'Would he give us a quote?'
'He smiles at me when he sees me in the shop,' said Sacharissa firmly. 'So he will.'
'O-kay. If you can--'
'Afternoon, folks!'
Mr Wintler was standing at the counter. He was holding a cardboard box.
'Oh, dear...' murmured William.
'Just you take a look at this one,' said Mr Wintler, a man who would not take a hint if it was wrapped around a lead pipe.
'I think we've had enough funny ve--' William began.
And stopped.
It was a big potato that the rubicund man was lifting from his box. It was knobbly, too. William had seen knobbly potatoes before. They could look like faces, if that was the way you wanted to amuse yourself. But with this one you didn't have to imagine a face. It had a face. It was made up of dents and knobs and potato eyes, but it looked very much like a face that had been staring madly into his and trying to kill him very recently. He remembered it quite well, because he still occasionally woke up around 3 a.m. with it in front of him.
'It's... not... exactly...funny,' said Sacharissa, glancing sideways at William.
'Amazing, isn't it?' said Mr Wintler. 'I wouldn't have brought it round, but you've always been very interested in them,'
'A day without a bifurcated parsnip,' said Sacharissa sweetly, 'is a day without sunshine, Mr Wintler. William?'
'Huh?' said William, tearing his eyes away from the potato head. 'Is it me, or does it look... surprised?'
'It does rather,' said Sacharissa.
'Did you just dig this up?' said William.
'Oh, no. It's been in one of my sacks for months,' said Wintler.
... which upset an occult train of thought that had started to trundle through William's head. But... the universe was a funny place. Cause and effect, effect and cause... He'd rip off his right arm rather than write that down, though.
'What are you going to do with it?' he said. 'Boil it?'
'Bless you, no. The variety's far too floury. No, this one's going to be chips.'
'Chips, eh?' said William. And it seemed, strangely, exactly the right thing to do.
'Yes. Yes, that's a good idea. Let it fry, Mr Wintler. Let it fry.'
The clock moved on.
One of the reporters came in to say that the Alchemists' Guild had exploded, and did this count as news? Otto was summoned from his crypt and sent out to get a picture. William finished his piece about yesterday's events and passed it over to the dwarfs. Someone came in and said there was a big crowd in Sator Square because the Bursar (71) was sitting on a roof seven floors up, looking puzzled. Sacharissa, wielding her pencil with care, crossed out every adjective in a report of the Ankh-Morpork Floral Arranging Society, reducing its length by half.
William went out to find out about the Bursar (71), then wrote a few short paragraphs. Wizards doing odd things wasn't news. Wizards doing odd things was wizards.
He threw the piece into the Out tray, and looked at the press.
It was black, and big, and complex. Without eyes, without a face, without life... It looked back at him.
He thought: you don't need old sacrificial stones. Lord Vetinari was wrong about that. He touched his forehead. The bruise had long ago faded.
You put your mark on me. Well, I'm wise to you.
'Let's go,' he said.