Even so … the way people were staring …

Outside, deep in the trees, a wolf howled.

The assembled villagers shivered in unison, as though they had been practising. The landlord muttered something to them. They got up, reluctantly, and filed out of the door, trying to keep together. An old lady laid her hand on Magrat’s shoulder for a moment, shook her head sadly, sighed, and then scuttled away. But Magrat was used to this, too. People often felt sorry for her when they saw her in Granny’s company.

Eventually the landlord lurched across to them with a lighted torch, and motioned them to follow him.

‘How did you make him understand about the beds?’ said Magrat.

‘I said, “Hey mister, jigajig toot sweet all same No. 3”,’ said Nanny Ogg.

Granny Weatherwax tried this under her breath, and nodded.

‘Your lad Shane certainly gets around a bit, doesn’t he,’ she remarked.

‘He says it works every time,’ said Nanny Ogg.

In fact there were only two rooms, up a long, winding and creaky stairway. And Magrat got one to herself. Even the landlord seemed to want it that way. He’d been very attentive.

She wished he hadn’t been so keen to bar the shutters, though. Magrat liked to sleep with a window open. As it was, it was too dark and stuffy.

Anyway, she thought, I am the fairy godmother. The others are just accompanying me.

She peered hopelessly at herself in the room’s tiny cracked mirror and then lay and listened to them on the far side of the paper-thin wall.

‘What’re you turning the mirror to the wall for, Esme?’

‘I just don’t like ’em, staring like that.’

‘They only stares if you’re staring at ’em, Esme.’

Silence, and then: ‘Eh, what’s this round thing for, then?’

‘I reckon it’s supposed to be a pillow, Esme.’

‘Hah! I don’t call it a pillow. And there’s no proper blankets, even. What’d you say this thing’s called?’

‘I think it’s called a duvit, Esme.’

‘We call them an eiderdown where I come from. Hah!’

There was a respite. Then:

‘Have you brushed your tooth?’

And another pause. Then:

‘Oo, you haven’t half got cold feet, Esme.’

‘No, they ain’t. They’re lovely and snug.’

And another silence. Then:

‘Boots! Your boots! You’ve got your boots on!’

‘I should just think I ’ave got my boots on, Gytha Ogg.’

‘And your clothes! You haven’t even undressed!’

‘You can’t be too careful in foreign parts. There could be all sorts out there, a-creepin’ around.’

Magrat snuggled under the — what was it? — duvit, and turned over. Granny Weatherwax appeared to need one hour’s sleep a night, whereas Nanny Ogg would snore on a fence rail.

‘Gytha? Gytha! GYTHA!’

‘Wha’?’

‘Are you awake?’

‘’M now …’

‘I keep ’earing a noise!’

‘… so do I …’

Magrat dozed for a while.

‘Gytha? GYTHA!’

‘… wha’ now? …’

‘I’m sure someone rattled our shutters!’

‘… not at our time of life … now g’ back t’ slee’…’

The air in the room was getting hotter and stuffier by the minute. Magrat got out of bed, unbolted the shutters and flung them back dramatically.

There was a grunt, and a distant thud of something hitting the ground.

The full moon streamed in. She felt a lot better for that, and got back into bed.

It seemed no time at all before the voice from next door woke her again.

‘Gytha Ogg, what are you doing?’

‘I’m ’aving a snack.’

‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘Just can’t seem to be able to get off, Esme,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘Can’t imagine why.’

‘Here, that’s garlic sausage you’re eating! I’m actually sharing a bed with someone eating garlic sausage.’

‘Hey, that’s mine! Give it back —’

Magrat was aware of booted footsteps in the pit of the night, and the sound of a shutter being swung back in the next room.

She thought she heard a faint ‘oof’ and another muted thud.

‘I thought you liked garlic, Esme,’ said Nanny Ogg’s resentful voice.

‘Sausage is all right in its place, and its place ain’t in bed. And don’t you say a word. Now move over. You keep taking all the duvit.’

After a while the velvet silence was broken by Granny’s deep and resonant snore. Shortly afterwards it was joined by the genteel snoring of Nanny, who had spent far more time sleeping in company than Granny and had evolved a more accommodating nasal orchestra. Granny’s snore would have cut logs.

Magrat folded the horrible round hard pillow over her ears and burrowed under the bedclothes.

Somewhere on the chilly ground, a very large bat was trying to get airborne again. It had already been stunned twice, once by a carelessly opened shutter and once by a ballistic garlic sausage, and wasn’t feeling very well at all. One more setback, it was thinking, and it’s back off to the castle. Besides, it’d be sunrise soon.

Its red eyes glinted as it looked up at Magrat’s open window. It tensed –

A paw landed on it.

The bat looked around.

Greebo had not had a very good night. He had investigated the whole place with regard to female cats, and found none. He had prowled among the middens, and drawn a blank. People in this town didn’t throw the garbage away. They ate it.

