‘Ouch!’
‘There!’
‘And these glass shoes don’t fit!’
‘They fit me fine,’ said Nanny. ‘I gave ‘em a try.’
‘Yes, but I’ve got smaller feet than you!’
‘That’s all right,’ said Granny. ‘You put on a couple of pairs of my socks and they’ll fit real snug.’
Bereft of all further excuses, Magrat struck out in sheer desperation.
‘But I don’t know how to behave at balls!’
Granny Weatherwax had to admit that she didn’t, either. She raised her eyebrows at Nanny.
‘You used to go dancin’ when you were young,’ she “said.
‘Well,’ said Nanny Ogg, social tutor, ‘what you do is, you tap men with your fan – got your fan? – and say things like “La, sir!” It helps to giggle, too. And flutter your eyelashes a bit. And pout.’
‘How am I supposed to pout?’
Nanny Ogg demonstrated.
‘Yuk!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Granny. ‘We’ll be there too.’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better, is it?’
Nanny reached behind Magrat and grabbed Granny’s shoulder. Her lips formed the words: Won’t work. She’s all to pieces. No confidence.
Granny nodded.
‘Perhaps I ought to do it,’ said Nanny, in a loud voice. ‘I’m experienced at balls. I bet if I wore my hair long and wore the mask and them shiny shoes and we hemmed up the dress a foot no one’d know the difference, what do you say?’
Magrat was so overawed by the sheer fascinating picture of this that she obeyed unthinkingly when Granny Weatherwax said, ‘Look at me, Magrat Garlick.’
The pumpkin coach entered the palace drive at high speed, scattering horses and pedestrians, and braked by the steps in a shower of gravel.
‘That was fun,’ said Greebo. And then lost interest.
A couple of flunkies bustled forward to open the door, and were nearly thrown back by the sheer force of the arrogance that emanated from within.
‘Hurry up, peasants!’
Magrat swept out, pushing the major-domo away. She gathered up her skirts and ran up the red carpet. At the top, a footman was unwise enough to ask her for her ticket.
‘You impertinent lackeyl’
The footman, recognizing instantly the boundless bad manners of the well-bred, backed away quickly.
Down by the coach, Nanny Ogg said, ‘You don’t think you might have overdone it a little bit?’
‘I had to,’ said Granny. ‘You know what she’s like.’
‘How are we going to get in? We ain’t got tickets. And we ain’t dressed properly, either.’
‘Get the broomsticks down off the rack,’ said Granny. ‘We’re going straight to the top.’
They touched down on the battlements of a tower overlooking the palace grounds. The strains of courtly music drifted up from below, and there was the occasional pop and flare of fireworks from the river.
Granny opened a likely-looking door in the tower and descended the circular stairs, which led to a landing.
‘Posh carpet on the floor,’ said Nanny. ‘Why’s it on the walls too ?’
‘Them’s tapestries,’ said Granny.
‘Cor,’ said Nanny. ‘You live and learn. Well, I do anyway.’
Granny stopped with her hand on a doorknob.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she said.
‘Well, I never knew you had a sister.’
‘We never talked about her.’
‘It’s a shame when families break up like that,’ said Nanny.
‘Huh! You said your sister Beryl was a greedy ingrate with the conscience of an oyster.’
‘Well, yes, but she is my sister.’
Granny opened the door.
‘Well, well,’ she said.
‘What’s up? What’s up? Don’t just stand there.’ Nanny peered around her and into the room.
‘Coo,’ she said.
Magrat paused in the big, red-velvet ante-room. Strange thoughts fireworked around her head; she hadn’t felt like this since the herbal wine. But struggling among them like a tiny prosaic potato in a spray of psychedelic chrysanthemums was an inner voice screaming that she didn’t even know how to dance. Apart from in circles.
But it couldn’t be difficult if ordinary people managed it.
The tiny inner Magrat struggling to keep its balance on the surge of arrogant self-confidence wondered if this was how Granny Weatherwax felt all the time.
She raised the hem of her dress slightly and looked down at her shoes.
