‘-the other one,’ said Agnes. ‘Oh yes, I know that. But that’s just a bit of superstition, isn’t it? Witches don’t have to come in threes.’
‘Oh, no. Course not,’ said Nanny. ‘You can have any number up to about, oh, four or five.’
‘What happens if there’s more, then? Something awful?’
‘Bloody great row, usually,’ said Nanny. ‘Over nothin’ much. And then they all goes off and sulks. Witches don’t like being compressed up, much. But three . . . sort of . . . works well. I don’t have to draw you a picture, do I?’
‘And now Magrat’s a mother-‘ said Agnes.
‘Ah, well, that’s where it all goes a bit runny,’ said Nanny. ‘This maiden and mother thing . . . it’s not as simple as you’d think, see? Now you,’ she prodded Agnes with her pipe, ‘are a maiden. You are, aren’t you?’
‘Nanny! That’s not the sort of thing people discuss!’
‘Well, I knows you are, ‘cos I’d soon hear if you
wasn’t,’ said Nanny, the kind of person who discussed that kind of thing all the time. ‘But that ain’t really important, because it ain’t down to technicalities, see? Now me, I don’t reckon I was ever a maiden ment’ly. Oh, you don’t need to go all red like that. What about your Aunt May over in Creel Springs? Pour kids and she’s still bashful around men. You got your blush from her. Tell her a saucy joke and if you’re quick you can cook dinner for six on her head. When you’ve been around for a while, miss, you’ll see that some people’s body and head don’t always work together.’
‘And what’s Granny Weatherwax, then?’ said Agnes, and added, a little nastily because the reference to the blush had gone home, ‘Ment’ly.’
‘Damned if I’ve ever worked that out,’ said Nanny. ‘But I reckon she sees there’s a new three here. That bloody invitation must’ve been the last straw. So she’s gone.’ She poked at her pipe. ‘Can’t say I fancy being a crone. I ain’t the right shape and anyway I don’t know what sound they make.’
Agnes had a sudden and very clear and horrible mental image of the broken cup.
‘But Granny isn’t a . . . wasn’t a . . . I mean, she didn’t look like a-‘ she began.
‘There’s no point in lookin’ at a dog an’ sayin’ that’s not a dog ‘cos a dog don’t look like that,’ said Nanny simply.
Agnes fell silent. Nanny was right, of course. Nanny was someone’s mum. It was written all over her. If you cut her in half, the word ‘Ma’ would be all the way through. Some girls were just naturally . . . mothers. And some, Perdita added, were cut out to be professional maidens. As for the third, Agnes went on, ignoring her own interruption, perhaps it wasn’t so odd that people generally called Nanny out for the births and Granny for the deaths.
‘She thinks we don’t need her any more?’
‘I reckon so.’
‘What is she going to do, then?’
‘Dunno. But if you had three, and now there’s four . . . well, something’s got to go, hasn’t it?’
‘What about the vampires? The two of us can’t cope with them!’
‘She’s been telling us there’s three of us,’ said Nanny.
‘What? Magrat? But she’s-‘ Agnes stopped herself. ‘She’s no Nanny Ogg,’ she said.
‘Well, I sure as hell ain’t an Esme Weatherwax, if it comes to that,’ said Nanny. ‘The ment’I stuff is meat and drink to her. Getting inside other heads, puttin’ her mind somewhere else . . . that’s her for-tay, right enough. She’d wipe the smile off that Count’s face for him. From the inside, if I know Esme.’
They sat and stared glumly at the cold fireplace.
‘Maybe we weren’t always very nice to her,’ said Agnes. She kept thinking of the broken cup. She was sure Granny Weatherwax hadn’t done that accidentally. She may have thought she’d done it accidentally, but maybe everyone had a Perdita inside. She’d walked around this gloomy cottage, which was as much in tune with her thoughts by now as a dog is with its master, and she’d had three on her mind. Three, three, three . . .
‘Esme doesn’t thrive on nice,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘Take her an apple pie and she’ll complain about the pastry.’
‘But people don’t often thank her. And she does do a lot.’
