She never discussed this with Nanny Ogg or any of the other witches. That would be breaking the secret. Sometimes, late at night, when the conversation tiptoed around to that area, Nanny might just drop in some line like ‘Old Scrivens went peacefully enough at the finish’ and may or may not mean something by it. Nanny, as far as she could see, didn’t agonize very much. To her, some things obviously had to be done, and that was that. Any of the thoughts that hung around she kept locked up tight, even from herself. Granny envied her.
Who’d come to her funeral when she died?
They didn’t ask her!
Memories jostled. Other figures marched out into the shadows around the candlelight.
She’d done things and been places, and found ways to turn anger outwards that had surprised even her. She’d faced down others far more powerful than she was, if only she’d allowed them to believe it. She’d given up so much, but she’d learned a lot . . .
It was a sign. She knew it’d come sooner or later . . . They’d realized it, and now she was no more use . . .
What had she ever earned? The reward for toil had been more toil. If you dug the best ditches they gave you a bigger shovel.
And you got these bare walls, this bare floor, this cold cottage. ‘
The darkness in the corners grew out into the room and began to tangle in her hair.
They didn’t ask her!
She’d never, ever asked for anything in return. And the trouble with not asking for anything in return was that sometimes you didn’t get it.
She’d always tried to face towards the light. She’d always tried to face towards the light. But the harder you stared into the brightness the harsher it burned into you until, at last, the temptation picked you up and bid you turn around to see how long, rich, strong and dark, streaming away behind you, your shadow had become-
Someone mentioned her name.
There was a moment of light and noise and bewilderment.
And then she awoke and looked at the darkness flowing in, and saw things in black and white.
‘So sorry . . . delays on the road, you know how it is. . .’
The newcomers hurried in and joined the crowd, who paid little attention because they were watching the unplanned entertainment around the thrones.
‘Note Spelling?’
‘Definitely a bit tricky,’ said Nanny. ‘Esmerelda, now, that was a good one. Gytha would have been good too, but Esmerelda, yes, you can’t argue with it. But you know kids. They’ll all be calling her Spelly.’
‘If she’s lucky,’ said Agnes gloomily.
‘I didn’t expect anyone to say it!’ Magrat hissed.
‘I just wanted to make sure she didn’t end up with “Magrat’!’
Mightily Oats was standing with his eyes cast upwards and his hands clasped together. Occasionally he made a whimpering sound.
‘We can change it, can’t we?’ said King Verence. ‘Where’s the Royal Historian?’
Shawn coughed. ‘It’s not Wednesday evening and I’ll have to go and fetch the proper hat, sire-‘
‘Can we change it or not, man?’
‘Er . . . it has been said, sire. At the official time. I think it’s her name now, but I’ll need to go and look it up. Everyone heard it, sire.’
‘No, you can’t change it,’ said Nanny, who as the Royal Historian’s mum took it as read that she knew more than the Royal Historian. ‘Look at old Moocow Poorchick over in Slice, for one.’
‘What happened to him, then?’ said the King sharply.
‘His full name is James What The Hell’s That Cow Doing In Here Poorchick,’ said Magrat.
‘That was a very strange day, I do remember that,’ said Nanny.
‘And if my mother had been sensible enough to tell Brother Perdore my name instead of coming over all bashful and writing it down, life would have been a whole lot different,’ said Magrat. She glanced nervously at Verence. ‘Probably worse, of course.’
‘So I’ve got to take Esmerelda out to her people and tell them one of her middle names is Note Spelling?’ said Verence.
‘Well, we did once have a king called My God He’s Heavy the First,’ said Nanny. ‘And the beer’s been on for the last couple of hours so, basic’ly, you’ll get a cheer whatever you say.’
Besides, thought Agnes, I know for a fact there’s people out there called Syphilidae Wilson and Yodel Lightley and Total Biscuit.[10]
Verence smiled. ‘Oh well . . . let me have her. . .’
‘Whifm . . .’ said Mightily Oats.
‘. . . and perhaps someone ought to give this man a drink.’
‘I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,’ whispered the priest, as the King walked between the lines of guests.
‘Been on the drink already, I expect,’ said Nanny.
‘I never ever touch alcohol!’ moaned the priest. He dabbed at his streaming eyes with a handkerchief.
‘I knew there was something wrong with you as soon as I looked at you,’ said Nanny. ‘Where’s Esme, then?’
‘I don’t know, Nanny!’ said Agnes.
‘She’d know about this, you mark my words. This’ll be a feather in her cap, right enough, a princess named after her. She’ll be crowing about it for months. I’m going to see what’s going on.’
She stumped off.
Agnes grabbed the priest’s arm.
‘Come along, you,’ she sighed.
‘I really cannot, um, express how sorry-‘
‘It’s a very strange evening all round.’
‘I’ve, I’ve, I’ve never, um, heard of the custom before-‘
‘People put a lot of importance on words in these parts.’
‘I’m very much afraid the King will give a bad, um, report of me to Brother Melchio . . .’
‘Really.’
There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and the priest seemed to be one of them. There was something . . . sort of damp about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole world was a party he’d still find the kitchen.
She seemed to be stuck with him. The VIPs were all crowded around the open doors, where loud cheering indicated that the people of Lancre thought that Note Spelling was a nice name for a future queen.
‘Perhaps you should just sit there and try to get a grip,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be dancing later on.’
‘Oh, I don’t dance,’ said Mightily Oats. ‘Dancing is a snare to entrap the weak-willed.’
‘Oh. Well, I suppose there’s the barbecue outside. . .’
Mightily Oats dabbed at his eyes again.
‘Um, any fish?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘We eat only fish this month.’
‘Oh.’ But a deadpan voice didn’t seem to work. He still wanted to talk to her.
‘Because the prophet Brutha eschewed meat, um, when he was wandering in the desert, you see.’
‘Each mouthful forty times?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’ Against her better judgement, Agnes let curiosity enter her life. ‘What meat is there to eat, in a desert?’
‘Um, none, I think.’
‘So he didn’t exactly refuse to eat it, did he?’ Agnes scanned the gathering crowds, but no one seemed anxious to join in this little discussion.
‘Um . . . you’d have to, um, ask Brother Melchio that. I’m so sorry. I think I have a migraine coming on. . .’
You don’t believe anything you’re saying, do you? Agnes thought. Nervousness and a sort of low-grade terror was radiating off him. Perdita added: What a damp little maggot!
‘I’ve got to go and . . . er . . . to go and . . . I’ve got to go and . . . help,’ said Agnes, backing away. He nodded. As she left, he blew his nose again, produced a small black book from a pocket, sighed, and hurriedly opened it at a bookmark.
She picked up a tray to add some weight to the alibi, stepped towards the food table, turned to look back at the hunched figure as out of place as
a lost sheep, and walked into someone as solid as a tree.
‘Who is that strange person?’ said a voice by her ear. Agnes heard Perdita curse her for jumping sideways, but she recovered and managed to smile awkwardly at the person who’d spoken.
He was a young man and, it dawned on her, a very attractive one. Attractive men were not in plentiful supply in Lancre, where licking your hand and smoothing your hair down before taking a girl out was considered swanky.
He’s got a ponytail! squeaked Perdita. Now that is cool!
Agnes felt the blush start somewhere in the region of her knees and begin its inevitable acceleration upwards.
‘Er . . . sorry?’ she said.
‘You can practically smell him,’ said the man. He inclined his head slightly towards the sad priest. ‘Looks rather like a scruffy little crow, don’t you think?’