They couldn’t be real glass, or else she’d be hobbling towards some emergency first aid by now. Nor were they transparent. The human foot is a useful organ but is not, except to some people with highly specialized interests, particularly attractive to look at.
The shoes were mirrors. Dozens of facets caught the light.
Two mirrors on her feet. Magrat vaguely recalled something about … about a witch never getting caught between two mirrors, wasn’t it? Or was it never trust a man with orange eyebrows? Something she’d been taught, back when she’d been an ordinary person. Something… like … a witch should never stand between two mirrors because, because, because the person that walked away might not be the same person. Or something. Like … you were spread out among the images, your whole soul was pulled out thin, and somewhere in the distant images a dark part of you would get out and come looking for you, if you weren’t very careful. Or something.
She overruled the thought. It didn’t matter.
She stepped forward, to where a little knot of other guests were waiting to make their entrance.
‘Lord Henry Gleet and Lady Gleet!’
The ballroom wasn’t a room at all, but a courtyard open to the soft night airs. Steps led down into it. At the far end, another much wider staircase, lined with nickering torches, led up into the palace itself. On the far wall, huge and easily visible, was a clock.
‘The Honourable Douglas Incessant!’
The time was a quarter to eight. Magrat had a vague recollection of some old woman shouting something about the time, but… that didn’t matter either …
‘Lady Volentia D’Arrangement!’
She reached the top of the stairs. The butler who was announcing the arrivals looked her up and down and then, in the manner of one who had been coached carefully all afternoon for this very moment, bellowed:
‘Er … Mysterious and beautiful stranger!’
Silence spread out from the bottom of the steps like spilled paint. Five hundred heads turned to look at Magrat.
A day before, even the mere thought of having five hundred people staring at her would have melted Magrat like butter in a furnace. But now she stared back, smiled, and raised her chin haughtily.
Her fan snapped open like a gunshot.
The mysterious and beautiful stranger, daughter of Simplicity Garlick, granddaughter of Araminta Garlick, her self-possession churning so strongly that it was crystallizing out on the sides of her personality …
… stepped out.
A moment later another guest stalked past the butler.
The butler hesitated. Something about the figure worried him. It kept going in and out of focus. He wasn’t entirely certain if there was anyone else there at all.
Then his common sense, which had temporarily gone and hidden behind something, took over. After all, it was Samedi Nuit Mort – people were supposed to dress up and look weird. You were allowed to see people like that.
‘Excuse me, er, sir,’ he said. ‘Who shall I say it is?’
I’M HERE INCOGNITO.
The butler was sure nothing had been said, but he was also certain that he had heard the words.
‘Urn… fine …” he mumbled. ‘Go on in, then … urn.’ He brightened. ‘Damn good mask, sir.’
He watched the dark figure walk down the steps, and leaned against a pillar.
Well, that was about it. He pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket, removed his powdered wig, and wiped his brow. He felt as though he’d just had a narrow escape, and what was even worse was that he didn’t know from what.
He looked cautiously around, and then sidled into the ante-room and took up a position behind a velvet curtain, where he could enjoy a quiet roll-up.
He nearly swallowed it when another figure loped silently up the red carpet. It was dressed like a pirate that had just raided a ship carrying black leather goods for the discerning customer. One eye had a patch over it. The other gleamed like a malevolent emerald. And no-one that big ought to be able to walk that quietly.
The butler stuck the dog-end behind his ear.
‘Excuse me, milord,’ he said, running after the man and touching him firmly yet respectfully on the arm. ‘I shall need to see your tic … your … tic . . ,’
The man transferred his gaze to the hand on his arm. The butler let go hurriedly.
‘Wrowwwl?’
‘Your … ticket…’
The man opened his mouth and hissed.
‘Of course,’ said the butler, backing away with the efficient speed of someone who certainly isn’t being paid enough to face a needle-toothed maniac in black leather, ‘I expect you’re one of the Duc’s friends, yes?’
Wrowwl.’
‘No problem … no problem … but Sir has forgotten Sir’s mask …’