“Did I do it wrong?”
“Um. No,” said Shawn cautiously. “No, you did it . . . quite well, really.”
“And there's one in the pit,” said Magrat. “You know . . . the pit. What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“And you clean it out on . . . ?”
“Wednesdays. Only I missed last Wednesday because I had-”
“Then we probably don't need to worry about it. Are there anymore around?”
“I. . . don't think so. Uh. Miss Queen?”
“Yes, Shawn?”
“Could you put the axe down, please? I'd feel a lot better if you put the axe down. The axe. Miss Queen. You keep swinging it about. It could go off at any second.”
“What axe?”
“The one you're holding.”
“Oh, this axe.” Magrat appeared to notice it for the first time. “That arm looks bad. Let's get down to the kitchen and I'll splint it. Those fingers don't look good, either. Did they kill Diamanda?”
“I don't know. And I don't know why. I mean, she was helping them.”
“Yes. Wait a moment.” Magrat disappeared one more time into the armoury, and came back carrying a sack. “Come on. Greebo!”
Greebo gave her a sly look, and stopped washing himself.
“D'you know a funny thing about Lancre?” said Magrat, as they sidled down the stairs.
“What's that, miss?”
“We never throw anything away. And you know another thing?”
“No, miss.”
"They couldn't have painted her from life, of course. I mean, people didn't paint portraits in those days. But the armour . . . hah! All they had to do was look. And you know
what?"
Shawn suddenly felt frightened. He'd been scared before, but it had been immediate and physical. But Magrat, like this, frightened him more than the elves. It was like being charged by a sheep.
“No, miss?” he said.
“No one told me about her. You'd think it's all tapestry and walking around in long dresses!”
“What, miss?”
Magrat waved an arm expressively.
“All this!”
“Miss!” said Shawn, from knee level.
Magrat looked down.