost son or daughter or wife or something.'

'Shh!' said a voice behind them.

'Wish we'd brought something to eat,' muttered Granny.

'I think I've got some peppermints in my knicker leg.'

'Shh!'

'I would like my spectacles back, please.'

'Here you are, ma'am. They're not very good, are they?'

Someone tapped Nanny Ogg on the shoulder. 'Madam, your fur stole is eating my chocolates!'

And someone tapped Granny Weatherwax on her shoulder. 'Madam, kindly remove your hat.'

Nanny Ogg choked on her peppermint.

Granny Weatherwax turned to the red-faced gentleman behind her. 'You do know what a woman in a pointy hat is, don't you?' she said.

'Yes, madam. A woman in a pointy hat is sitting in front of me.'

Granny gave him a stare. And then, to Nanny's surprise, she removed her hat.

'I do beg your pardon,' she said. 'I can see I was inadvertently bad-mannered. Pray excuse me.'

She turned back to the stage.

Nanny Ogg started breathing again. 'You feeling all right, Esme?'

'Never better.'

Granny Weatherwax surveyed the auditorium, oblivious to the sounds around her.

'I assure you, madam, your fur is eating my chocolates. It's started on the second layer!'

'Oh, dear. Show him the little map inside the lid, will you? He's only after the truffles, and you can soon rub the dribble off the others.'

'Do you mind being quiet?'

'I don't mind, it's this man and his chocolates that's making the noise–'

A big room, Granny thought. A great big room without windows...

There was a tingling in her thumbs.

She looked at the chandelier. The rope disappeared into an alcove in the ceiling.

Her gaze passed along the rows of Boxes. They were all quite crowded. On one, though, the curtains were almost closed, as if someone inside wanted to see out without being seen.

Then Granny looked among the Stalls. The audience was mainly human. Here and there was the hulking shape of a troll, although the troll equivalent of operas usually went on for a couple of years. A few dwarf helmets gleamed, although dwarfs normally weren't interested in anything without dwarfs in. There seemed to be a lot of feathers down there, and here and there the glint of jewellery. Shoulders were being worn bare this season. A lot of attention had been paid to appearances. The people were here to look, not to see.

She closed her eyes.

This was when you started being a witch. It wasn't when you did headology on daft old men, or mixed up medicines, or stuck up for yourself, or knew one herb from another.

It was when you opened your mind to the world and carefully examined everything it picked up.

She ignored her ears until the sounds of the audience became just a distant buzz.

Or, at least, a distant buzz broken by the voice of Nanny Ogg.

'Says here that Dame Timpani, who sings the part of Quizella, is a diva,' said Nanny. 'So I reckon this is like a part-time job, then. Prob'ly quite a good idea, on account of you have to be able to hold your breath. Good trainin' for the singin'.'

Granny nodded without opening her eyes.

She kept them closed as the opera started. Nanny, who knew when to leave her friend to her own devices, tried to keep quiet but felt impelled to give out a running commentary.

Then she said, 'There's Agnes! Hey, that's Agnes!'

'Stop wavin' and sit down,' murmured Granny, trying to hold on to her waking dream.

- Nanny leaned over the balcony.

'She's .dressed up as a gypsy,' she said. 'And now there's a girl come forward to sing'- she peered at the stolen programme–'the famous "Departure" aria, it says here. Now that's what I call a good voice–'

'That's Agnes singin',' said Granny.

'No, it's this girl Christine.'

'Shut your eyes, you daft old woman, and tell me if that isn't Agnes singin',' said Granny.

Nanny Ogg obediently shut her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. 'It's Agnes singing!'

'Yes.'

'But there's that girl with the big smile right out there in front moving her lips and everything!'

'Yes.'

Nanny scratched her head. 'Something a bit wrong here, Esme. Can't have people stealing our Agnes's voice.'

Granny's eyes were still shut. 'Tell me if the curtains on that Box down there on the right have moved,' she said.

'I just saw them twitch, Esme.'

'Ah.'

Granny let herself relax again. She sank into the seat as the aria washed over her, and opened her mind once more...

Edges, walls, doors...

Once a space was enclosed it became a universe of its own. Some things remained trapped in it.

The music passed through one side of her head and out the other, but with it. came other things, strands of things, echoes of old screams...

She drifted down further, down below the conscious, into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight.

There was fear here. It stalked the place like a great dark animal. It lurked in every corner. It was in the stones. Old terror crouched in the shadows. It was one of the most ancient terrors, the one that meant that no sooner had mankind learned to walk on two legs than it dropped to its knees. It was the terror of impermanence, the knowledge that all this would pass away, that a beautiful voice or a wonderful figure was something whose arrival you couldn't control and whose departure you couldn't delay. It wasn't what she had been looking for, but it was perhaps the sea in which it swam.

She went deeper.

And there it was, roaring through the night-time of the soul of the place like a deep cold current.

As she drew closer she saw that it was not one thing but two, twisted around one another. She reached out...

Trickery. Lies. Deceit. Murder.

'No!'

She blinked.

Everyone had turned to look at her.

Nanny tugged at her dress. 'Sit down, Esme!'

Granny stared. The chandelier hung peacefully over the crowded seats.

'They beat him to death!'

'What's that, Esme??

'And they throw him into the river!'

'Esme!'

'Sh!'

'Madam, will you sit down at once!'

'...and now it's started on the Nougat Whirls!'

Granny snatched at her hat and did a crabwise run along the row, crushing some of the finest footwear in Ankh-Morpork under her thick Lancre soles.

Nanny hung back reluctantly. She'd quite enjoyed the song, and she wanted to applaud. But her pair of hands wasn't necessary. The audience had exploded as soon as the last note had died away.

Nanny Ogg looked at the stage, and took note of something, and smiled. 'Like that, eh?'

'Gytha!'

She sighed. 'Coming, Esme. 'Scuse me. 'Scuse me. Sorry. 'Scuse me...'

Granny Weatherwax was out in the red plush corridor, leaning with her forehead against the wall.

'This is a bad one, Gytha,' she muttered. 'It's all twisted up. I ain't at all sure I can make it happen right. The poor soul...'

She straightened up. 'Look at me, Gytha, will you?

Gytha obediently opened her eyes wide. She winced a little as a fragment of Granny Weatherwax's consciousness crept behind her eyes.

Granny put her hat on, tucking in the occasional errant wisp of grey hair and then taking, one by one, the eight hatpins and ramming them home with the same frowning deliberation with which a mercenary might check his weapons.

'All right,' she said at last.

Nanny Ogg relaxed. 'It's not that I mind, Esme,' she said, 'but I wish you'd use a mirror.'

'Waste of money,' said Granny.

Now fully armoured, she strode off along the corridor.

