Vlad dropped down beside her.
'Of course, you can't see it at its best in this weather,' he said. 'Some quite good architecture in the town square, and a very fine town hall. Father paid for the clock.'
'Really.'
'And the belltower, naturally. Local labour, of course.'
'Vampires have a lot of cash, do they?' said Agnes. The town looked quite large, and pretty much like the country towns down on the plains save for a certain amount of gingerbread carving on the eaves.
'Well, the family has always owned land,' said Vlad, ignoring the sarcasm. 'The money mounts up, you know. Over the centuries. And obviously we've not enjoyed a particularly active social fife.'
'Or spent much on food,' said Agnes.
'Yes, yes, very good-'
A bell started to toll, somewhere above them.
'Now you'll see,' said Vlad. 'And you'll understand.'
Granny Weatherwax opened her eyes. There were flames roaring right in front of her.
'Oh,' she said. 'So be at, then...'
'Ah. Feeling better, are we?' said Oats.
Her head spun round. Then she looked down at the steam rising from her dress.
Oats ducked between the branches of two firs and threw another armful of dead wood on the flames. It hissed and spluttered.
'How long was I... resting?' said Granny.
'About half an hour, I'd say.' Red light and black shadows danced among the trees. The rain had turned to sleet, but it was flashing into steam overhead.
'You did well to get a fire going in this murk,' said Granny.
'I thank Om for it,' said Oats.
'Very kind of him, I'm sure. But we've got to... get on.' Granny tried to stand up. 'Not far now. All downhill...'
'The mule ran away,' said Oats.
'We've got feet, haven't we? I feel better for the... rest. The fire's put a... bit of life into me.'
'It's too dark and far too wet. Wait until morning.'
Granny pulled herself up. 'No. Find a stick or something I can lean on. Go on.'
'Well... there's a hazel grove just along the slope, but...'
'Just the thing, a good bit of hazel. Well, don't just stand there. I'm feeling better every minute. Off you go.'
He disappeared into the dripping shadows.
Granny flapped her skirts in front of the blaze to circulate some warm air, and something small and white flew up from the ashes, dancing in the fire and sleet.
She picked it up from the moss where it had landed.
It was a piece of thin paper, the charred corner of a page. She could just make out, in the red light, the words '... of Om... aid unto... Ossory smote...' The paper was attached to a burnt strip of leather binding.