“He’s very intelligent,” said Windle.
Windle felt in his pocket, tipped out a couple of handfuls of soil, and unearthed his diary. Twenty days to next full moon. Still, it’d be something to look forward to.
The metal debris of the heap started to collapse. Trolleys whirred around it, and a large crowd of Ankh-Morpork’s citizens were standing in a big circle, trying to peer inside. The unmusical music filled the air.
“There’s Mr. Dibbler,” said Ludmilla, as they pushed their way through the unresisting people.
“What’s he selling this time?”
“I don’t think he’s trying to sell anything, Mr. Poons.”
“It’s that bad? Then we’re probably in lots of trouble.”
Blue light shone out from one of the holes in the heap. Bits of broken trolley tinkled to the ground like metal leaves.
Windle bent down stiffly and picked up a pointy hat. It was battered and had been run over by a lot of trolleys, but it was still recognizable as something that by rights should be on someone’s head.
“There’s wizards in there,” he said.
Silver light glittered off the metal. It moved like oil. Windle reached out and a fat spark jumped across and grounded itself on his fingers.
“Hmm,” he said. “Lot of potential, too—”
Then he heard the cry of the vampires.
“Coo-ee, Mr. Poons!”
He turned. The Notfaroutoes were bearing down on him.
“We—I mean, Ve vould have been here sooner, only—”
“—I couldn’t find the blasted collar stud,” muttered Arthur, looking hot and flustered. He was wearing a collapsible opera hat, which was fine on the collapsible part but regrettably lacking in hatness, so that Arthur appeared to be looking at the world from under a concertina.
“Oh, hallo,” said Windle. There was something dreadfully fascinating about the Winkings’ dedication to accurate vampirism.
“Unt who iss the yunk laty?” said Doreen, beaming at Ludmilla.
“Pardon?” said Windle.
“Vot?”
“Doreen—I mean, the Countess asked who she is,” Arthur supplied, wearily.
“I understood what I said,” snapped Doreen, in the more normal tones of one born and brought up in Ankh-Morpork rather than some transylvanian fastness. “Honestly, if I left it to you, we’d have no standards at all—”
“My name’s Ludmilla,” said Ludmilla.
“Charmed,” said the Countess Notfaroutoe graciously, extending a hand that would have been thin and pale if it had not been pink and stubby. “Alvays nice to meet fresh blood. If you ever fancy a dog biscuit when you’re out and about, our door iss alwace open.”
Ludmilla turned to Windle Poons.
“It’s not written on my forehead, is it?” she said.
“These are a special kind of people,” said Windle gently.
“I should think so,” said Ludmilla, levelly. “I hardly know anyone who wears an opera cloak the whole time.”
“You’ve got to have the cloak,” said Count Arthur. “For the wings, you see. Like—”