'Glad to see you didn't lose your temper with the man who went on about your hat,' said Nanny, running along behind.

'No point. He's going to be dead tomorrow.'

'Oh, dear. What of?'

'Run over by a cart, I think.'

'Why didn't you tell him?'

'I could be wrong.'

Granny reached the stairs and thundered down them.

'Where're we going?'

'I want to see who's behind those curtains.'

The applause, distant but still thunderous, filled the stairwell.

'They certainly like Agnes's voice,' said Nanny.

'Yes. I hopes we're in time.'

'Oh, bugger!'

'What?'

'I left Greebo up there!'

'Well, he likes meeting new people. Good grief, this place is a maze.'

Granny stepped out into a curved corridor, rather plusher than the one they had left. There was a series of doors along it.

'Ah. Now, then. . .'

She walked along the row, counting, and then tried a handle.

'Can I help you, ladies?'

They turned. A little old woman had come up softly behind them, carrying a tray of drinks.

Granny smiled at her. Nanny Ogg smiled at the tray.

'We were just wondering,' said Granny, 'which person in these Boxes likes to sit with the curtains nearly shut?'

The tray began to shake.

'Here, shall I hold that for you?' .said Nanny. 'You'll spill something if you're not careful.'

'What do you know about Box Eight?'said the old lady.

'Ah. Box Eight,' said Granny. 'That'd be the one, yes. That's this one over here, isn't it... ?'

'No, please...'

Granny strode forward and grasped the handle.

The door was locked.

The tray was thrust into Nanny's welcoming hands. 'Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do...' she said.

The woman pulled at Granny's arm. 'Don't! It'll bring terrible bad luck!'

Granny thrust out her hand. 'The key, madam!' Behind her, Nanny inspected a glass of champagne.

'Don't make him angry! It's bad enough as it is!' The woman was clearly terrified.

'Iron,' said Granny, rattling the handle. 'Can't magic iron. . .'

'Here,' said Nanny, stepping forward a little unsteadily. 'Give me one of your hatpins. Our Nev's taught me all kindsa tricks...'

Granny's hand rose to her hat, and then she looked at Mrs Plinge's lined face. She lowered her hand.

'No,' she said. 'No, I reckon we'll leave it for now...

'I don't know what's happening...' sobbed Mrs Plinge. 'It never used to be like this...'

'Have a good blow,' said Nanny, handing her a grubby handkerchief and patting her kindly on the back.

'...there was none of this killing people... he just wanted somewhere to watch the opera... it made him feel better...'

'Who's this we're talking about?' said Granny.

Nanny Ogg gave her a warning look over the top of the old woman's head. There were some things best left to Nanny.

'... he'd unlock it for an hour every Friday for me to tidy up and there was always his little note saying thank you or apologizing for the chocolates down the seat... and where was the harm in it, that's what I'd like to know...'

'Have another good blow,' said Nanny.

'...and now there's people dropping like flies out of the flies... they say it's him, but I know he never meant any harm...'

' 'Course not,' said Nanny, soothingly.

'...many's the time I've seen 'em look up at the Box. They always felt the better for it if they saw him... and then poor Mr Pounder was strangulated. I looked around and there was his hat, just like that. . .'

'It's terrible when that happens,' said Nanny Ogg. 'What's your name, dear?'

'Mrs Plinge,' sniffed Mrs Plinge. 'It came right down in front of me. I'd have recognized it anywhere...'

'I think it would be a good idea if we took you home, Mrs Plinge,' said Granny.

'Oh, dear! I've got all these ladies and gentlemen to see to! And anyway it's dangerous going home this time of night... Walter walks me home but he's got to stay late tonight... oh dear...'

'Have another good blow,' said Nanny. 'Find a bit that isn't too soggy.'

There was a series of sharp pops. Granny Weatherwax had interlocked her fingers and extended her hands at arm's length, so that her knuckles cracked.

'Dangerous, eh?' she said. 'Well, we can't see you all upset like this. I'll walk you home and Mrs Ogg will see to things here.'

'...only I've got to attend to the Boxes... I've got all these drinks to serve... could've sworn I had them a moment ago...'

'Mrs Ogg knows all about drinks,' said Granny, glaring at her friend.

'There's nothing I don't know about drinks,' agreed Nanny, shamelessly emptying the last glass. 'Especially these.'

'...and what about our Walter? He'll worry himself silly...'

'Walter's your son?' said Granny. 'Wears a beret?'

The old woman nodded.

'Only I always comes back for him if he's working late...' she began.

'You come back for him... but he sees you home?' said Granny.

'It's... he's... he's...' Mrs Plinge rallied. 'He's a good boy,' she said defiantly.

'I'm sure he is, Mrs Plinge,' said Granny.

She carefully lifted the little white bonnet off Mrs Plinge's head and handed it to Nanny, who put it on, and also took the little white apron. That was the good thing about black. You could be nearly anything, wearing black. Mother Superior or Madam, it was really just a matter of the style. It just depended on the details.

There was a click. Box Eight had bolted itself. And then there was the very faint scrape of a chair being wedged under the doorhandle.

Granny smiled, and took Mrs Plinge's arm. 'I'll be back as soon as I can,' she said.

Nanny nodded, and watched them go.

There was a little cupboard at the end of the corridor. It contained a stool, Mrs Plinge's knitting, and a small but very well stocked bar. There were also, on a polished mahogany plank, a number of bells on big coiled springs.

Several of them were bouncing up and down angrily.

Nanny poured herself a gin and gin with a dash of gin and inspected the rows of bottles with considerable interest.

Another bell started to ring.

There was a huge jar of stuffed olives. Nanny helped herself to a handful and blew the dust off a bottle of port.

A bell fell off its spring.

Somewhere out in the corridor a door opened and a young man's voice bellowed, 'Where are those drinks, woman!'

Nanny tried the port.

Nanny Ogg was used to the idea of domestic service. As a girl, she'd been a maid at Lancre Castle, where the king was inclined to press his intentions and anything else he could get hold of. Young Gytha Ogg had already lost her innocence[7] but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king's activities above them.

The brief experience had given her certain views which weren't anything so definite as political but were very firmly Oggish. And Mrs Plinge had looked as if she didn't get very much to eat and not a lot of time to sleep, either. Her hands had been thin and red. Nanny had a lot of time for the Plinges of the world.

Did port go with sherry? Oh, well, no harm in trying...

All the bells were ringing now. It must be coming up to the interval.

She methodically unscrewed the top off ajar of cocktail onions, and thoughtfully crunched a couple.

Then, as other people started to poke their heads around the doors and make angry demands, she went to the champagne shelf and took down a couple of magnums. She gave them a damn good shake, tucked one under each arm with a thumb on the corks, and stepped out into the corridor.

