Today she was wearing a white dress, a white apron, a big white mob cap and a white bandage around her throat. She also looked, for want of any better word, happy.
Agnes urgently waved Oats towards the pump. ‘Find something to fill up,’ she hissed, and then said brightly, ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Scorbic?’
‘All the better for you asking, miss.’
‘I expect you’re busy with all these visitors?’
‘Yes, miss.’
Agnes coughed. ‘And, er, what did you give them for breakfast?’
The cook’s huge pink brow wrinkled. ‘Can’t remember, miss.’
‘Well done.’
Oats nudged her. ‘I’ve filled up a couple of empty bottles and I said the Purification Rite of Om over them.’
‘And that will work?’
‘You must have faith.’
The cook was watching them amiably.
‘Thank you, Mrs Scorbic,’ said Agnes. ‘Please get on with . . . whatever you were doing.’
‘Yes, miss.’ The cook turned back to her rolling pin.
Plenty of meals on her, said Perdita. Cook and larder all in one.
‘That was tasteless!’ said Agnes.
‘What was?’ said the priest.
‘Oh . . . just a thought I had. Let’s go up the back stairs.’
They were bare stone, communicating with the public bits of the keep via a door at every level. On the other side of those doors it was still bare stone, but a better class of masonry altogether and with tapestries and carpets. Agnes pushed open a door.
A couple of the Uberwald people were ambling along the corridor beyond, carrying something covered in a cloth. They didn’t spare the newcomers a glance as Agnes led the way to the royal apartments.
Magrat was standing on a chair when they came in. She looked down at them while little painted wooden stars and animals tangled themselves around her upraised arm.
‘Wretched things,’ she said. ‘You’d think it would be easy, wouldn’t you? Hello, Agnes. Could you hold the chair?’
‘What are you doing?’ said Agnes. She looked carefully. There was no bandage round Magrat’s neck.
‘Trying to hook this mobile on to the chandelier,’ said Magrat. ‘Uh . . . that’s done it. But it tangles up all the time! Verence says it’s very good for young children to see lots of bright colours and shapes. It speeds development, he says. But I can’t find Millie anywhere.’
There’s a castle full of vampires, and she’s decorating the playroom, said Perdita. What’s wrong with this woodcut?
Somehow, Agnes couldn’t bring herself to blurt out a warning. Apart from anything else, the chair looked wobbly.
‘Little Esme’s only two weeks old,’ said Agnes.
‘Isn’t that a bit young for education?’
‘Never too early to start, he says. What can I do for you?’
‘We need you to come with us. Right now.’
‘Why?’ said Magrat, and to Agnes’s relief she stepped down from the chair.
‘Why? Magrat, there’s vampires in the castle! The Magpyr family are vampires!’
‘Don’t be silly, they’re very pleasant people. I was talking to the Countess only this morning-‘
‘What about?’ Agnes demanded. ‘I bet you can’t remember!’
‘I am Queen, Agnes,’ said Magrat reproachfully.
‘Sorry, but they affect people’s minds-‘
‘Yours?’
‘Um, no, not mine. I have- I’m- It seems I’m immune,’ Agnes lied.
‘And his?’ said Magrat sharply.
‘I am protected by my faith in Om,’ said Oats.
Magrat raised her eyebrows at Agnes. ‘Is he?’
Agnes shrugged. ‘Apparently.’
Magrat leaned closer. ‘He’s not drunk, is he? He’s holding two beer bottles.’
‘They’re full of holy water,’ Agnes whispered.
‘Verence said Omnianism seemed a very sensible and stable religion,’ hissed Magrat.
They both looked at Oats, mentally trying the words on him for size.
‘Are we leaving?’ he said.
‘Of course not!’ snapped Magrat, straightening up. ‘Thus is silly, Agnes. I’m a married woman, I’m Queen, I’ve got a little baby. And you come in here telling me we’ve got vampires! I’ve got guests here and-‘
‘The guests are vampires, your majesty,’ said Agnes. ‘The King invited them!’
‘Verence says we have to learn to deal with all sorts of people-‘
‘We think Granny Weatherwax is in very bad trouble,’ said Agnes.
