They had been meeting at Nanny Ogg's cottage. Magrat made an excuse to tarry after Granny left, around dawn, allegedly to help Nanny with tidying up.
'Whatever happened to not meddling?' she said.
'What do you mean?'
'You know, Nanny.'
'It's not proper meddling,' said Nanny awkwardly. 'Just helping matters along.'
'Surely you can't really think that!'
Nanny sat down and fidgeted with a cushion.
'Well, see, all this not meddling business is fine in the normal course of things,' she said. 'Not meddling is easy when you don't have to. And then I've got the family to think about. Our Jason's been in a couple of fights because of what people have been saying. Our Shawn was thrown out of the army. The way I see it, when we get the new king in, he should owe us a few favours. It's only fair.'
'But only last week you were saying—' Magrat stopped, shocked at this display of pragmatism.
'A week is a long time in magic,' said Nanny. 'Fifteen years, for one thing. Anyway, Esme is determined and I'm in no mood to stop her.'
'So what you're saying,' said Magrat, icily, 'is that this “not meddling” thing is like taking a vow not to swim. You'll absolutely never break it unless of course you happen to find yourself in the water?'
'Better than drowning,' Nanny said.
She reached up to the mantelpiece and took down a clay pipe that was like a small tar pit. She lit it with a spill from the remains of the fire, while Greebo watched her carefully from his cushion.
Magrat idly lifted the hood from the ball and glared at it.
'I think,' she said, 'that I will never really understand about witchcraft. Just when I think I've got a grip on it, it changes.'
'We're all just people.' Nanny blew a cloud of blue smoke at the chimney. 'Everyone's just people.'
'Can I borrow the crystal?' said Magrat suddenly.
'Feel free,' said Nanny. She grinned at Magrat's back. 'Had a row with your young man?' she said.
'I really don't know what you're talking about.'
'Haven't seen him around for weeks.'
'Oh, the duke sent him to—' Magrat stopped, and went on – 'sent him away for something or other. Not that it bothers me at all, either way.'
'So I see. Take the ball, by all means.'
Magrat was glad to get back home. No-one was about on the moors at night anyway, but over the last couple of months things had definitely been getting worse. On top of the general suspicion of witches, it was dawning on the few people in Lancre who had any dealings with the outside world that a) either more things had been happening than they had heard about before or b) time was out of joint. It wasn't easy to prove[19], but the few traders who came along the mountain tracks after the winter seemed to be rather older than they should have been. Unexplained happenings were always more or less expected in the Ramtops because of the high magical potential, but several years disappearing overnight was a bit of a first.
She locked the door, fastened the shutters, and carefully laid the green glass globe on the kitchen table.
She concentrated . . .
The Fool dozed under the tarpaulins of the river barge, heading up the Ankh at a steady two miles an hour. It wasn't an exciting method of transport but it got you there eventually.
He looked safe enough, but he was tossing and turning in his sleep.
Magrat wondered what it was like, spending your whole life doing something you didn't want to do. Like being dead, she considered, only worse, the reason being, you were alive to suffer it.
She considered the Fool to be weak, badly led and sorely in need of some backbone. And she was longing for him to get back, so she could look forward to never seeing him again.
It was a long, hot summer.