All as usual. She spread herself further, to the high moors and secret passes where the wolves ran silently over the frozen crust; she touched their minds, sharp as knives. Higher still, and there was nothing in the snowfields but packs of vermine.[6]
Everything was as it should be, with the exception that nothing was right. There was something – yes, there was something alive out there, something young and ancient and . . .
Granny turned over the feeling in her mind. Yes. That was it. Something forlorn. Something lost. And . . .
Feelings were never simple, Granny knew. Strip them away and there were others underneath . . .
Something that, if it didn't stop feeling lost and forlorn very soon, was going to get angry.
And still she couldn't find it. She could feel the tiny minds of chrysalises down under the frozen leafmould. She could sense the earthworms, which had migrated below the frost line. She could even sense a few people, who were hardest of all – human minds were thinking so many thoughts all at the same time that they were nearly impossible to locate; it was like trying to nail fog to the wall.
Nothing there. Nothing there. The feeling was all around her, and there was nothing to cause it. She'd gone down about as far as she could, to the smallest creature in the kingdom, and there was nothing there.
Granny Weatherwax sat up in bed, lit a candle and reached for an apple. She glared at her bedroom wall.
She didn't like being beaten. There was something out there, something drinking in magic, something growing, something dial seemed so alive it was all around the house, and she couldn't find it.
She reduced the apple to its core and placed it carefully in the tray of the candlestick. Then she blew out the candle.
The cold velvet of the night slid back into the room.
Granny had one last try. Perhaps she was looking in the wrong way . . .
A moment later she was lying on the floor with the pillow clasped around her head.
And to think she had expected it to be small . . .
Lancre Castle shook. It wasn't a violent shaking, but it didn't need to be, the construction of the castle being such that it swayed slightly even in a gentle breeze. A small turret toppled slowly into the depths of the misty canyon.
The Fool lay on his flagstones and shivered in his sleep. He appreciated the honour, if it was an honour, but sleeping in the corridor always made him dream of the Fools' Guild, behind whose severe grey walls he had trembled his way through seven years of terrible tuition. The flagstones were slightly softer than the beds there, though.
A few feet away a suit of armour jingled gently. Its pike vibrated in its mailed glove until, swishing through the night air like a swooping bat, it slid down and shattered the flagstone by the Fool's ear.
The Fool sat up and realised he was still shivering. So was the floor.
In Lord Felmet's room the shaking sent cascades of dust down from the ancient four-poster. He awoke from a dream that a great beast was tramping around the castle, and decided with horror that it might be true.
A portrait of some long-dead king fell off the wall. The duke screamed.
The Fool stumbled in, trying to keep his balance on a floor that was now heaving like the sea, and the duke staggered out of bed and grabbed the little man by his jerkin.
'What's happening?' he hissed. 'Is it an earthquake?'
'We don't have them in these parts, my lord,' said the Fool, and was knocked aside as a chaise-longue drifted slowly across the carpet.
The duke dashed to the window, and looked out at the forests in the moonlight. The white-capped trees shook in the still night air.
A slab of plaster crashed on to the floor. Lord Felmet spun around and this time his grip lifted the Fool a foot off the floor.
Among the very many luxuries the duke had dispensed with in his life was that of ignorance. He liked to feel he knew what was going on. The glorious uncertainties of existence held no attraction for him.
'It's the witches, isn't it?' he growled, his left cheek beginning to twitch like a landed fish. They're out there, aren't they? They're putting an Influence on the castle, aren't they?'
'Marry, nuncle—' the Fool began.
'They run this country, don't they?'
'No, my lord, they've never—'