“She'll be getting ideas above her station in life,” said Granny Weatherwax, as the two witches strolled through the scented air.
“She's a queen. That's pretty high,” said Nanny Ogg. “Almost as high as witches.”
“Yes . . . well . . . but you ain't got to give yourself airs,” said Granny Weatherwax. “We're advantaged, yes, but we act with modesty and we don't Put Ourselves Forward. No one could say I haven't been decently modest all my life.”
“You've always been a bit of a shy violet, I've always said,” said Nanny Ogg. “I'm always telling people, when it comes to humility you won't find anyone more humile than Esme Weatherwax.”
“Always keep myself to myself and minded my own business-”
“Barely known you were there half the time,” said Nanny Ogg.
“I was talking, Gytha.”
“Sorry.” They walked along in silence for a while. It was a warm dry evening. Birds sang in the trees.
Nanny said, “Funny to think of our Magrat being married and everything.”
“What do you mean, everything?”
“Well, you know - married,” said Nanny. “I gave her a few tips. Always wear something in bed. Keeps a man interested.”
“You always wore your hat.”
“Right.” Nanny waved a sausage on a stick. She always believed in stocking up on any free food that was available.
“I thought the wedding feast was very good, didn't you? And Magrat looked radiant, I thought.”
“I thought she looked hot and flustered.”
“That is radiant, with brides.”
“You're right, though,” said Granny Weatherwax, who was walking a little way ahead. “It was a good dinner. I never had this Vegetarian Option stuff before.”
“When I married Mr. . Ogg, we had three dozen oysters at our wedding feast. Mind you, they didn't all work.”
“And I like the way they give us all a bit o' the wedding cake in a little bag,” said Granny.
“Right. You know, they says, if you puts a bit under your pillow, you dream of your future husb . . .” Nanny Ogg's tongue tripped over itself.
She stopped, embarrassed, which was unusual in an Ogg.
“It's all right,” said Granny “I don't mind.”
“Sorry, Esme.”
“Everything happens somewhere. I know. I know. Everything happens somewhere. So it's all the same in the end.”
“That's very continuinuinuum thinking, Esme.”
“Cake's nice,” said Granny, “but. . . right now . . . don't know why . . . what I could really do with, Gytha, right now . . . is a sweet.”
The last word hung in the evening air like the echo of a gunshot.
Nanny stopped. Her hand flew to her pocket, where the usual bag of fluff-encrusted boiled sweets resided. She stared at the back of Esme Weatherwax's head, at the tight bun of grey hair under the brim of the pointy hat.
“Sweet?” she said.
“I expect you've got another bag now,” said Granny, without looking around.