She blinked.
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“What did I just say?” she said.
“Uh. You said you thought you'd got it sorted,” said the king.
Granny Weatherwax blinked.
“That's right,” she said. “I said that. Yes. And I'm in the castle, aren't I? Yes.”
“Are you all right. Mistress Weatherwax?” said the king, his voice taut with sudden worry.
“Fine, fine. Fine. In the castle. And the children are all right, too?”
“Sorry?”
She blinked again.
“What?”
“You don't look well. . .”
Granny screwed up her face and shook her head. “Yes. The castle. I'm me, you're you, Gytha's upstairs with Magrat. That's right.” She focused on the king. “Just a bit of . . . of overtiredness there. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about at all.”
Nanny Ogg looked doubtfully at Magrat's preparation.
“A mouldy bread poultice doesn't sound very magical to me,” she said.
“Goodie Whemper used to swear by it. But I don't know what we can do about the coma.”
Magrat thumbed hopefully through the crackling, ancient pages. Her ancestral witches had written things down pretty much as they occurred to them, so that quite important spells and observations would be interspersed with comments about the state of their feet.
“It says here 'The smalle pointy stones sometimes found are knowne as Elf-shot, beinge the heads of Elf arrows from Times Past.' ” That's all I can find. And there's a drawing. But I've seen these little stones around, too."
“Oh, there's lots of them,” said Nanny, bandaging Diamanda's shoulder. “Dig 'em up all the time, in my garden.”
“But elves don't shoot people! Elves are good.”
“They probably just fired at Esme and the girl in fun, like?”
“But-”
“Look, dear, you're going to be queen. It's an important job. You look after the king now, and let me and Esme look after . . . other stuff.”
“Being Queen? It's all tapestry and walking around in unsuitable dresses! I know Granny. She doesn't like anything that's . . . that's got style and grace. She's so sour.”
“I daresay she's got her reasons,” said Nanny amiably. “Well, that's got the girl patched up. What shall we do with her now?”
“We've got dozens of spare bedrooms,” said Magrat, “and they're all ready for the guests. We can put her in one of them. Um. Nanny?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to be a bridesmaid?”
“Not really, dear. Bit old for that sort of thing.” Nanny hovered. “There isn't anything you need to ask me, though, is there?”
“What do you mean?”