‘She’s not set up for thanks, neither. Ment’ly. To tell you the honest truth, there’s always been a bit of the dark in the Weatherwaxes, and that’s where the trouble is. Look at old Alison Weatherwax.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Her own granny. Went to the bad, they say, just packed up one day and headed for Uberwald. And as for Esme’s sister . . .’ Nanny stopped, and restarted. ‘Anyway, that’s why she’s always standin’ behind herself and criticizin’ what she’s doing. Sometimes I reckon she’s terrified she’ll go bad without noticin’.’
‘Granny? But she’s as moral as-‘
‘Oh, yes, she is. But that’s because she’s got Granny Weatherwax glarin’ over her shoulder the whole time.’
Agnes took another look around the spartan room. Now the rain was leaking steadily through the ceiling. She fancied she could hear the walls settling into the clay. She fancied she could hear them thinking.
‘Did she know Magrat was going to call the baby Esme?’ she said.
‘Probably. It’s amazin’ what she picks up.’
‘Maybe not tactful, when you think about it,’ said Agnes.
‘What do you mean? I’d have been honoured, if it was me.’
‘Perhaps Granny thought the name was being passed on. Inherited.’
‘Oh. Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘Yes, I can just imagine Esme workin’ it up to that, when she’s in one of her gloomy moods.’
‘My granny used to say if you’re too sharp you’ll cut yourself,’ said Agnes.
They sat in grey silence for a while, and then Nanny Ogg said: ‘My own granny has an old country sayin’ she always trotted out at times like this. . .’
‘Which was. . .?’
‘ “Bugger off, you little devil, or I’ll chop off your nose and give it to the cat.” Of course, that’s not so very helpful at a time like this, I’ll admit.’
There was a tinkle behind them.
Nanny turned her head and looked down at the table.
‘There’s a spoon gone . . .’
There was another jangle, this time by the door.
A magpie paused in its attempt to pick the stolen spoon off the doorstep, cocked its head and glared at them with a beady eye. It just managed to get airborne before Nanny’s hat, spinning like a plate, bounced off the doorjamb.
‘The devils’ll pinch anything that damn well shines-‘she began.
The Count de Magpyr looked out of the window at the glow that marked the rising sun.
‘There you are, you see?’ he said, turning back to his family. ‘Morning, and here we are.’
‘You’ve made it overcast,’ said Lacrimosa sullenly. ‘It’s hardly sunny.’
‘One step at a time, dear, one step at a time,’ said the Count cheerfully. ‘I just wished to make the point. Today, yes, it is overcast. But we can build on it. We can acclimatize. And one day . . . the beach. . .’
‘You really are very clever, dear,’ said the Countess.
‘Thank you, my love,’ said the Count, nodding his private agreement. ‘How are you doing with that cork, Vlad?’
‘Is this such a good idea, Father?’ said Vlad, struggling with a bottle and a corkscrew. ‘I thought we did not drink. . . wine.’
‘I believe it’s time we started.’
‘Yuck,’ said Lacrimosa. ‘I’m not touching that, it’s squeezed from vegetables!’
‘Fruit, I think you’ll find,’ said the Count calmly. He took the bottle from his son and removed the cork. ‘A fine claret, I understand. You’ll try some, my dear?’
His wife smiled nervously, supporting her husband but slightly against her better judgement.
‘Do we, er, are we, eh, supposed to warm it up?’ she said.
‘Room temperature is suggested.’
‘That’s sickening,’ said Lacrimosa. ‘I don’t know how you can bear it!’
‘Try it for your father, dear,’ said the Countess. ‘Quickly, before it congeals.’
‘No, my dear. Wine stays runny.’
‘Really? How very convenient.’
‘Vlad?’ said the Count, pouring a glass. The son watched nervously.
‘Perhaps it would help if you think of it as grape blood,’ said his father, as Vlad took the wine. ‘And you, Lacci?’
She folded her arms resolutely. ‘Huh!’
‘I thought you’d like this sort of thing, dear,’ said the Countess. ‘It’s the sort of thing your crowd does, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ said the girl.
‘Oh, staying up until gone noon and wearing brightly coloured clothes, and giving yourselves funny names,’ said the Countess.
‘Like Gertrude,’ sneered Vlad. ‘And Pam. They think it’s cool.’
Lacrimosa turned on him furiously, nails out. He caught her wrist, grinning.