Magrat stopped. ‘How bad?’ she said.
‘Nanny Ogg is very worried. Quite snappish. She says it needs three of us to find Granny.’
‘Well, I-
‘And Granny’s taken the box, whatever that means,’ said Agnes.
‘The one she keeps in the dresser?’
‘Yes. Nanny wouldn’t tell me much about what was in it.’
Magrat opened up her hands like an angler measuring a medium-sized fish.
‘The polished wooden box? About this size
‘I don’t know, I’ve never seen it. Nanny seemed to think it was important. She didn’t say what was in it,’ Agnes repeated, just in case Magrat hadn’t got the hint.
Magrat clasped her hands together and looked down, biting her knuckles. When she looked up her face was set with purpose. She pointed at Oats.
‘You find a bag or something and empty into it all the stuff in the top drawer over there, and take the potty, and the little truck, oh, and the stuffed animals, and the bag of nappies, and the bag for used nappies, and the bath, and the bag with the towels, and the box of toys, and the wind-up things, and the musical box, and the bag with the little suits, oh, and the woolly hat, and you, Agnes, find something we can make into a sling. You came up the back stairs? We’ll go down the same way.’
‘What do we need a sling for?’
Magrat leaned over the crib and picked up the baby, wrapped in a blanket.
‘I’m not going to leave her here, am I?’ she said.
There was a clatter from the direction of Mightily Oats. He already had both arms full, and a large stuffed rabbit in his teeth.
‘Do we need all of that?’ said Agnes.
‘You never know,’ said Magrat.
‘Even the box of toys?’
‘Verence thinks she might be an early developer,’ said Magrat.
‘She’s a couple of weeks old!’
‘Yes, but stimulus at an early age is vital to the development of the growing brain,’ said Magrat, laying baby Esme on the table and shuffling her into a romper suit. ‘Also, we have to get on top of her hand-eye co-ordination as soon as possible. It’s no good just letting things slide. Oh, yes . . . If you can bring the little slide, too. And the yellow rubber duck. And the sponge in the shape of a teddy bear. And the teddy bear in the shape of a sponge.’
There was another crash from the mound around Oats.
‘Why’s the box so important?’ said Agnes.
‘Not important as such,’ said Magrat. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Oh, and put in that rag doll, will you? I’m sure she’s focusing on it. Oh, blast . . . the red bag has got the medicines in it, thank you . . . What was it you asked me?’
‘Granny’s box,’ Agnes hinted.
‘Oh, it’s . . . just important to her.’
‘It’s magical?’
‘What? Oh, no. Not as far as I know. But everything in it belongs to her, you see. Not to the cottage,’ said Magrat, picking up her daughter. ‘Who’s a good girl, then? You are!’ She looked around. ‘Have we forgotten anything?’
Oats spat out the rabbit. ‘Possibly the ceiling,’ he said.
‘Then let’s go.’
Magpies flocked around the castle tower. Most magpie rhymes peter out at around ten or twelve, but here were hundreds of birds, enough to satisfy any possible prediction. There are many rhymes about magpies, but none of them is very reliable because they are not the ones the magpies know themselves.
The Count sat in the darkness below, listening to their minds. Images flashed behind his eyes. This was the way to run a country, he reflected. Human minds were so hard to read, unless they were so close that you could see the words just hovering below actual vocalization. But the birds could get everywhere, see every worker in the fields and hunter in the forest. They were good listeners, too. Much better than bats or rats.
Once again, tradition was overturned.
No sign of Granny, though. Some trick, perhaps. It didn’t matter. Eventually she’d find him. She wouldn’t hide for long. It wasn’t in her nature. Weatherwaxes would always stand and fight, even when they knew they would be beaten. So predictable.
Several of the birds had seen a busy little figure trudging across the kingdom, leading a donkey laden with falconry gear. The Count had taken a look at Hodgesaargh, found a mind crammed end to end with hawks, and dismissed him. He and his silly birds would have to go eventually, of course, because he made the magpies nervous. He made a note to mention this to the guards.
‘Ooaauooow!’
. . . but there was probably no combination of vowels that could do justice to the cry Nanny Ogg made on seeing a young baby. It included sounds known only to cats.