“I haven't got a dress!”
“What's that you've got on?”
Magrat looked down at the stained chain-mail, the mud-encrusted breastplate, and the few damp remnants of white silk that hung over them like a ragged tabard.
“Looks good to me,” said Granny “Nanny'll do your hair.”
Magrat reached up instinctively, removed the winged helmet, and patted her hair. Bits of twigs and fragments of heather had twisted themselves in it with comb-breaking complexity It never looked good for five minutes together at the best of times; now it was a bird's nest.
“I think I'll leave it,” she said.
Granny nodded approvingly
“That's the way of it,” she said. “It's not what you've got that matters, it's how you've got it. Well, we're just about ready, then.”
Nanny leaned toward her and whispered.
“What? Oh, yes. Where's the groom?”
“He's a bit muzzy. Not sure what happened,” said Magrat.
“Perfectly normal,” said Nanny, “after a stag night.”
There were difficulties to overcome:
“We need a Best Man.”
“Ook.”
“Well, at least put some clothes on.”
Mrs. Scorbic the cook folded her huge pink arms.
“Can't be done,” she said firmly.
“I thought perhaps just some salad and quiche and some light-” Magrat said, imploringly.
The cook's whiskery chin stuck out firmly.
“Them elves turned the whole kitchen upside down,” she said. “It's going to take me days to get it straight. Anyway, everyone knows raw vegetables are bad for you, and I can't be having with them eggy pies.”
Magrat looked beseechingly at Nanny Ogg; Granny Weatherwax had wandered off into the gardens, where she was getting a tendency to stick her nose in flowers right out of her system.
“Nothin' to do with me,” said Nanny. “It's not my kitchen, dear.”
“No, it's mine. I've been cook here for years,” said Mrs. Scorbic, “and I knows how things should be done, and I'm not going to be ordered around in my own kitchen by some chit of a girl.”
Magrat sagged. Nanny tapped her on the shoulder.
“You might need this at this point,” she said, and handed Magrat the winged helmet.
“The king's been very happy with-” Mrs. Scorbic began.
There was a click. She looked down the length of a crossbow and met Magrat's steady gaze.
“Go ahead,” said the Queen of Lancre softly, “bake my quiche.”
Verence sat in his nightshirt with his head in his hands. He could remember hardly anything about the night, except a feeling of coldness. And no one seemed very inclined to tell him.