Nanny's philosophy of life was to do what seemed like a good idea at the time, and do it as hard as possible. It had never let her down.

The curtains closed. The audience was still on its feet, applauding.

'What happens now?' whispered Agnes to the next gypsy.

He pulled off his bandanna. 'Well, dear, we generally nip out to– Oh, no, they're going for a curtain call!'

The curtains opened again. The light caught Christine, who curtsied and waved and sparkled.

Her fellow-gypsy nudged Agnes. 'Look at Dame Timpani,' he said. 'There's a nose in a sling if ever I saw one.'

Agnes stared at the prima donna.

'She's smiling,' she said.

'So does a tiger, dear.'

The curtains shut once more, with a finality that said the stage manager was going to strike the set and would scream at someone if they dared to touch those ropes again . .. .

Agnes ran off with the others. There wasn't too much to do in the next act. She'd tried to memorize the plot earlier–although other members of the chorus had done their best to dissuade her, on the basis that you could either sing them or understand them, but not both.

Nevertheless, Agnes was conscientious.

'...so Peccadillo (ten.), the son of Duke Tagliatella (bass), has secretly disguised himself as a swineherd to woo Quizella, not knowing that Doctor Bufola (bar.) has sold the elixir to Ludi the servant, without realizing he is really the maid Iodine (sop.) dressed up as a boy because Count Artaud (bar.) claims that...'

A deputy stage manager pulled her out of the way and waved at someone in the wings.

'Lose the countryside, Ron.'

There was a series of whistles from offstage, answered by another from above.

The backcloth rose. From the gloom above, the sandbag counterweights began to descend.

'... then Artaud reveals, er, that Zibeline must marry Fideli, I mean Fiabe, not knowing, er, that the family fortunes...'

The sandbags came down. On one side of the stage, at least. On the other side, Agnes was interrupted in her impossible task by the screaming, and looked around into the upside-down and not at all well features of the late Dr Undershaft.

Nanny skipped through a handy door, shut it behind her, and leaned on it. After a few moments the sound of running feet clattered past.

Well, that had been fun.

She removed the lace bonnet and apron and, because there was a basic honesty in Nanny, she tucked them in a pocket to give back to Mrs Plinge later. Then she pulled out a flat, round black shape and banged it against her arm. The point shot out. After a few adjustments her official hat was almost as good as new.

She looked around. A certain absence of light and carpeting, together with a very presence of dust, suggested that this was a part of the place the public weren't supposed to see.

Oh, damn. She supposed she had better find another door. Of course, that'd mean she'd have to leave Greebo, wherever he was, but he'd turn up. He always did when he wanted feeding.

There was a flight of steps leading down. She followed them to a corridor which was slightly better lit and ambled along it for quite a way. And then all she had to do was follow the screams.

She emerged among the flats and jumbled props backstage.

No one bothered about her. The appearance of a small, amiable old lady was not about to cause comment at this point.

People were running backwards and forwards, shouting. More impressionable people were just standing in one place and screaming. A large lady was sprawled over two chairs having hysterics, while some distracted stage-hands tried to fan her with a script.

Nanny Ogg was not certain whether something important had happened or whether this was just a continuation of opera by other means.

'I should loosen her corsets, if I was you,' she said as she ambled past.

'Good heavens, madam, there's enough panic in here as it is!'

Nanny moved on to an interesting crowd of gypsies, noblemen and stage-hands.

Witches are curious by definition and inquisitive by nature. She moved in.

'Let me through. I'm a nosy person,' she said, employing both elbows. It worked, as this sort of approach generally does.

There was a dead person lying on the floor. Nanny had seen death in a wide variety of guises, and certainly knew strangulation when it presented itself. It wasn't the nicest end, although it could be quite colourful.

'Oh dear,' she said. 'Poor man. What happened to him?'

'Mr Bucket says he must have got caught up in the–' someone began.

'He didn't get caught in anything! This is the Ghost's work!' said someone else. 'He could still be up there!'

All eyes turned upwards.

'Mr Salzella's sent some stage-hands to flush him out.'

'Have they got flaming torches?' said Nanny.

Several of them looked at her as if wondering, for the first time, who she was.

'What?'

'Got to have flaming torches when you're tracking down evil monsters,' said Nanny. 'Well-known fact.'

There was a moment while this sunk in, and then:

'That's true.'

'She's right, you know.'

'Well-known fact, dear.'

'Did they have flaming torches?'

'Don't think so. Just ordinary lanterns.'

'Oh, they're no good,' said Nanny. 'That's for smugglers, lanterns. For evil monsters you need flaming–'

'Excuse me, boys and girls!'

The stage manager had stood on a box.

'Now,' he said, a little pale around the face, 'I know you're all familiar with the phrase "the show must go on"...'

There was a chorus of groans from the chorus.

'It's very hard to sing a jolly song about eating hedgehogs when you're waiting for an accident to happen to you,' shouted a gypsy king.

'Funny thing, if we're talking about songs about hedgehogs, I myself–' Nanny began, but no one was paying her any attention.

'Now, we don't actually know what happened–'

'Really? Shall we guess?' said a gypsy.

'-but we have men up in the fly loft now–'

'Oh? In case of more accidents?'

'-and Mr Bucket has authorized me to say that there will be an additional two dollars' bonus tonight in recognition of your bravely agreeing to continue with the show–'

'Money? After a shock like this? Money? He thinks he can offer us a couple of dollars and we'll agree to stay on this cursed stage?'

'Shame!'

'Heartless!,

'Unthinkable!'

'Should be at least four!'

'Right! Right!'

'For shame, my friends! To talk about a few dollars when there is a dead man lying there... Have you no respect for his memory?'

'Exactly! A few dollars is disrespectful. Five dollars or nothing!'

Nanny Ogg nodded to herself, and wandered off and found a sufficiently big piece of cloth to cover the late Dr Undershaft.

Nanny rather liked the theatrical world. It was its own kind of magic. That was why Esme disliked it, she reckoned. It was the magic of illusions and misdirection and foolery, and that was fine by Nanny Ogg, because you couldn't be married three times without a little fooling. But it was just close enough to Granny's own kind of magic to make Granny uneasy. Which meant she couldn't leave it alone. It was like scratching an itch.

People didn't take any notice of little old ladies who looked as though they fitted in, and Nanny Ogg could fit in faster than a dead chicken in a maggot factory.

Besides, Nanny had one additional little talent, which was a mind like a buzzsaw behind a face like an elderly apple.

Someone was crying.

A strange figure was kneeling beside the late chorus master. It looked like a puppet with the strings cut.

'Can you give me a hand with this sheet, mister?' said Nanny quietly.

The face looked up. Two watery eyes, running with tears, blinked at Nanny. 'He won't wake up!'

