'Yes, m'm, but they says terrible things about you, m'm, savin' your presence, m'm.'
Granny stiffened.
'What things?'
'Don't like to say, m'm.'
'What things?'
Shawn considered his next move. There weren't many choices.
'A lot of things what aren't true, m'm,' he said, establishing his credentials as early as possible. 'All sorts of things. Like, old Verence was a bad king and you helped him on the throne, and you caused that bad winter the other year, and old Norbut's cow dint give no milk after you looked at it. Lot of lies, m'm,' he added, loyally.
'Right,' said Granny.
She shut the door in his panting face, stood in thought for a moment, and retired to her rocking chair.
Eventually she said, once more, 'Right.'
A little later she added, 'She's a daft old besom, but we can't have people going round doing things to witches. Once you've lost your respect, you ain't got a thing. I don't remember looking at old Norbut's cow. Who's old Norbut?'
She stood up, took her pointed hat from its hook behind the door and, glaring into the mirror, skewered it in place with a number of ferocious hatpins. They slid on one by one by one, as unstoppable as the wrath of God.
She vanished into the outhouse for a moment and came back with her witch's cloak, which served as a blanket for sick goats when not otherwise employed.
Once upon a time it had been black velvet; now it was just black. It was carefully and slowly fastened by a tarnished silver brooch.
No samurai, no questing knight, was ever dressed with as much ceremony.
Finally Granny drew herself up, surveyed her dark reflection in the glass, gave a thin little smile of approval, and left via the back door.
The air of menace was only slightly dispelled by the sound of her running up and down outside, trying to get her broomstick started.
Magrat was also regarding herself in the mirror.
She'd dug out a startlingly green dress that was designed to be both revealing and clinging, and would have been if Magrat had anything to display or cling to, so she'd shoved a couple of rolled-up stockings down the front in an effort to make good the more obvious deficiencies. She had also tried a spell on her hair, but it was naturally magic-resistant and already the natural shape was beginning to assert itself (a dandelion clock at about 2pm).
Magrat had also tried makeup. This wasn't an unqualified success. She didn't have much practice. She was beginning to wonder if she'd overdone the eyeshadow.
Her neck, fingers and arms between them carried enough silverware to make a full-sized dinner service, and over everything she had thrown a black cloak lined with red silk.
In a certain light and from a carefully chosen angle, Magrat was not unattractive. Whether any of these preparations did anything for her is debatable, but they did mean that a thin veneer of confidence overlaid her trembling heart.
She drew herself up and turned this way and that. The clusters of amulets, magical jewellery and occult bangles on various parts of her body jingled together; any enemy wouldn't only have to be blind to fail to notice that a witch was approaching, he'd have to be deaf as well.
She turned to her worktable and examined what she rather self-consciously, and never in Granny's hearing, called her Tools of the Craft. There was the white-handled knife, used in the preparation of magical ingredients. There was the black-handled knife, used in the magical workings themselves; Magrat had carved so many runes into its handle it was in constant danger of falling in half. They were undoubtedly powerful, but . . .
Magrat shook her head regretfully, went over to the kitchen dresser and took out the breadknife. Something told her that at times like these a good sharp breadknife was probably the best friend a girl could have.
'I spy, with my little eye,' said Nanny Ogg, 'something beginning with P.'
The ghost of the king stared wearily around the dungeons.
'Pliers,' he suggested.
'No.'
'Pilliwinks?'