‘It’s got snakes’ heads in it,’ said Nanny Ogg.

‘Don’t you try to upset me,’ said Magrat. ‘I know the Snake’s Head is a kind of flower. A fritillary, I think. It’s amazing what you can do with flowers, you know.’

Nanny Ogg, who had in fact spent an instructive if gruesome half-hour watching Mrs Gogol make the stuff, hadn’t the heart to say so.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Flowers. No getting anything past you, I can see that.’

Magrat yawned.

They had been given the run of the palace, although no-one felt like running anywhere. Granny had been installed in the next room.

‘Go and get some sleep,’ said Nanny. ‘I’ll go and take over from Mrs Gogol in a moment.’

‘But Nanny … Gytha …’ said Magrat.

‘Hmm?’

‘All that … stuff … she was saying, when we were travelling. It was so … so cold. Wasn’t it? Not wishing for things, not using magic to help people, not being able to do that fire thing — and then she went and did all those things! What am I supposed to make of that?’

‘Ah, well,’ said Nanny. ‘It’s all according to the general and the specific, right?’

‘What does that mean?’ Magrat lay down on the bed.

‘Means when Esme uses words like “Everyone” and “No-one” she doesn’t include herself.’

‘You know … when you think about it … that’s terrible.’

‘That’s witchcraft. Up at the sharp end. And now … get some sleep.’

Magrat was too tired to object. She stretched out and was soon snoring in a genteel sort of way.

Nanny sat and smoked her pipe for a while, staring at the wall.

Then she got up and pushed open the door.

Mrs Gogol looked up from her stool by the bed.

‘You go and get some sleep too,’ said Nanny. ‘I’ll take over for a spell.’

‘There’s something not right,’ said Mrs Gogol. ‘Her hands are fine. She just won’t wake up.’

‘It’s all in the mind, with Esme,’ said Nanny.

‘I could make some new gods and get everyone to believe in ’em real good. How about that?’ said Mrs Gogol. Nanny shook her head.

‘I shouldn’t think Esme’d want that. She’s not keen on gods. She thinks they’re a waste of space.’

‘I could cook up some gumbo, then. People’ll come a long way to taste that.’

‘It might be worth a try,’ Nanny conceded. ‘Every little helps, I always say. Why not see to it? Leave the rum here.’

After the voodoo lady had gone Nanny smoked her pipe some more and drank a little rum in a thoughtful sort of way, looking at the figure on the bed.

Then she bent down close to Granny Weatherwax’s ear, and whispered:

‘You ain’t going to lose, are you?’

Granny Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery world.

‘Where am I?’

INSIDE THE MIRROR.

‘Am I dead?’

THE ANSWER TO THAT, said Death, IS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES.

Esme turned, and a billion figures turned with her.

‘When can I get out?’

WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT’S REAL.

‘Is this a trick question?’

NO.

Granny looked down at herself.

‘This one,’ she said.

And stories just want happy endings. They don’t give a damn who they’re for.

In the swamp Mrs Gogol the voodoo witch draped the tail coat over its crude stand, stuck the hat on the top of the pole and fastened the cane to one end of the crosspiece with a bit of twine.

She stood back.

There was a fluttering of wings. Legba dropped out of the sky and perched on the hat. Then he crowed. Usually he only crowed at nightfall, because he was a bird of power, but for once he was inclined to acknowledge the new day.

It was said afterwards that, every year on Samedi Nuit Mort, when the carnival was at its height and the drums were loudest and the rum was nearly all gone, a man in a tail coat and a top hat and with the energy of a demon would appear out of nowhere and lead the dance.

After all, even stories have to start somewhere.

There was a splash, and then the waters of the river closed again.

Magrat walked away.

The wand settled into the rich mud, where it was touched only by the feet of the occasional passing crawfish, who don’t have fairy godmothers and aren’t allowed to wish for anything. It sank down over the months and passed, as most things do, out of history. Which was all anyone could wish for.

The three broomsticks rose over Genua, with the mists that curled towards the dawn.

The witches looked down at the green swamps around the city. Genua dozed. The days after Fat Lunchtime were always quiet, as people slept it off. Currently they included Greebo, curled up in his place among the bristles. Leaving Mrs Pleasant had been a real wrench.

‘Well, so much for la douche vita,’ said Nanny philosophically.

‘We never said goodbye to Mrs Gogol,’ said Magrat.

‘I reckon she knows we’re going right enough,’ said Nanny. ‘Very knowin’ woman, Mrs Gogol.’

‘But can we trust her to keep her word?’ said Magrat.

‘Yes,’ said Granny Weatherwax.

‘She’s very honest, in her way,’ said Nanny Ogg.

‘Well, there’s that,’ Granny conceded. ‘Also, I said I might come back.’

Magrat looked across at Granny’s broomstick. A large round box was among the baggage strapped to the bristles.