Nanny mentally changed gear. 'That's right, luv,' she said. 'You're Walter, ain't you?'

'He was always very good to me and our mum! He never gave me a kick!'

It was obvious to Nanny that there was no help here. She knelt down and began to do her best with the departed.

'Miss they say it were the Ghost miss! It weren't the Ghost miss! He'd never do a thing like that! He was always good to me and our mum!'

Nanny changed gear again. You had to slow down a bit for Walter Plinge.

'My mum'd know what to do!'

'Yes, well... she's gone home early, Walter.'

Walter's waxy face started to contort into an expression of terminal horror.

'She mustn't walk home without Walter to look after her!' he shouted.

'I bet she always says that,' said Nanny. 'I bet she always makes sure her Walter's with her when she goes home. But I expect that right now she'd want her Walter to just get on with things so's she can be proud of him. Show's not half over yet.'

' 'S dangerous for our mum!'

Nanny patted his hand and absent-mindedly wiped her own hand on her dress.

'That's a good boy,' she said. 'Now, I've got to go off–'

'The Ghost wouldn't harm no one!'

'Yes, Walter, only I've got to go but I'll find someone to help you and you must put poor Dr Undershaft somewhere safe until after the show. Understand? And I'm Mrs Ogg.'

Walter gawped at her, and then nodded sharply.

'Good boy.'

Nanny left him still looking at the body and headed further backstage.

A young man hurrying past found that he'd suddenly acquired an Ogg.

' 'Scuse me, young man,' said Nanny, still holding his arm, 'but d'you know anyone around here called Agnes? Agnes Nitt?'

'Can't say I do, ma'am. What does she do?' He made to hurry on as politely as possible, but Nanny's grip was steel.

'She sings a bit. Big girl. Voice with double joints in it. Wears black.'

'You don't mean Perdita?'

'Perdita? Oh, yes. That'd be her all right.'

'I think she's seeing to Christine. They're in Mr Salzella's office.'

'Would Christine be the thin girl in white?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'And I expect you're going to show me where this Mr Salzella's office is?'

'Er, am I- Er, yes. It's just along the stage there, first door on the right.'

'What a good boy to help an old lady,' said Nanny. Her grip increased to a few ounces short of cutting off circulation. 'And wouldn't it be a good idea if you helped young Walter back there do something respectful for the poor dead man?'

'Back where?'

Nanny turned around. The late Dr Undershaft had gone nowhere, but Walter had vanished.

'Poor chap was a bit upset, I shouldn't wonder,' said Nanny. 'Only to be expected. So... how about if you got another strapping young lad to help you out instead?'

'Er... yes.'

'What a good boy,' Nanny repeated.

It was mid-evening. Granny and Mrs Plinge pushed their way through the crowds towards the Shades, a part of the city that was as thronged as a rookery, fragrant as a cesspit, and vice versa.

'So,' said Granny, as they entered the network of foetid alleys, 'your boy Walter usually sees you home, does he?'

'He's a good boy, Mistress Weatherwax,' said Mrs Plinge defensively.

'I'm sure you're grateful for a strong lad to lean on,' said Granny.

Mrs Plinge looked up. Looking into Granny's eyes was like looking into a mirror. What you saw looking back at you was yourself, and there was no hiding-place.

'They torment him so,' she mumbled. 'They poke at him and hide his broom. They're not bad boys round here, but they will torment him.'

'He brings his broom home, does he?'

'He looks after his things,' said Mrs Plinge. 'I've always brought him up to look after his things and not be a trouble. But they will poke the poor soul and call him such names...'

The alleyway opened into a yard, like a well between the high buildings. Washing-lines crisscrossed the rectangle of moonlit sky.

'I'm just in here,' said Mrs Plinge. 'Much obliged to you.'

'How does Walter get home without you?' said Granny.

'Oh, there's plenty of places to sleep in the Opera House. He knows that if I don't come for him he's to stop there for the night. He does what he's told, Mistress Weatherwax. He's never any trouble.'

'I never said he was.'

Mrs Plinge fumbled in her purse, as much to escape Granny's stare as to look for the key.

'I expect your Walter sees most of what goes on in the Opera House,' said Granny, taking one of Mrs Plinge's wrists in her hand. 'I wonder what your Walter... saw?'

The pulse jumped at the same time as the thieves did. Shadows unfolded themselves. There was the scrape of metal.

A low voice said, 'There's two of you, ladies, and there's six of us. There's no use in screaming.'

'Oh, deary deary me,' said Granny.

Mrs Plinge dropped to her knees. 'Oh, please don't hurt us, kind sirs, we are harmless old ladies! Haven't you got mothers?'

Granny rolled her eyes. Damn, damn and blast. She was a good witch. That was her role in life. That was the burden she had to bear. Good and Evil were quite superfluous when you'd grown up with a highly developed sense of Right and Wrong. She hoped, oh she hoped, that young though these were, they were dyed-in-the-wool criminals . .

'I 'ad a mother once,' said the nearest thief. 'Only I think I must of et 'er...'

Ah. Top marks. Granny raised both hands to her hat to draw out two long hatpins...

A tile slid off the roof, and splashed into a puddle.

They looked up.

A caped figure was visible for a moment against the moonlight. It thrust out a sword at arm's length. Then it dropped, landing lightly in front of one astonished man.

The sword whirled.

The first thief spun and thrust at the shadowy shape in front of him, which turned out to be another thief, whose arm jerked up and dragged its own knife along the ribcage of the thief beside him.

The masked figure danced among the gang, his sword almost leaving trails in the air. It occurred to Granny later that it never actually made contact, but then, it never needed to–when six are against one in a melee in the shadows, and especially if those six aren't used to a target that is harder to hit than a wasp, and even more so if they got all their ideas of knifefighting from other amateurs, then there's six chances in seven that they'll stab a crony and about one chance in twelve that they'll nick their own earlobe.

The two that remained uninjured after ten seconds looked at one another, turned, and ran.

And then it was over.

The surviving vertical figure bowed low in front of Granny Weatherwax. 'Ah. Bella Donna!'

There was a swirl of black cloak and red silk, and it too was gone. For a moment soft footsteps could be heard skimming over the cobbles.

Granny's hand was still halfway to her hat.

'Well I never!' she said.

She looked down. Various bodies were groaning or making soft bubbling noises.

'Deary deary me,' she said. Then she pulled herself together.

'I reckon we're going to need some nice hot water and some bits of bandage, and a good sharp needle for the stitching, Mrs Plinge,' she said. 'We can't let these poor men bleed to death now, can we, even if they do try to rob old ladies...'

Mrs Plinge looked horrified.

'We've got to be charitable, Mrs Plinge,' Granny insisted.

'I'll pump up the fire and tear up a sheet,' said Mrs Plinge. 'Don't know if I can find a needle...'

