The porter, meanwhile, unfastened the hatch in the wicket gate and peered out.
'Who dost knock without?' he growled.
The soldier, drenched and terrified though he was, hesitated.
'Without? Without what?' he said.
'If you're going to bugger about, you can bloody well stay without all day,' said the porter calmly.
'No! I must see the duke upon the instant!' shouted the guard. 'Witches are abroad!'
The porter was about to come back with, 'Good time of year for it', or 'Wish I was, too', but stopped when he saw the man's face. It wasn't the face of a man who would enter into the spirit of the thing. It was the look of someone who had seen things a decent man shouldn't wot of . . .
'Witches?' said Lord Felmet. 'Witches!' said the duchess.
In the draughty corridors, a voice as faint as the wind in distant keyholes said, with a note of hope, 'Witches!'
The psychically inclined . . .
'It's meddling, that's what it is,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'And no good will come of it.'
'It's very romantic,' said Magrat breathily, and heaved a sigh.
'Goochy goo,' said Nanny Ogg.
'Anyway,' said Magrat, 'you killed that horrid man!'
'I never did. I just encouraged . . . things to take their course.' Granny Weatherwax frowned. 'He didn't have no respect. Once people lose their respect, it means trouble.'
'Izzy wizzy wazzy, den.' ,
'That other man brought him out here to save him!' shouted Magrat. 'He wanted us to keep him safe! It's obvious! It's destiny!'
'Oh, obvious,' said Granny. 'I'll grant you it's obvious. Trouble is, just because things are obvious doesn't mean they're true.'
She weighed the crown in her hands. It felt very heavy, in a way that went beyond mere pounds and ounces.
'Yes, but the point is—' Magrat began.
'The point is,' said Granny, 'that people are going to come looking. Serious people. Serious looking. Pull-down-the-walls and burn-off-the-thatch looking. And—'
'Howsa boy, den?'
'—And, Gytha , I'm sure we'll all be a lot happier if you'd stop gurgling like that!' Granny snapped. She could feel her nerves coming on. Her nerves always played up when she was unsure about things. Besides, they had retired to Magrat's cottage, and the decor was getting to her, because Magrat believed in Nature's wisdom and elves and the healing power of colours and the cycle of the seasons and a lot of other things Granny Weatherwax didn't have any truck with.
'You're not after telling me how to look after a child,' snapped Nanny Ogg mildly. 'And me with fifteen of my own?'
'I'm just saying that we ought to think about it,' said Granny.
The other two watched her for some time. 'Well?' said Magrat.
Granny's fingers drummed on the edge of the crown. She frowned.
'First, we've got to take him away from here,' she said, and held up a hand. 'No, Gytha, I'm sure your cottage is ideal and everything, but it's not safe. He's got to be somewhere away from here, a long way away, where no-one knows who he is. And then there's this.' She tossed the crown from hand to hand.
'Oh, that's easy,' said Magrat. 'I mean, you just hide it under a stone or something. That's easy. Much easier than babies.'
'It ain't,' said Granny. The reason being, the country's full of babies and they all look the same, but I don't reckon there's many crowns. They have this way of being found, anyway. They kind of call out to people's minds. If you bunged it under a stone up here, in a week's time it'd get itself discovered by accident. You mark my words.'