“Where did it happen?” said Magrat, trying to speak slowly and distinctly.
“Up at the Dancers, miss. You know. Them old stones.” Magrat let him go.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Don't tell Magrat, Magrat's not to know about this sort of thing. The Dancers? Right.”
“It wasn't us, miss! It was only make-believe!”
“Hah!”
She unbolted the door again.
“Where're you going, miss?” said Weaver, who was not a competitor in the All-Lancre Uptake Stakes.
“Where d'you think?”
“But, miss, you can't take iron-”
Magrat slammed the door. Then she kicked the bowl of milk so hard that it sprayed across the street.
Jason Ogg crawled cautiously through the dripping bracken. There was a figure a few feet away. He hefted the stone in his hand-
“Jason?”
“Is that you, Weaver?”
“No, it's me - Tailor.”
“Where's everyone else?”
“Tinker'n Baker found Carpenter just now. Have you seen Weaver?”
“No, but I saw Carter and Thatcher.”
Mist curled up as the rain drummed into the warm earth. The seven surviving Morris Men crawled under a
dripping bush.
“There's going to be hell to pay in the morning!”
moaned Carter. “When she finds us we're done for!”
“We'll be all right if we can find some iron,” said Jason. “Iron don't have no effect on her! She'll tan our hides for us!”
Carter clutched his knees to his chest in terror.
“Who?”
“Mistress Weatherwax!”
Thatcher jabbed him in the ribs. Water cascaded off the leaves above them and tunnelled down every neck.
“Don't be so daft! You saw them things! What're you worrying about that old baggage for?”
“She'll tan our hides for us, right enough! 'Twas all our fault, she'll say!”
“I just hopes she gets a chance,” muttered Tinker.
“We are,” said Thatcher, “between a rock and a hard place.”