'Oh, I 'spect I've got a needle,' said Granny, extracting one' from the brim of her hat.

She knelt down by a fallen thief. 'It's rather rusty and blunt,' she added, 'but we shall have to do the best we can.'

The needle gleamed in the moonlight. His round, frightened eyes focused on it, and then on Granny's face. He whimpered. His shoulderblades tried to dig him into the cobbles.

It was perhaps as well that no one else could see Granny's face in the shadows.

'Let's do some good,' she said.

Salzella threw his hands in the air. 'Supposing he'd come down in the middle of the act?' he said.

'All right, all right,' said Bucket, who was sitting behind his desk as a man might hide behind a bunker. 'I agree. After the show we call in the Watch. No two ways about it. We shall just have to ask them to be discreet.'

'Discreet? Have you ever met a Watchman?' said Salzella.

'Not that they'll find anything. He'll have been over the rooftops and away, you may depend upon it. Whoever he is. Poor Dr Undershaft. He was always so highly strung.'

'Never more so than tonight,' said Salzella.

'That was tasteless!'

Salzella leaned over the desk. 'Tasteless or not, the company are theatre people. Superstitious. One little thing like someone being murdered on stage and they go all to pieces.'

'He wasn't murdered on stage, he was murdered off stage. And we can't be sure it was murder! He'd been very... depressed, lately.'

Agnes had been shocked, but it hadn't been shock at Dr Undershaft's death. She'd been astonished at her own reaction. It had been startling and unpleasant to see the man, but even worse to see herself actually being interested in what was happening–in the way people reacted, in the way they moved, in the things they said. It had been as if she'd stood outside herself, watching the whole thing.

Christine, on the other hand, had just folded up. So had Dame Timpani. Far more people had fussed over Christine than around the prima donna, despite the fact that Dame Timpani had come around and fainted again quite pointedly several times and had eventually been forced to go for hysterics. No one had assumed for a minute that Agnes couldn't cope.

Christine had been carried into Salzella's backstage office and put on a couch. Agnes had fetched a bowl of water and a cloth and was wiping her forehead, for there are some people who are destined to be carried to comfortable couches and some people whose only fate is fetching a bowl of cold water.

'Curtain goes up again in two minutes,' said Salzella. 'I'd better go and round up the orchestra. They'll all be in the Stab In The Back over the road. The swine can get through half a pint before the applause has died away.'

'Are they capable of playing?'

'They never have been, so I don't see why they should start now,' said Salzella. 'They're musicians, Bucket. The only way a dead body would upset them is if it fell in their beer, and even then they'd play if you offered them Dead Body Money.'

Bucket walked over to the recumbent Christine. 'How is she?'

'She keeps mumbling a bit–' Agnes began.

'Cup of tea? Tea? Cup of tea, anyone? Nothing nicer than a cup of tea, well, I tell a lie, but I see the couch is occupied, just my little joke, no offence meant, anyone for a nice cup of tea?'

Agnes looked around in horror.

'Well, I could certainly do with one,' said Bucket, with false joviality.

'How about you, miss?' Nanny winked at Agnes.

'Er...no, thank you... do you work here?' said Agnes.

'I'm just helping out for Mrs Plinge, who has been taken poorly,' said Nanny, giving her another wink. 'I'm Mrs Ogg. Don't mind me.'

This seemed to satisfy Bucket, if only because random teadistributors represented the most minor of threats at this point.

'It's more like Grand Guignol than opera out there tonight,' said Nanny. She nudged Bucket. ' 'S foreign for "blood all over the stage",' she said helpfully.

'Really.'

'Yep. It means... Big Gignol.'

Music started in the distance.

'That's the overture to Act Two,' said Bucket. 'Well, if Christine is still unwell, then...' He looked desperately at Agnes. Well, at a time like this people would understand.

Agnes's chest swelled further with pride. 'Yes, Mr Bucket?'

'Perhaps we could find you a white–'

Christine, her eyes still shut, raised her wrist to her forehead and groaned.

'Oh, dear, what happened?'

Bucket knelt down instantly. 'Are you all right? You had a nasty shock! Do you think you could go on for the sake of your art and people not asking for their money back?'

She gave him a brave smile. Unnecessarily brave, it seemed to Agnes.

'I can't disappoint the dear public!' she said..

'Jolly good!' said Bucket. 'I should hurry on out there, then. Perdita will help you–won't you, Perdita?'

'Yes. Of course.'

'And you'll be in the chorus for the duet,' said Bucket. 'Nearby in the chorus.'

Agnes sighed. 'Yes, I know. Come on, Christine.'

'Dear Perdita...' said Christine.

Nanny watched them go. Then she said, 'I'll have that cup if you've finished with it.'

'Oh. Yes. Yes, it was very nice,' said Bucket.

'Er... I had a bit of an accident up at the Boxes,' said Nanny.

Bucket clutched at his chest. 'How many died?'

'Oh, no one died, no one died. They got a bit damp because I spilled some champagne.'

Bucket sagged with relief. 'Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,' he said.

'When I say spilled... I mean, it went on happening...'

He waved her away. 'It cleans up well off the carpet,' he said.

'Does it stain ceilings?'

'Mrs... ?'

'Ogg.,

'Please just go away.'

Nanny nodded, gathered up the teacups and wandered out of the office. If no one questioned an old lady with a tray of tea, they certainly weren't bothered about one behind a pile of washing-up. Washing-up is a badge of membership anywhere.

As far as Nanny Ogg was concerned, washing-up was also something that happened to other people, but she felt that it might be a good idea to stay in character. She found an alcove with a pump and a sink in it, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

'You shouldn't do that, you know,' said a voice. 'That's very unlucky.'

She glanced around at a stage-hand.

'What, washing-up causes seven years' bad luck?' she said.

'You were whistling.'

'Well? I always whistle when I'm thinkin'.'

'You shouldn't whistle on stage, I meant.'

It's unlucky?'

'I suppose you could say that. We use whistle codes when we're shifting the scenery. Having a sack of sandbags land on you could be unlucky, I suppose.'

Nanny glanced up. His gaze followed hers. just here the ceiling was about two feet away.

'It's just safest not to whistle,' the boy mumbled.

'I'll remember that,' said Nanny. 'No whistlin'. Interestin'. We do live and learn, don't we?'

The curtain went up on Act Two. Nanny watched from the wings.

The interesting thing was the way in which people contrived to keep one hand higher than their necks in case of accidents. There seemed to be far more salutes and waves and dramatic gestures than were strictly called for in the opera.

She watched the duet between Iodine and Bufola, possibly the first in the history of the opera where both singers kept their eyes turned resolutely upwards.

