Magrat shivered. She told herself that a witch had absolute control over her own body, and the goosepimples under her tun nightdress were just a figment of her own imagination. The trouble was, she had an excellent imagination.
Nanny Ogg sighed.
'We'd better have a look, then,' she said, and took the lid off the copper.
Nanny Ogg never used her washhouse., since all her washing was done by the daughers-in-law, a tribe of grey-faced, subdued women whose names she never bothered to remember. It had become, therefore, a storage place for dried-up old bulbs, burnt-out cauldrons and fermenting jars of wasp jam. No fire had been lit under the copper for ten years. Its bricks were crumbling, and rare ferns grew around the firebox. The water under the lid was inky black and, according to rumour, bottomless; the Ogg grandchildren were encouraged to believe that monsters from the dawn of time dwelt in its depths, since Nanny believed that a bit of thrilling and pointless terror was an essential ingredient of the magic of childhood.
In summer she used it as a beer cooler.
'It'll have to do. I think perhaps we should join hands,' she said. 'And you, Magrat, make sure the door's shut.'
'What are you going to try?' said Granny. Since they were on Nanny's territory, the choice was entirely up to her.
'I always say you can't go wrong with a good Invocation,' said Nanny. 'Haven't done one for years.'
Granny Weatherwax frowned. Magrat said, 'Oh, but you can't. Not here. You need a cauldron, and a magic sword. And an octogram. And spices, and all sorts of stuff.'
Granny and Nanny exchanged glances.
'It's not her fault,' said Granny. 'It's all them grimmers she was bought.' She turned to Magrat.
'You don't need none of that,' she said. 'You need head-ology.' She looked around the ancient washroom.
'You just use whatever you've got,' she said.
She picked up the bleached copper stick, and weighed it thoughtfully in her hand.
'We conjure and abjure thee by means of this—' Granny hardly paused – 'sharp and terrible copper stick.'
The waters in the boiler rippled gently.
'See how we scatter—' Magrat sighed – 'rather old washing soda and some extremely hard soap flakes in thy honour. Really, Nanny, I don't think—'
'Silence! Now you, Gytha.'
'And I invoke and bind thee with the balding scrubbing brush of Art and the washboard of Protection,' said Nanny, waving it. The wringer attachment fell off.
'Honesty is all very well,' whispered Magrat, wretchedly, 'but somehow it isn't the same.'
'You listen to me, my girl,' said Granny. 'Demons don't care about the outward shape of things. It's what you think that matters. Get on with it.'
Magrat tried to imagine that the bleached and ancient bar of lye soap was the rarest of scented whatever, ungulants or whatever they were, from distant Klatch. It was an effort. The gods alone knew what kind of demon would respond to a summoning like this.
Granny was also a little uneasy. She didn't much care for demons in any case, and all this business with incantations and implements whiffed of wizardry. It was pandering to the things, making them feel important. Demons ought to come when they were called.
But protocol dictated that the host witch had the choice, and Nanny quite liked demons, who were male, or apparently so.
At this point Granny was alternately cajoling and threatening the nether world with two feet of bleached wood. She was impressed at her own daring.
The waters seethed a little, became very still and then, with a sudden movement and a little popping noise, mounded up into a head. Magrat dropped her soap.
It was a good-looking head, maybe a little cruel around the eyes and beaky about the nose-, but nevertheless handsome in a hard kind of way. There was nothing surprising about this; since the demon was only extending an image of itself into this reality, it might as well make a good job of it. It turned slowly, a gleaming black statue in the fitful moonlight.
'Well?' it said.
'Who're you?' said Granny, bluntly.
The head revolved to face her.