It happened right there, right then, right in front of her.
* * *
And then there was Magrat.
She'd been away eight months.
Now panic was setting in. Technically she was engaged to the king, Verence II. Well . . . not exactly engaged, as such. There was, she was almost sure, a general unspoken understanding that engagement was a definite option. Admittedly she'd kept on telling him that she was a free spirit and definitely didn't want to be tied down in any way, and of course this was the case, more or less, but. . . but. . .
But. . . well . . . eight months. Anything could have happened in eight months. She should have come straight back from Genua, but the other two had been enjoying themselves.
She wiped the dust off her mirror and examined herself critically. Not a lot to work with, really. No matter what she did with her hair it took about three minutes for it to tangle itself up again, like a garden hosepipe left in a shed.[4] She'd bought herself a new green dress, but what had looked exciting and attractive on the plaster model looked like a furled umbrella on a Magrat.
Whereas Verence had been here reigning for eight months. Of course, Lancre was so small that you couldn't lie down without a passport, but he was a genuine king and genuine kings tended to attract young women looking for career opportunities in the queening department.
She did her best with the dress and dragged a vengeful brush through her hair.
Then she went up to the castle.
Guard duty at Lancre castle was the province of anyone who didn't have much of anything else to do at the moment. On duty today was Nanny Ogg's youngest son Shawn, in ill-fitting chain-mail. He brought himself to what he probably thought was attention as Magrat pattered past, and then dropped his pike and hurried after her.
“Can you slow down a bit, please, miss?”
He overtook her, ran up the steps to the door, picked up a trumpet that was hanging from a nail by a bit of string, and blew an amateurish fanfare. Then he looked panicky again.
“Wait right there, miss, right there . ., count to five, and then knock,” he said, and darted through the door, slamming it behind him.
Magrat waited, and then tried the knocker.
After a few seconds Shawn opened the door. He was red in the face and had a powdered wig on back to front.
“Yeeeuss?” he drawled, and tried to look like a butler.
“You've still got your helmet on under the wig,” said Magrat helpfully.
Shawn deflated. His eyes swivelled upward.
“Everyone at the haymaking?” said Magrat.
Shawn raised his wig, removed the helmet, and put the wig back. Then he distractedly put the helmet back on top of the wig.
“Yes, and Mr. Spriggins the butler is in bed with his trouble again,” said Shawn. “There's only me, miss. And I've got to get the dinner started before I'm off 'ome because Mrs. Scorbic is poorly.”
“You don't have to show me in,” said Magrat. “I do know the way.”
“No, it's got to be done proper,” said Shawn. “You just keep movin' slow and leave it to me.”
He ran on ahead and flung open some double doors-
“Meeeyisss Magraaaaat Garrrrrliick!”
-and scurried toward the next set of doors.
By the third pair he was out of breath, but he did his best.
“Meeeyisss . . . Magraaaaa . . . Garrrrrliick . . . His Majesteeeyyaa the Ki - Oh, bugger, now where's he gone?”
The throne room was empty.