‘You never tried on that hat she gave you,’ she said.

‘I had a look at it,’ said Granny coldly. ‘It don’t fit.’

‘I reckon Mrs Gogol wouldn’t give anyone a hat that didn’t fit,’ said Nanny. ‘Let’s have a look, eh?’

Granny sniffed, and undid the lid of the box. Balls of tissue paper tumbled down towards the mists as she lifted the hat out.

Magrat and Nanny Ogg stared at it.

They were of course used to the concept of fruit on a hat — Nanny Ogg herself had a black straw hat with wax cherries on for special family feuding occasions. But this one had rather more than just cherries. About the only fruit not on it somewhere was a melon.

‘It’s definitely very … foreign,’ said Magrat.

‘Go on,’ said Nanny. ‘Try it on.’

Granny did so, a bit sheepishly, increasing her apparent height by two feet, most of which was pineapple.

‘Very colourful. Very … stylish,’ said Nanny. ‘Not everyone could wear a hat like that.’

‘The pomegranates suit you,’ said Magrat.

‘And the lemons,’ said Nanny Ogg.

‘Eh? You two ain’t laughing at me, are you?’ said Granny Weatherwax suspiciously.

‘Would you like to have a look?’ said Magrat. ‘I have a mirror somewhere …’

The silence descended like an axe. Magrat went red. Nanny Ogg glared at her.

They watched Granny carefully.

‘Ye-ess,’ she said, after what seemed a long time, ‘I think I should look in a mirror.’

Magrat unfroze, fumbled in her pockets and produced a small, wooden-framed hand-mirror. She passed it across.

Granny Weatherwax looked at her reflection. Nanny Ogg surreptitiously manoeuvred her broomstick a bit closer.

‘Hmm,’ said Granny, after a while.

‘It’s the way the grapes hang over your ear,’ said Nanny, encouragingly. ‘You know, that’s a hat of authority if ever I saw one.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Don’t you think?’ said Magrat.

‘Well,’ said Granny, grudgingly, ‘maybe it’s fine for foreign parts. Where I ain’t going to be seen by anyone as knows me. No-one important, anyway.’

‘And when we get home you can always eat it,’ said Nanny Ogg.

They relaxed. There was a feeling of a hill climbed, a dangerous valley negotiated.

Magrat looked down at the brown river and the suspicious logs on its sandbanks.

‘What I want to know is,’ she said, ‘was Mrs Gogol really good or bad? I mean, dead people and alligators and everything …’

Granny looked at the rising sun, poking though the mists.

‘Good and bad is tricky,’ she said. ‘I ain’t too certain about where people stand. P’raps what matters is which way you face.

‘You know,’ she added, ‘I truly believe I can see the edge from here.’

‘Funny thing,’ said Nanny, ‘they say that in some foreign parts you get elephants. You know, I’ve always wanted to see an elephant. And there’s a place in Klatch or somewhere where people climb up ropes and disappear.’

‘What for?’ said Magrat.

‘Search me. There’s prob’ly some cunnin’ foreign reason.’

‘In one of Desiderata’s books,’ said Magrat, ‘she says that there’s a very interesting thing about seeing elephants. She says that on the Sto plains, when people say they’re going to see the elephant, it means they’re simply going on a journey because they’re fed up with staying in the same place.’

‘It’s not staying in the same place that’s the problem,’ said Nanny, ‘it’s not letting your mind wander.’

‘I’d like to go up towards the Hub,’ said Magrat. ‘To see the ancient temples such as are described in Chapter One of The Way of the Scorpion.’

‘And they’d teach you anything you don’t know already, would they?’ said Nanny, with unusual sharpness.

Magrat glanced at Granny.

‘Probably not,’ she said meekly.

‘Well,’ said Nanny. ‘What’s it to be, Esme? Are we going home? Or are we off to see the elephant?’

Granny’s broomstick turned gently in the breeze.

‘You’re a disgustin’ old baggage, Gytha Ogg,’ said Granny.

‘That’s me,’ said Nanny cheerfully.

‘And, Magrat Garlick—’

‘I know,’ said Magrat, overwhelmed with relief, ‘I’m a wet hen.’

Granny looked back towards the Hub, and the high mountains. Somewhere back there was an old cottage with the key hanging in the privy. All sorts of things were probably going on. The whole kingdom was probably going to rack and ruin without her around to keep people on the right track. It was her job. There was no telling what stupidities people would get up to if she wasn’t there …

Nanny kicked her red boots together idly.

‘Well, I suppose there’s no place like home,’^{62} she said.

‘No,’ said Granny Weatherwax, still looking thoughtful. ‘No. There’s a billion places like home. But only one of ’em’s where you live.’

‘So we’re going back?’ said Magrat.

‘Yes.’

But they went the long way, and saw the elephant.^{63}