Nanny enjoyed music, as well. If music were the food of love, she was game for a sonata and chips at any time. But it was clear that the sparkle -had gone out of things tonight.

She shook her head.

A figure moved through the shadows behind her, and reached out. She turned, and looked at a fearsome face.

'Oh, hello, Esme. How did you get in?'

'You've still -got the tickets so I had to talk to the man on the door. But he'll be right as rain in a minute or two. What's been happening?'

'Well... the Duke's sung a long song to say that he must be going, and the Count has sung a song saying how nice it is in the springtime, and a dead body's fallen out of the ceiling.'

'That goes on a lot in opera, does it?'

'Shouldn't think so.'

'Ah. In the theatre, I've noticed, if you watch dead bodies long enough you can see them move.'

'Doubt if this one'll move. Strangled. Someone's murdering opera people. I bin chatting to the ballet girls.'

'Indeed?'

'It's this Ghost they're all talking about.'

'Hmm. Wears one of those black opera suits and a white mask?'

'How did you know that?'

Granny looked smug.

'I mean, I can't imagine who'd want to murder opera people...' Nanny thought of the expression on Dame Timpani's face. 'Except p'raps other opera people. And p'raps the musicians. And some of the audience, p'raps.'

'I don't believe in ghosts,' said Granny firmly.

'Oh, Esme! You know I've got a dozen of 'em in my house!'

'Oh, I believe in ghosts,' said Granny. 'Sad things hangin' around goin' woogy woogy woogy... but I don't believe they kill people or use swords.' She walked away a little. 'There's too many ghosts here already.'

Nanny kept quiet. It was best to do so when Granny was listening without using her ears.

'Gytha?'

'Yes, Esme?'

'What does "Bella Donna" mean?'

'It's the nobby name for Deadly Nightshade, Esme.'

'I thought so. Huh! The cheek of it!'

'Only, in opera, it means Beautiful Woman.'

'Really? Oh.' Granny's hand reached up and patted the iron-hard bun of her hair. 'Foolishness!'

...he'd moved like music, like someone dancing to a rhythm inside his head. And his face for a moment in the moonlight was the skull of an angel...

The duet got another standing ovation.

Agnes faded gently back into the chorus. She had to do little else during the remainder of the act except dance, or at least move as rhythmically as she could, with the rest of the chorus during the Gypsy Fair, and listen to the Duke singing a song about how lovely the countryside was in summer. With an arm extended dramatically above his head.

She kept peering into the wings.

If Nanny Ogg was here then the other one would be around somewhere. She wished she'd never written those wretched letters home. Well... they wouldn't drag her back, no matter what they tried...

The remainder of the opera passed without anyone dying, except where the score required them to do so at some length. There was a minor upset when a member of the chorus was almost brained by a sandbag dislodged from a gantry by the stage-hands stationed there to prevent accidents.

There was more applause at the end. Christine got most of it.

And then the curtains closed.

And opened and closed a few times as Christine took her bows.

Agnes felt perhaps she took one more bow than the applause really justified. Perdita, looking out through her eyes, said: of course she did.

And then they closed the curtains for the last time.

The audience went home.

From the wings, and up in the flies, the stagehands whistled their commands. Parts of the world vanished into the aerial darkness. Someone went round and put out most of the lights. Rising like a birthday cake, the chandelier was winched into its loft so that the candles could be snuffed. Then there were the footsteps of the men leaving the loft...

Within twenty minutes of the last handclap of applause the auditorium was empty and dark, except for just a few lights.

There was the clank of a bucket.

Walter Plinge walked on to the stage, if such a word could be employed for his mode of progress.

He moved like a puppet on elastic strings, so that it seemed only coincidentally that his feet touched the ground.

Very slowly, and very conscientiously, he began to mop the stage.

After a few minutes a shadow detached itself from the curtains and walked over to him. Walter looked down.

'Hello Mister Pussy Cat,' he said.

Greebo rubbed against his legs. Cats have an instinct for anyone daft enough to give them food, and Walter certainly was well qualified.

'I shall go and find you some milk shall I Mister Cat?'

Greebo purred like a thunderstorm.

Walking his strange walk, advancing only by averages, Walter disappeared into the wings.

There were two dark figures sitting in the balcony.

'Sad,' said Nanny.

'He's got a good job in the warm and his mother keeps an eye on him,' said Granny. 'A lot of people fare worse.'

'Not a big future for him, though,' said Nanny. 'Not when you think about it.'

'There was a couple of cold potatoes and half a herring for their supper,' said Granny. 'Hardly a stick of furniture, too.'

'Shame.'

'Mind you, she's a little bit richer now,' Granny conceded. 'Especially if she sells all those knives and boots,' she added to herself.

'It's a cruel world for old ladies,' said Nanny, matriarch of a vast extended tribe and undisputed tyrant of half the Ramtops.

'Especially one as terrified as Mrs Phnge,' said Granny.

'Well, I'd be frightened too, if I was old and had Walter to think about.'

'I ain't talking about that, Gytha. I know about fear.'

'That's true,' said Nanny. 'Most of the people you meet are full of fear.'

'Mrs Phnge is living in fear,' said Granny, appearing not to hear this. 'Her mind is flat with it. She can't hardly think for the terror. I could feel it coming off of her like mist.'

'Why? Because of the Ghost?'

'I don't know yet. Not all of it, anyway. But I will find out.'

Nanny fished in the recesses of her clothing.

'Fancy a drink?' she said. There was a muffled clink from somewhere in her petticoats. 'I got champagne, brandy and port. Also some nibbles and biscuits.'

'Gytha Ogg, I believe you are a thief,' said Granny.

'I ain't!' said Nanny, and added, with that grasp of advanced morality that comes naturally to a witch: 'Just because I occasionally technic'ly steal something, that doesn't make me a thief. I don't think thief.'

'Let's get back to Mrs Palm's.'

'All right,' said Nanny. 'But can we get something to eat first? I don't mind the cooking, but the grub there is a bit of an all-day breakfast, if you know what I mean...'

There was a sound from the stage as they stood up. Walter had returned, followed by a slightly fatter Greebo. Oblivious to the watchers, he continued to mop the stage.

'First thing tomorrow,' said Granny, 'we'll go and see Mr Goatberger the Almanack man again. I've had time to think about what to do next. And then we're going to sort this out.'

She glared at the innocent figure washing the stage arid said, under her breath: 'What is it you know, Walter Plinge? What is it you've seen?'

'Wasn't it amazing?!' said Christine, sitting up in bed. Her nightdress, Agnes had noted, was white. And extremely lacy.

'Yes, indeed,' said Agnes.

'Five curtain calls!! Mr Bucket says that's more than anyone's ever had since Dame Gigli!! I'm sure I won't be able to sleep for the excitement!!'

