Finally, Magrat's voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.
“Aren't you supposed to ask me?” she demanded.
“What? Urn. No, actually,” said Verence. “No. Kings don't ask. I looked it up. I'm the king, you see, and you are, no offence meant, a subject. I don't have to ask.”
Magrat's mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.
Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away. And he'll probably come after you.
Very probably.
Urn.
Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice little man with gentle runny eyes but he's also a king and he's been looking things up. But very probably quite probably
But. . .
Do you want to bet the rest of your life? Isn't this what you wanted anyway? Isn't it what you came here hoping for? Really?
Verence was looking at her with some concern.
“Is it the witching?” he said. “You don't have to give that up entirely, of course. I've got a great respect for witches. And you can be a witch queen, although I think that means you have to wear rather revealing clothes and keep cats and give people poisoned apples. I read that somewhere. The witching's a problem, is it?”
“No,” Magrat mumbled, “it's not that. . . um . . . did you mention a crown?”
“You've got to have a crown,” said Verence. “Queens do. I looked it up.”
Her brain cut in again. Queen Magrat, it suggested. It held up the mirror of the imagination . . .
“You're not upset, are you?” said Verence.
“What? Oh. No. Me? No.”
“Good. That's all sorted out, then. I think that just about covers everything, don't you?”
“Um-”
Verence rubbed his hands together.
“We're doing some marvellous things with legumes,” he said, as if he hadn't just completely rearranged Magrat's life without consulting her. “Beans, peas . . . you know. Nitrogen fixers. And marl and lime, of course. Scientific husbandry. Come and look at this.”
He bounced away enthusiastically.
“You know,” he said, “we could really make this kingdom work.”
Magrat trailed after him.
So that was all settled, then. Not a proposal, just a statement. She hadn't been quite sure how the moment would be, even in the darkest hours of the night, but she'd had an idea that roses and sunsets and bluebirds might just possibly be involved. Clover had not figured largely Beans and other leguminous nitrogen fixers were not a central feature.
On the other hand Magrat was, at the core, far more practical than most people believed who saw no further than her vague smile and collection of more than three hundred pieces of occult jewellery, none of which worked.
So this was how you got married to a king. It all got arranged for you. There were no white horses. The past flipped straight into the future, carrying you with it.
Perhaps that was normal. Kings were busy people. Magrat's experience of marrying them was limited.
“Where are we going?” she said.
“The old rose garden.”