“We've slept out here all night,” said Jason uncertainly “That's dangerous, that is.”
“You're right there, Mr. Ogg,” said Carter, “I think something went to the toilet in my ear.”
“I mean strange things can enter your head.”
“That's what I mean, too.”
Jason blinked. He was certain he'd dreamed. He could remember dreaming. But he couldn't remember what the dream had been about. But there was still the feeling in his head of voices talking to him, but too far away to be heard.
“Oh, well,” he said, managing to stand up at the third attempt, “probably no harm done. Let's get on home and see what century it is.”
“What century is it, anyway?” said Thatcher. “Century of the Fruitbat, isn't it?” said Baker. “Might not be anymore,” said Carter hopefully. It turned out that it was, indeed, the Century of the Fruitbat. Lancre didn't have much use for units of time any smaller than an hour or larger than a year, but people were clearly putting up bunting in the town square and a gang of men were erecting the Maypole. Someone was nailing up a very badly painted picture of Verence and Magrat under which was the slogan: God Bless Their Majestieys.
With hardly a word exchanged, the men parted and staggered their separate ways.
A hare lolloped through the morning mist until it reached the drunken, ancient cottage in its clearing in the woods.
It reached a tree stump between the privy and The Herbs. Most woodland animals avoided The Herbs. This was because animals that didn't avoid The Herbs over the past fifty years had tended not to have descendants. A few tendrils waved in the breeze and this was odd because there wasn't any breeze.
It sat on the stump.
And then there was a sensation of movement. Something left the hare and moved across the air to an open upstairs window. It was invisible, at least to normal eyesight. ' The hare changed. Before, it had moved with purpose. Now it flopped down and began to wash its ears.
After a while the back door opened and Granny Weatherwax walked out stiffly, holding a bowl of bread and milk. She put it down on the step and turned back without a second glance, closing the door again behind her.
The hare hopped closer.
It's hard to know if animals understand obligations, or the nature of transactions. But that doesn't matter. They're built into witchcraft. If you want to really upset a witch, do her a favour which she has no means of repaying. The unfulfilled obligation will nag at her like a hangnail.
Granny Weatherwax had been riding the hare's mind all night. Now she owed it something. There's be bread and milk left outside for a few days.
You had to repay, good or bad. There was more than one type of obligation. That's what people never really understood, she told herself as she stepped back into the kitchen. Magrat hadn't understood it, nor that new girl. Things had to balance. You couldn't set out to be a good witch or a bad witch. It never worked for long. All you could try to be was a witch, as hard as you could.
She sat down by the cold hearth, and resisted a temptation to comb her ears.
They had broken in somewhere. She could feel it in the trees, in the minds of tiny animals. She was planning something. Something soon. There was of course nothing special about midsummer in the occult sense, but there was in the minds of people. And the minds of people was where eleves were strong.
Granny knew that sooner or later she'd have to face the Queen. Not Magrat, but the real Queen.
And she would lose.
She'd worked all her life on controlling the insides of her own head. She'd prided herself on being the best there was.
But no longer. Just when she needed all her self reliance, she couldn't rely on her mind. She could sense the probing of the Queen - she could remember the feel of that mind, from all those decades ago. And she seemed to have her usual skill at Borrowing. But herself - if she didn't leave little notes for herself, she'd be totally at sea. Being a witch meant knowing exactly who you were and where you were, and she was losing the ability to know both. Last night she'd found herself setting the table for two people. She'd tried to walk into a room she didn't have. And soon she'd have to fight an elf.
If you fought an elf and lost. . . then, if you were lucky, you would die.
Magrat was brought breakfast in bed by a giggling Millie
Chillum.
“Guests are arriving already, ma'am. And there's flags and everything down in the square! And Shawn has found the coronation coach!”
“How can you lose a coach?” said Magrat.
“It was locked up in one of the old stables, ma'am. He's giving it a fresh coat of gold paint right now.”
“But we're going to be married here,” said Magrat. “We don't have to go anywhere.”