He’d trotted into the woods and found some wolves and had sat and grinned at them until they got uncomfortable and went away.

Yes, it had been a very uneventful night. Until now.

The bat squirmed under his claw. It seemed to Greebo’s small cat brain that it was trying to change its shape, and he wasn’t having any of that from a mouse with wings on.

Especially now, when he had someone to play with.

Genua was a fairytale city. People smiled and were joyful the livelong day. Especially if they wanted to see another livelong day.

Lilith made certain of that. Of course, people had probably thought they were happy in the days before she’d seen to it that the Duc replaced the old Baron, but it was a random, untidy happiness, which was why it was so easy for her to move in.

But it wasn’t a way of life. There was no pattern to it.

One day they’d thank her.

Of course, there were always a few difficult ones. Sometimes, people just didn’t know how to act. You did your best for them, you ruled their city properly, you ensured that their lives were worthwhile and full of happiness every hour of the day and then, for no reason at all, they turned on you.

Guards lined the audience chamber. And there was an audience. Technically, of course, it was the ruler who gave the audience, but Lilith liked to see people watching. One pennyworth of example was worth a pound of punishment.

There wasn’t a lot of crime in Genua these days. At least, not what would be considered crime elsewhere. Things like theft were easily dealt with and hardly required any kind of judicial process. Far more important, in Lilith’s book, were crimes against narrative expectation. People didn’t seem to know how they should behave.

Lilith held a mirror up to Life, and chopped all the bits off Life that didn’t fit …

The Duc lounged bonelessly on his throne, one leg dangling over the armrest. He’d never got the hang of chairs.

‘And what has this one done?’ he said, and yawned. Opening his mouth wide was something he was good at, at least.

A little old man cowered between two guards.

There’s always someone willing to be a guard, even in places like Genua. Besides, you got a really smart uniform, with blue trousers and a red coat and a high black hat with a cockade in it.

‘But I … I can’t whistle,’ quavered the old man. ‘I … I didn’t know it was compulsory …’

‘But you are a toymaker,’ said the Duc. ‘Toymakers whistle and sing the whole day long.’ He glanced at Lilith. She nodded.

‘I don’t know any … s — songs,’ said the toymaker. ‘I never got taught s — songs. Just how to make toys. I was ‘prenticed at making toys. Seven years before the little hammer, man and boy …’

‘It says here,’ said the Duc, making a creditable impersonation of someone reading the charge sheet in front of him, ‘that you don’t tell the children stories.’

‘No-one ever told me about telling … s — stories,’ said the toymaker. ‘Look, I just make toys. Toys. That’s all I’m good at. Toys. I make good t — toys. I’m just a t — toymaker.’

‘You can’t be a good toymaker if you don’t tell stories to the children,’ said Lilith, leaning forward.

The toymaker looked up at the veiled face.

‘Don’t know any,’ he said.

‘You don’t know any?’

‘I could t — tell ’em how to make toys,’ the old man quavered.

Lilith sat back. It was impossible to see her expression under the veil.

‘I think it would be a good idea if the People’s Guards here took you away,’ she said, ‘to a place where you will certainly learn to sing. And possibly, after a while, you might even whistle. Won’t that be nice?’

The old Baron’s dungeons had been disgusting. Lilith had had them repainted and refurnished. With a lot of mirrors.

When the audience was over one member of the crowd slipped out through the palace kitchens. The guards on the side gate didn’t try to stop her. She was a very important person in the small compass of their lives.

‘Hello, Mrs Pleasant.’

She stopped, reached into her basket and produced a couple of roast chicken legs.

‘Just tryin’ a new peanut coating,’ she said. ‘Would value your opinions, boys.’

They took them gratefully. Everyone liked to see Mrs Pleasant. She could do things with a chicken that would almost make it glad it had been killed.

‘And now I’m just going out to get some herbs,’ she said.

They watched her as she went like a fat, determined arrow in the direction of the market place, which was right on the edge of the river. Then they ate the chicken legs.

Mrs Pleasant bustled among the market stalls; and she took great care to bustle. Even in Genua there were always people ready to tell a tale. Especially in Genua. She was a cook, so she bustled. And made sure she stayed fat and was, fortunately, naturally jolly. She made sure she had floury arms at all times. If she felt under suspicion, she’d say things like ‘Lawks!’ She seemed to be getting away with it so far.

She looked for the sign. And there it was. Perched up on the roof pole of a stall that was otherwise stacked with cages of hens, gazoots, Wheely cranes and other fowl, was a black cockerel. The voodoo doctor was In.

Even as her eye found it the cockerel’s head turned to look at her.

Set a little way back from the rest of the stalls was a small tent, similar to many around the market. A cauldron bubbled in front of it on a charcoal fire. There were bowls beside it, and a ladle, and beside them a plate with coins on it. There were quite a lot of coins; people paid for Mrs Gogol’s cooking whatever they thought it was worth, and the plate was hardly big enough.

