Diamanda got results.
Perdita wouldn't have believed it. She'd always known about witches, of course. They were old women who dressed like crows, except for Magrat Garlick, who was frankly mental and always looked as if she was going to burst into tears. Perdita remembered Magrat bringing a guitar to a Hogswatchnight party once and singing wobbly folk songs with her eyes shut in a way that suggested that she really believed in them. She hadn't been able to play, but this was all right because she couldn't sing, either. People had applauded because, well, what else could you do?
But Diamanda had read books. She knew about stuff. Raising power at the stones, for one thing. It really worked.
Currently she was showing them the cards.
The wind had got up again tonight. It rattled the shutters and made soot fall down the chimney. It seemed to Perdita that it had blown all the shadows into the comers of the room-
“Are you paying attention, sister?” said Diamanda coldly.
That was another thing. You had to call one another 'sister,' out of fraternity.
“Yes, Diamanda,” she said, meekly.
“This is the Moon,” Diamanda repeated, “for those who weren't paying attention.” She held up the card. “And what do we see here - you, Muscara?”
“Um . . . it's got a picture of the moon on it?” said Muscara (nee Susan) in a hopeful voice.
“Of course it's not the moon. It's a nonmimetic convention, not tied to a conventional referencing system, actually,” said Diamanda.
“Ah.”
A gust rocked the cottage. The door burst open and slammed back against the wall, giving a glimpse of cloud-wracked sky in which a non-mimetic convention was showing a crescent.
Diamanda waved a hand. There was a brief flash of octarine light. The door jerked shut. Diamanda smiled in what Perdita thought of as her cool, knowing way.
She placed the card on the black velvet cloth in front of her.
Perdita looked at it gloomily It was all very pretty, the cards were coloured like little pasteboard jewels, and they had interesting names. But that little traitor voice whispered: how the hell can they know what the future holds? Cardboard isn't very bright.
On the other hand, the coven was helping people . . . more or less. Raising power and all that sort of thing. Oh dear, supposing she asks me?
Perdita realized that she was feeling worried. Something was wrong. It had just gone wrong. She didn't know what it was, but it had gone wrong now. She looked up.
“Blessings be upon this house,” said Granny Weatherwax.
In much the same tone of voice have people said, “Eat hot lead, Kincaid,” and, “I expect you're wondering after all that excitement whether I've got any balloons and lampshades left.”
Diamanda's mouth dropped open.
“ 'Ere, you're doing that wrong. You don't want to muck about with a hand like that,” said Nanny Ogg helpfully, looking over her shoulder. “You've got a Double Onion there.”
"Who are you?
Suddenly they were there. Perdita thought: one minute there's shadows, the next minute they were there, solid as anything.
“What's all the chalk on the floor, then?” said Nanny Ogg. “You've got all chalk on the floor. And heathen writing. Not that I've got anything against heathens,” she added. She appeared to think about it. “I'm practic'ly one,” she added further, “but I don't write on the floor. What'd you want to write all on the floor for?” She nudged Perdita. “You'll never get the chalk out,” she said, “it gets right into the grain.”
“Um, it's a magic circle,” said Perdita. “Um, hello, Mrs. Ogg. Um. It's to keep bad influences away . . .”
Granny Weatherwax leaned forward slightly.
“Tell me, my dear,” she said to Diamanda, “do you think it's working?”
She leaned forward further.
Diamanda leaned backward.