'So you just drink up that lovely hot milk drink I've done for us,' said Agnes. 'It took me ages to carry the saucepan up those stairs.'

'And the flowers!!' said Christine, ignoring the mug Agnes had placed beside her. 'They started arriving right after the performance, Mr Bucket said!! He said–'

There was a soft knock at the door.

Christine adjusted her dress.

'Come!!'

The door opened and Walter Plinge shuffled in, hidden under the bouquets of flowers.

After a few steps he stumbled on his own feet, plunged forward, and dropped them. Then he stared at the two girls in mute embarrassment, turned suddenly, and walked into the door.

Christine giggled.

'Sorry mu-miss,' said Walter.

'Thank you, Walter,' said Agnes.

The door closed.

'Isn't he strange?! Have you seen the way he stares at me?! Do you think you could find some water for these, Perdita?!'

'Certainly, Christine. It's only seven flights of stairs.'

'And as a reward I shall drink this lovely drink you have made for me!! Has it got spices in it?'

'Oh, yes. Spices,' said Agnes.

'It's not like one of those potions your witches cook up, is it?!'

'Er, no,' said Agnes. After all, everyone in Lancre used fresh herbs. 'Er... there's not going to be anything like enough vases for them all, even if I use the guzunder...'

'The what?!'

'The... you know. It's goes-under... the bed. Guzunder.'

'You're so funny!!'

'There won't be, anyway,' said Agnes, blushing hotly. Behind her eyes, Perdita committed murder.

'Then put in all the ones from the earls and knights and I shall see to the others tomorrow!' said Christine, picking up the drink.

Agnes picked up the kettle and started towards the door.

'Perdita, dear?' said Christine, the mug halfway to her lips.

Agnes turned.

'It did seem to me you were singing the teensiest bit loud, dear! I'm sure it must have been a little difficult for everyone to hear me.'

'Sorry, Christine,' said Agnes.

She walked down in darkness. Tonight there was a candle burning in a niche on every second landing. Without them the stairs would have been merely dark; with them, shadows crept arid leapt at every corner.

She reached the pump in the little alcove by the stage manager's office, and filled the kettle.

Out on the stage, someone began to sing.

It was Peccadillo's part of a duet of three hours earlier, but sung without music and in a tenor voice of such tone and purity that the kettle dropped out of Agnes's hand and spilled cold water over her feet.

She listened for a while, and then realized that she was singing the soprano part under her breath.

The song came to an end. She could hear, far off, the hollow sound of footsteps retreating in the distance.

She ran to the door to the stage, .paused a moment, and then opened it and went forward and out on to the huge dim emptiness.

The candles left burning were as much illumination as stars on a clear night. There was no one there.

She walked into the centre of the stage, and stopped, and caught her breath at the shock.

She could feel the auditorium in front of her, the huge empty space making the sound that velvet would make if it could snore.

It wasn't silence. A stage is never silent. It was the noise produced by a million other sounds that have never quite died away–the thunder of applause, the overtures, the arias. They poured down... fragments of tunes, lost chords, snatches of song.

She stepped back, and trod on someone's foot.

Agnes spun around. 'André, there's no–'

Someone crouched back. 'Sorry miss!'

Agnes breathed out. 'Walter?'

'Sorry miss!'

'It's all right! You just startled me.'

'Didn't see you miss!'

Walter was holding something. To Agnes's amazement, the darker shape in the darkness was a cat, flopped over Walter's arms like an old rug and purring happily. It was like seeing someone poking their arm into a mincing machine to see what was jamming it.

'That's Greebo, isn't it?'

'He's a happy cat! He's full of milk!'

'Walter, why're you in the middle of the stage in the dark when everyone's gone home?'

'What were you doing miss?'

It was the first time she'd heard Walter ask a question. And he's sort of a janitor, after all, she told herself. He can go anywhere.

'I... got lost,' she said, ashamed at the lie. 'I... I'll be going up to my room now. Er. Did you hear someone singing?'

'All the time miss!'

'I meant just now.'

'Just now I'm talking to you miss!'

'Oh...'

'G'night miss!'

She walked through the soft warm gloom to the backstage door, resisting at every step the urge to look round. She collected the kettle and hurried up the stairs. .

Behind her, on the stage, Walter carefully lowered Greebo to the floor, took off his beret, and removed something white and papery from inside it.

'What shall we listen to, Mister Cat? I know, we shall listen to the overture to Die Flederleiv by J. Q. Bubbla, cond. Vochua Doinov.'

Greebo gave him the fat-cheeked look of a cat prepared to put up with practically anything for food.

And Walter sat down beside him and listened to the music coming out of the walls.

When Agnes got back to the room Christine was already fast asleep, snoring the snore of those in herbal heaven. The mug lay by the bed.

It wasn't a bad thing to do, Agnes reassured herself. Christine probably needed a good night's sleep. It was practically a kindly act.

She turned her attention to the flowers. There were quite a lot of roses and orchids. Most of them had cards attached. Many aristocratic men apparently appreciated good singing or, at least, good singing that appeared to come from a face like Christine's.

Agnes arranged the flowers Lancre fashion, which was to hold the pot with one hand and the bouquet in the other and forcibly bring the two into conjunction.

The last bunch was the smallest, and wrapped in red paper. There was no card. In fact, there were no flowers.

Someone had merely wrapped up half a dozen blackened and spindly rose-stems and then, for some reason, sprayed them with scent. It was musky and rather pleasant, but a bad joke all the same. She threw them in the bin with the rubbish, blew out the candle, and sat down to wait.

She wasn't certain for whom. Or what.

After a minute or two she was aware that there was a glow coming from the wastebin. It was the barest fluorescence, like a sick glow-worm, but it was there.

She crawled across the floor and peered in.

There were rosebuds on the dead sticks, transparent as glass, visible only by the glimmer on the edge of each petal. They flickered like marsh lights.

Agnes lifted them out carefully and fumbled in the darkness for the empty mug. It wasn't the best of vases, but it would have to do. Then she sat and watched the ghostly flowers until...

...someone coughed. She jerked her head up, aware that she'd fallen asleep.

'Madam?'

'Sir?!'

The voice was melodious. It suggested that, at any minute, it might break into song.

'Attend. Tomorrow you must sing the part of Laura in Il Truccatore. We have much to do. One night is barely enough. The aria in Act One will occupy much of our time.'

There was a brief passage of violin music.

'Your performance tonight was... good. But there are areas that we must build upon. Attend.'

'Did you send the roses?!'

'You like the roses? They bloom only in darkness.'

'Who are you?! Was it you I heard singing just now!?'

There was silence for a moment.

'Yes.'

Then:

'Let us examine the role of Laura in Il Truccatore "The Master of Disguise", also sometimes vulgarly known as "The Man with a Thousand Faces"...'

