‘And now you’ve won, and there’s the end of it,’ said Granny.

‘Are you looking to challenge me, Mistress Weatherwax?’

Granny hesitated, and then straightened her shoulders. Her arms moved away from her sides, almost imperceptibly. Nanny and Magrat moved away slightly.

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘My voodoo against your … headology?’

‘If you like.’

‘And what’s the stake?’

‘No more magic in the affairs of Genua,’ said Granny. ‘No more stories. No more godmothers. Just people, deciding for themselves. For good or bad. Right or wrong.’

‘Okay.’

‘And you leave Lily Weatherwax to me.’

Mrs Gogol’s intake of breath was heard around the hall.

‘Never!’

‘Hmm?’ said Granny. ‘You don’t think you’re going to lose, do you?’

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Mistress Weatherwax,’ said Mrs Gogol.

‘That’s good,’ said Granny. ‘I don’t want you to hurt me either.’

‘I don’t want there to be any fighting,’ said Ella.

They all looked at her.

‘She’s the ruler now, ain’t she?’ said Granny. ‘We’ve got to listen to what she says.’

‘I’ll keep out of the city,’ said Mrs Gogol, ignoring her, ‘but Lilith is mine.’

‘No.’

Mrs Gogol reached into her bag, and flourished the raggedy doll. ‘See this?’

‘Yes. I do,’ said Granny.

‘It was going to be her. Don’t let it be you.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Gogol,’ said Granny firmly, ‘but I see my duty plain.’

‘You’re a clever woman, Mistress Weatherwax. But you’re a long way from home.’

Granny shrugged. Mrs Gogol held up the doll by its waist. It had sapphire blue eyes.

‘You know about magic with mirrors? This is my kind of mirror, Mistress Weatherwax. I can make it be you. And then I can make it suffer. Don’t make me do that. Please.’

‘Please yourself, Mrs Gogol. But I’ll deal with Lily.’

‘I should box a bit clever if I was you, Esme,’ muttered Nanny Ogg. ‘She’s good at this sort of thing.’

‘I think she could be very ruthless,’ said Magrat.

‘I’ve got nothing but the greatest respect for Mrs Gogol,’ said Granny. ‘A fine woman. But talks a bit too much. If I was her, I’d have had a couple of big nails right through that thing by now.’

‘You would, too,’ said Nanny. ‘It’s a good thing you’re good, ain’t it.’

‘Right,’ said Granny, raising her voice again. ‘I’m going to find my sister, Mrs Gogol. This is family.’

She walked steadfastly towards the stairs.

Magrat took out the wand.

‘If she does anything bad to Granny, she’s going to go through the rest of her life bright orange and round, with seeds in,’ she said.

‘I don’t think Esme would like it if you did something like that,’ said Nanny. ‘Don’t worry. She doesn’t believe all that stuff about pins and dolls.’

‘She doesn’t believe anything. But that doesn’t matter!’ said Magrat. ‘Mrs Gogol does! It’s her power! It’s what she thinks that matters.’

‘Don’t you reckon Esme knows that too?’

Granny Weatherwax reached the foot of the stairs.

‘Mistress Weatherwax!’

Granny turned.

Mrs Gogol had a long sliver of wood in her hand. Shaking her head desperately, she jabbed it into the doll’s foot.

Everyone saw Esme Weatherwax wince.

Another sliver was thrust into a raggedy arm.

Slowly, Granny raised her other hand and shuddered when she touched her sleeve. Then, limping slightly, she continued to climb the stairs.

‘I can do the heart next, Mistress Weatherwax!’ shouted Mrs Gogol.

‘I’m sure you can. You’re good at it. You know you’re good at it,’ said Granny, without looking around.

Mrs Gogol stuck another sliver into a leg. Granny sagged, and clutched at the banister. Beside her, one of the big torches flamed.

‘Next time!’ said Mrs Gogol. ‘Right? Next time. I can do it!’

Granny turned around.

She looked at the hundreds of upturned faces.

When she spoke, her voice was so quiet that they had to strain to hear.

‘I know you can too, Mrs Gogol. You really believe. Just remind me again — we’re playin’ for Lily, right? And for the city?’

‘What does that matter now?’ said Mrs Gogol. ‘Ain’t you going to give in?’

Granny Weatherwax thrust a little finger into her ear and wiggled it thoughtfully.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I don’t reckon that’s what I do now. Are you watchin’, Mrs Gogol? Are you watchin’ real close?’

Her gaze travelled the room and rested for just a fraction of a second on Magrat.

Then she reached over, carefully, and thrust her arm up to the elbow into the burning torch.

And the doll in Erzulie Gogol’s hands burst into flame.

It went on blazing even after the witch had screamed and dropped it on to the floor. It went on burning until Nanny Ogg ambled over with a jug of fruit juice from the buffet, whistling between her teeth, and put it out.

Granny withdrew her hand. It was unscathed.

‘That’s headology,’ she said. ‘It’s the only thing that matters. Everything else is just messin’ about. Hope I didn’t hurt you, Mrs Gogol.’

She went on up the stairs.

Mrs Gogol kept on staring at the damp ashes. Nanny Ogg patted her companionably on the shoulder.

‘How did she do that?’ said Mrs Gogol.

‘She didn’t. She let you do it,’ said Nanny. ‘You got to watch yourself around Esme Weatherwax. I’d like to see one of them Zen buggers come up against her one day.’

‘And she’s the good one?’ said Baron Saturday.

‘Yeah,’ said Nanny. ‘Funny how things work out, really.’

She looked thoughtfully at the empty fruit juice jug in her hand.

‘What this needs,’ she said, in the manner of one reaching a conclusion after much careful consideration, ‘is some bananas and rum and stuff in it—’

Magrat grabbed her dress as Nanny strode determinedly dak’rywards.

