“That's better.”
Nanny Ogg patted her mass of white curls and wondered if she had time to go home and put her corsets on.
“We must stay on our guard, Gytha.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Can't let other considerations turn our heads.”
“No, no.”
“You're not listening to a word I say, are you?”
“What?”
“You could at least find out why Magrat isn't down here.”
“All right.”
Nanny Ogg wandered off, dreamily.
Granny Weatherwax turned-
-there should have been violins. The murmur of the crowd should have faded away, and the crowd itself should have parted in a quite natural movement to leave an empty path between her and Ridcully
There should have been violins. There should have been something.
There shouldn't have been the Librarian accidentally knuckling her on the toe on his way to the buffet, but this, in fact, there was.
She hardly noticed.
“Esme?” said Ridcully
“Mustrum?” said Granny Weatherwax.
Nanny Ogg bustled up.
“Esme, I saw Millie Chillum and she said-”
Granny Weatherwax's vicious elbow jab winded her. Nanny took in the scene.
“Ah,” she said, “I'll just, I'll just. . . I'll just go away, then.”
The gazes locked again.
The Librarian knuckled past again with an entire display of fruit.
Granny Weatherwax paid him no heed.
The Bursar, who was currently on the median point of his cycle, tapped Ridcully on the shoulder.
“I say, Archchancellor, these quails' eggs are amazingly go-”
“DROP DEAD. Mr. Stibbons, fish out the frog pills and keep knives away from him, please.”
The gazes locked again.
“Well, well,” said Granny, after a year or so.