When the witches arrived at Goatberger's offices next morning they found a very large troll sitting on the stairs. It had a club across its knees and held up a shovel-sized hand to prevent them going any further.

'No one's allowed in,' it said. 'Mr Goatberger is in a meetin'.'

'How long is this meetin' going to be?' said Granny.

'Mr Goatberger is a very elongated meeter.'

Granny gave the troll an appraising stare. 'You been in publishin' long?' she said.

'Since dis mornin',' said the troll proudly.

'Mr Goatberger gave you the job?'

'Yup. Come up Quarry Lane and picked me special for...'–the troll's brow creased as it tried to remember the unfamiliar words–'...the fast track inns fast-movin'_ worlds publishin'.'

'And what exactly is your job?'

' 'Ead 'fitter.'

' 'Souse me,' said Nanny, pushing forward. 'I'd know that stratum anywhere. You're from Copperhead in Lancre, ain't you?'

'So what?'

'We're from Lancre, too.'

'Yeah?'

'This is Granny Weatherwax, you know.'

The troll gave her a disbelieving grin, and then its brow corrugated again, and then it looked at Granny.

She nodded.

'The one you boys call Aaoograha hoa, you know?' said Nanny. ' "She Who Must Be Avoided"?'

The troll looked at its club as if seriously considering the possibility of beating itself to death.

Granny patted it on the lichen-encrusted shoulder. 'What's your name, lad?'

'Carborundum, miss,' it mumbled. One of its legs began to tremble.

'Well, I'm sure you're going to make a good life for yourself here in the big city,' said Granny.

'Yes, why don't you go and start now?' said Nanny.

The troll gave her a grateful look and fled, without even bothering to open the door.

'Do they really call me that?' said Granny.

'Er. Yes,' said Nanny, kicking herself. 'It's a mark of respect, of course.'

'Oh.'

'Er...'

'I've always done my best to get along with trolls, you know that.'

'Oh, yes.'

'How about the dwarfs?' said Granny, as someone might who had found a hitherto unsuspected boil and couldn't resist poking it. 'Have they got a name for me, too?'

'Let's go and see Mr Goatberger, shall we?' said Nanny brightly.

'Gytha!'

'Er... well... I think it's K'ez'rek d'b'duz,' said Nanny.

'What does that mean?'

'Er... "Go Around the Other Side of the Mountain",' said Nanny.

'Oh.'

Granny was uncharacteristically silent as they made their way up the stairs.

Nanny didn't bother to knock. She opened the door and said, 'Coo-ee, Mr Goatberger! It's us again, just like you said. Oh, I shouldn't try to get out of the window like that–you're three flights up and that bag of money is a bit dangerous if you're climbing around.'

The man edged around the room so that his desk was between him and the witches.

'Wasn't there a troll downstairs?' he said.

'It's decided to break out of publishing,' said Nanny. She sat down and gave him a big smile. 'I 'spect you've got some money for us.'

Mr Goatberger realized that he was trapped. His face contorted into a series of twisted expressions as he experimented with some replies. Then he smiled as widely as Nanny and sat down opposite her.

'Of course, things are very difficult at the moment,' he said. 'In fact I can't recall a worse time,' he added, with considerable honesty.

He looked at Granny's face. His grin stayed where it was but the rest of his face began to edge away.

'People just don't seem to be buying books,' he said. 'And the cost of the etchings, well, it's wicked.'

'Everyone I knows buys the Almanack,' said Granny. 'I reckon everyone in Lancre buys your Almanack. Everyone in the whole Ramtops buys the Almanack, even the dwarfs. That's a lot of half dollars. And Gytha's book seems to be doing very well.'

'Well, of course, I'm glad it's so popular, but what with distribution, paying the peddlers, the wear and tear on–'

'Your Almanack will last a household all winter, with care,' said Granny. 'Providing no one's ill and the paper's nice and thin.'

'My son Jason buys two copies,' said Nanny. 'Of course, he's got a big family. The privy door never stops swinging'

'Yes but, you see, the point is... I don't actually have to pay you anything,' said Mr Goatberger, trying to ignore this. His smile had the face all to itself now. 'You paid me to print it, and I gave you your money back. In fact I think our accounts department made a slight error in your favour, but I won't–'

His voice trailed away.

Granny Weatherwax was unfolding a sheet of paper. 'These predictions for next year...' she said.

'Where'd you get that?'

'I borrowed it. You can have it back if you like–'

'Well, what about them?'

'They're wrong.'

'What do you mean, they're wrong? They're predictions!'

'I don't see there being a rain of curry in Klatch next May. You don't get curry that early.'

'You know about the predictions business?' said Goatberger. 'You? I've been printing predictions for years.

'I don't do clever stuff for years ahead, like you do,' Granny admitted. 'But I'm pretty accurate if you want a thirty-second one.'

'Indeed? What's going to happen in thirty seconds?'

Granny told him.

Goatberger roared with laughter. 'Oh, yes, that's a good one, you should be writing them for us!' he said. 'Oh, my word. Nothing like being ambitious; eh? That's better than the spontaneous combustion of the Bishop of Quirm, and that didn't even happen! In thirty seconds, eh?'

'No.'

'No?'

'Twenty-one seconds now,' said Granny.

Mr Bucket had arrived at the Opera House early to see if anyone had died so far today.

He made it as far as his office without a single body dropping out of the shadows.

He really hadn't expected it to be like this. He'd liked opera. It had all seemed so artistic. He'd watched hundreds of operas and practically no one had died, except once during the ballet scene in La Triviata when a ballerina had rather over-enthusiastically been flung into the lap of an elderly gentleman in the front row of the Stalls. She hadn't been hurt, but the old man had died in one incredibly happy instant.

Someone knocked at the door.

Mr Bucket opened it about a quarter of an inch. 'Who's dead?' he said.

'N-no one Mr Bucket! I've got your letters!'

'Oh, it's you, Walter. Thank you.'

He took the bundle and shut the door.

There were bills. There were always bills. The Opera House practically runs itself, they'd told him. Well, yes, but it practically ran on money. He rummaged through the let–

There was an envelope with the Opera House crest on it.

He looked at it like a man looks at a very fierce dog on a very thin leash.

It did nothing except lie there and look as gummed as an envelope can be.

Finally he disembowelled it with the, paperknife and then flung it down on the desk again, as if it would bite.

When it did not do so he reached out hesitantly and withdrew the folded letter. It read as follows:

My Dear Bucket,

I should be most grateful if Christine sings the role of Laura tonight. I assure you she is more than capable.

The second violinist is a little slow, I feel, and the second act last night was frankly extremely wooden. This really is not good enough.

My I extend my own welcome to Senor Basilica. I congratulate you on his arrival.

Wishing you the very best,