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘We’d better get after Granny! She might need us!’

‘Shouldn’t think so for one minute,’ said Nanny. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in Lily’s shoes when Esme catches up with her.’

‘But I’ve never seen Granny so agitated,’ said Magrat. ‘Anything could happen.’

‘Good job if it does,’ said Nanny. She nodded meaningfully at a flunkey who, being quick on the uptake, leapt to attention.

‘But she might do something — dreadful.’

‘Good. She’s always wanted to,’ said Nanny. ‘Another banana dak’ry, mahatma coat, chopchop.’

‘No. It wouldn’t be a good idea,’ Magrat persisted.

‘Oh, all right,’ said Nanny. She handed the empty jug to Baron Saturday, who took it in a kind of hypnotic daze.

‘We’re just going to sort things out,’ she said. ‘Sorry about this. On with the motley … if anyone’s got any left.’

When the witches had gone Mrs Gogol reached down and picked up the damp remains of the doll.

One or two people coughed.

‘Is that it?’ said the Baron. ‘After twelve years?’

‘The Prince is dead,’ said Mrs Gogol. ‘Such as he was.’

‘But you promised that I would be revenged on her,’ the Baron said.

‘I think there will be revenge,’ said Mrs Gogol. She tossed the doll on to the floor. ‘Lilith has been fighting me for twelve years and she never got through. This one didn’t even have to sweat. So I think there will be revenge.’

‘You don’t have to keep your word!’

‘I do. I’ve got to keep something.’ Mrs Gogol put her arm around Ella’s shoulder.

‘This is it, girl,’ she said. ‘Your palace. Your city. There isn’t a person here who will deny it.’

She glared at the guests. One or two of them stepped backwards.

Ella looked up at Saturday.

‘I feel I should know you,’ she said. She turned to Mrs Gogol. ‘And you,’ she added. ‘I’ve seen you both … before. A long time ago?’

Baron Saturday opened his mouth to speak. Mrs Gogol held up her hand.

‘We promised,’ she said. ‘No interference.’

‘Not from us?’

‘Not even from us.’ She turned back to Ella. ‘We’re just people.’

‘You mean …’ said Ella, ‘I’ve slaved in a kitchen for years … and now … I’m supposed to rule the city? Just like that?’

‘That’s how it goes.’

Ella looked down, deep in thought.

‘And anything I say people have to do?’ she said innocently.

There were a few nervous coughs from the crowd.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Gogol.

Ella stood looking down at the floor, idly biting a thumbnail. Then she looked up.

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

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

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

‘But … but … I wanted revenge,’ said the Baron. ‘I wanted death. I wanted our daughter in power.’

TWO OUT OF THREE ISN’T BAD.

Mrs Gogol and the Baron turned around. Death put down his drink and stepped forward.

Baron Saturday straightened up.

‘I am ready to go with you,’ he said.

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

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

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

‘You didn’t?’

I HAD AN APPOINTMENT WITH YOU TONIGHT.

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

Power crackled in its folds.

‘No more Baron Saturday,’ he said.

PERHAPS. IT’S A NICE HAT.

The Baron turned to Erzulie.

‘I think I have to go.’

‘Yes.’

‘What will you do?’

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

‘I will go back to the swamp,’ she said.

‘You could stay here. I don’t trust that foreign witch.’

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

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

The Baron paused at the edge.

‘Will she live happily ever after?’ he said.

NOT FOREVER. BUT PERHAPS FOR LONG ENOUGH.

And so stories end.

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

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

Nanny Ogg panted along a corridor.

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

‘She’s a danger to everyone else,’ said Magrat. ‘She—’

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

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

‘I can’t stand snakes,’ said Magrat quietly.

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

‘I hate them.’

Nanny tugged at Magrat, who did not move.

‘Come on!’

‘I really hate them.’

‘You’ll be able to hate them even better from a long way off!’

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

‘Magrat!’

One of the sisters reached out. Magrat shuddered.

The snake sister opened its mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing moved.

‘Lily?’ said Granny softly.

Her own image looked out at her from the mirrors.

‘It can all stop now,’ said Granny. ‘You could take my stick and I’ll take Magrat’s. She can always share with Gytha. And Mrs Gogol won’t come after you. I’ve fixed that. And we could do with more witches back home. And no more godmothering. No more getting people killed so their daughters are ready to be in a story. I know that’s why you did it. Come on home. It’s an offer you can’t refuse.’

The mirror slid back noiselessly.

‘You’re trying to be kind to me?’ said Lily.

‘Don’t think it don’t take a lot of effort,’ said Granny in a more normal voice.

Lily’s dress rustled in the darkness as she stepped out.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you beat the swamp woman.’

‘No.’

‘But you’re here instead of her.’

‘Yes.’

Lily took the stick out of Granny’s hands, and inspected it.

‘Never used one of these things,’ she said. ‘You just sit on it and away you go?’

‘With this one you have to be running quite fast before it takes off,’ said Granny, ‘but that’s the general idea, yes.’

‘Hmm. Do you know the symbology of the broomstick?’ said Lily.

‘Is it anything to do with maypoles and folksongs and suchlike?’ said Granny.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then I don’t want to hear about it.’

‘No,’ said Lily. ‘I imagine you don’t.’

She handed the stick back.

‘I’m staying here,’ she said. ‘Mrs Gogol may have come up with a new trick, but that doesn’t mean she has won.’

‘No. Things have come to an end, see,’ said Granny. ‘That’s how it works when you turn the world into stories. You should never have done that. You shouldn’t turn the world into stories. You shouldn’t treat people like they was characters, like they was things. But if you do, then you’ve got to know when the story ends.’