There was a faint creak as the door opened.
He looked up. “Glad to see you're up and about already,” said Granny Weatherwax. “I've come to help you dress.”
“I've looked in the garderobe,” said Verence. “The . . . elves, was it? . . . they ransacked the place. There's nothing I can wear.”
Granny looked around the room. Then she went to a low chest and opened it. There was a faint tinkling of bells, and a flash of red and yellow.
“I thought you never threw them away,” she said. “And you ain't put on any weight, so they'll still fit. On with the motley. Magrat'll appreciate it.”
“Oh, no,” said Verence. “I'm very firm about this. I'm king now. It'd be demeaning for Magrat to marry a Fool. I've got a position to maintain, for the sake of the kingdom. Besides, there is such a thing as pride.”
Granny stared at him for so long that he shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, there is,” he said.
Granny nodded, and walked toward the doorway.
“Why're you leaving?” said Verence nervously.
“I ain't leaving,” said Granny, quietly, “I'm just shutting the door.”
And then there was the incident with the crown.
Ceremonies and Protocols of The Kingdom of Lancre was eventually found after a hurried search of Verence's bedroom. It was very clear about the procedure. The new queen was crowned, by the king, as part of the ceremony. It wasn't technically difficult for any king who knew which end of a queen was which, which even the most inbred king figured out in two goes.
But it seemed to Ponder Stibbons that the ritual wobbled a bit at this point.
It seemed, in fact, that just as he was about to lower the crown on the bride's head he glanced across the hall to where the skinny old witch was standing. And nearly everyone else did too, including the bride.
The old witch nodded very slightly.
Magrat was crowned.
Wack-fol-a-diddle, etc.
The bride and groom stood side by side, shaking hands with the long line of guests in that dazed fashion normal at this point in the ceremony.
“I'm sure you'll be very happy-”
“Thank you.”
“Ook!”
“Thank you.”
“Nail it to the counter, Lord Ferguson, and damn the cheesemongers!”
“Thank you.”
“Can I kiss the bride?”
It dawned on Verence that he was being addressed by fresh air. He looked down.
“I'm sorry,” he said, “you are-?”
“My card,” said Casanunda.
Verence read it. His eyebrows rose.