The thick liquid in the cauldron was an unappetizing brown. Mrs Pleasant helped herself to a bowlful, and waited. Mrs Gogol had certain talents.

After a while a voice from the tent said, ‘What’s new, Mrs Pleasant?’

‘She’s shut up the toymaker,’ said Mrs Pleasant, to the air in general. ‘And yesterday it was old Devereaux the innkeeper for not being fat and not having a big red face. That’s four times this month.’

‘You come in, Mrs Pleasant.’

It was dark and hot inside the tent. There was another fire in there, and another pot. Mrs Gogol was hunched over it, stirring. She motioned the cook to a pair of bellows.

‘Blow up the coals a tad, and we’ll see what’s what,’ she said.

Mrs Pleasant obeyed. She didn’t use magic herself, other than that necessary to get a roux to turn or bread to rise, but she respected it in others. Especially in the likes of Mrs Gogol.

The charcoal blazed white. The thick liquid in the pot began to churn. Mrs Gogol peered into the steam.

‘What’re you doing, Mrs Gogol?’ said the cook anxiously.

‘Trying to see what’s goin’ to happen,’ said the voodoo woman. The voice dropped into the rolling growl of the psychically gifted.

Mrs Pleasant squinted into the roiling mass.

‘Someone’s going to be eatin’ shrimp?’ she said helpfully.

‘Ye see that bit of okra?’ said Mrs Gogol. ‘Ye see the way the crab legs keep coming up just there?’

‘You never were one to stint the crab meat,’ said Mrs Pleasant.

‘See the way the bubbles is so thick by the okuh leaves? See the way it all spirals around that purple onion?’

‘I see it! I see it!’ said Mrs Pleasant.

‘And you know what that means?’

‘Means it’s going to taste real fine!’

‘Sure,’ said Mrs Gogol, kindly. ‘And it means some people’s coming.’

‘Wow! How many?’

Mrs Gogol dipped a spoon into the seething mass and tasted it.

‘Three people,’ she said. She smacked her lips thoughtfully. ‘Women.’

She dipped the spoon again.

‘Have a taste,’ she said. ‘There’s a cat, too. Ye can tell by the sassafras.’ She smacked her lips. ‘Grey. One eye.’ She explored the cavity of a tooth with her tongue. ‘The … left one.’

Mrs Pleasant’s jaw dropped.

‘They’ll find you before they find me,’ said Mrs Gogol. ‘You lead ’em here.’

Mrs Pleasant stared at Mrs Gogol’s grim smile and then back down at the mixture in the pot.

‘They coming all this way for a taste?’ she said.

‘Sure.’ Mrs Gogol sat back. ‘You been to see the girl in the white house?’

Mrs Pleasant nodded. ‘Young Embers,’ she said. ‘Yeah. When I can. When the Sisters are out at the palace. They got her real scared, Mrs Gogol.’

She looked down at the pot again, and back up to Mrs Gogol.

‘Can you really see—?’

‘I expect you’ve got things to marinate?’ said Mrs Gogol.

‘Yeah. Yeah.’ Mrs Pleasant backed out, but with reluctance. Then she halted. Mrs Pleasant, at rest, was not easily moved again until she wanted to be.

‘That Lilith woman says she can see the whole world in mirrors,’ she said, in slightly accusing tones.

Mrs Gogol shook her head.

‘All anyone gets in a mirror is themselves,’ she said. ‘But what you gets in a good gumbo is everything.’

Mrs Pleasant nodded. This was a well-known fact. She couldn’t dispute it.

Mrs Gogol shook her head sadly when the cook had gone. A voodoo woman was reduced to all sorts of stratagems in order to appear knowing, but she felt slightly ashamed of letting an honest woman believe that she could see the future in a pot of gumbo. Because all you could see in a pot of Mrs Gogol’s gumbo was that the future certainly contained a very good meal.

She’d really seen it in a bowl of jambalaya she’d prepared earlier.

Magrat lay with the wand under her pillow. She wobbled gently between sleep and wakefulness.

Certainly she was the best person for the wand. There was no doubt about that. Sometimes — and she hardly dared give the thought headroom, when she was under the same roof as Granny Weatherwax — she really wondered about the others’ commitment to witchcraft. Half the time they didn’t seem to bother.

Take medicine, for example. Magrat knew she was much better than them at herbs. She’d inherited several large books on the subject from Goodie Whemper, her predecessor in the cottage, and had essayed a few tentative notes of her own as well. She could tell people things about the uses of Devil’s Bit Scabious that would interest them so much they’d rush off, presumably to look for someone else to tell. She could fractionally distil, and double-distil, and do things that meant sitting up all night watching the colour of the flame under the retort. She worked at it.