. . . but she should have had the choice.

It was white silk, with a tasteful amount of lace. Magrat knew she wasn't much up on the language of dressmaking. She knew what things were, she just didn't know the names. All those ruches and pleats and gores and things.

She held the dress against her and gave it a critical examination.

There was a small mirror against the wall.

After a certain amount of internal tussling Magrat gave in and tried the dress on. It wasn't as if she'd be wearing it tomorrow. If she never did try it on, she'd always wonder if it had fitted.

It fitted. Or, rather, it didn't fit but in a flattering way. Whatever Verence had paid, it had been worth it. The dressmaker had done cunning things with the material, so that it went in where Magrat went straight up and down and billowed out where Magrat didn't.

The veil had silk flowers on the headband.

I'm not going to start crying again, Magrat told herself. I'm going to stay angry. I'm going to wind up the anger until it's thick enough to become rage, and when they come back I shall—

—what?

She could try being icy. She could sweep majestically past them . . . this was a good dress for that . . . and that'd teach them.

And then what? She couldn't stay here, not with everyone knowing. And they'd find out. About the letter. News went around Lancre faster than turpentine through a sick donkey.

She'd have to go away. Perhaps find somewhere where there were no witches and start up again, although at the moment her feelings about witches were such that she'd prefer practically any other profession, insofar as there were other professions for an ex-witch.

Magrat stuck out her chin. The way she felt now, with the bile bubbling like a hot spring, she'd create a new profession. One that with any luck didn't involve men and meddling old women.

And she'd keep that damn letter, just to remind her. All the time she'd wondered how Verence was able to have things arranged weeks before she got back, and it was as simple as this. How they must have laughed . . .

* * *

It occurred briefly to Nanny Ogg that she really should be somewhere else, but at her time of life invitations to intimate candlelit suppers were not a daily occurrence. There had to be a time when you stopped worrying about the rest of the world and cared a little for yourself. There had to be a time for a quiet, inner moment.

"This is damn good wine," she said, picking up another bottle. "What did you say it's called?" She peered at the label. "Chateau Maison? Chat-eau . . . that's foreign for cat's water, you know, but that's only their way, I know it ain't real cat's water. Real cat's water is sharper." She hammered the cork into the bottle with the end of her knife, then stuck her finger over the neck and gave it a vigorous shaking "to mix the goodness in."

"But I don't hold with drinking it out of ladies' boots," she said. "I know it's supposed to be the thing to do, but I can't see what's so wonderful about walking home with your boots full of wine. Ain't you hungry? If you don't want that bit of gristle, I'll eat it. anymore of them lobsters? Never had lobster before. And that mayonnaise. And them little eggs stuffed with stuff. Mind you, that bramble jam tasted of fish, to my mind."

"'S caviar," murmured Casanunda.

He was sitting with his chin on his hand, watching her in rapt infatuation.

He was, he was surprised to find, enjoying himself immensely while not horizontal.

He knew how this sort of dinner was supposed to go. It was one of the basic weapons in the seducer's armoury. The amoratrix was plied with fine wines and expensive yet light dishes. There was much knowing eye contact across the table, and tangling of feet underneath it. There was much pointed eating of pears and bananas and so on. And thus the ship of temptation steered, gently yet inexorably, to a good docking.

And then there was Nanny Ogg.

Nanny Ogg appreciated fine wine in her very own way. It would never have occurred to Casanunda that anyone would top up white wine with port merely because she'd reached the end of the bottle.

As for the food . . . well, she enjoyed that, too. Casanunda had never seen that elbow action before. Show Nanny Ogg a good dinner and she went at it with knife, fork, and rammer. Watching her eat a lobster was a particular experience he would not forget in a hurry. They'd be picking bits of claw out of the woodwork for weeks.

And the asparagus . . . he might actually try to forget Nanny Ogg putting away asparagus, but he suspected the memory would come creeping back.

It must be a witch thing, he told himself. They're always very clear about what they want. If you climbed cliffs and braved rivers and skied down mountains to bring a box of chocolates to Gytha Ogg, she'd have the nougat centres out of the bottom layer even before you got your crampons off. That's it. Whatever a witch does, she does one hundred percent.

Hubba, hubba!

"Ain't you going to eat all those prawns? Just push the plate this way, then."

He had tried a little footsie to keep his hand in, as it were, but an accidental blow on the ankle from one of Nanny's heavy iron-nailed boots had put a stop to that.

And then there had been the gypsy violinist. At first Nanny had complained about people playin' the fiddle while she was trying to concentrate on her eatin', but between courses she'd snatched it off the man, thrown the bow into a bowl of camellias, retuned the instrument to something approaching a banjo, and had given Casanunda three rousing verses of what, him being foreign, she chose to call Il Porcupine Nil Sodomy Est.

Then she'd drunk more wine.

What also captivated Casanunda was the way Nanny Ogg's face became a mass of cheerful horizontal lines when she laughed, and Nanny Ogg laughed a lot.

In fact Casanunda was finding, through the faint haze of wine, that he was actually having fun.

"I take it there is no Mr. Ogg?" he said, eventually.

"Oh, yes, there's a Mr. Ogg," said Nanny. "We buried him years ago. Well, we had to. He was dead."

"It must be very hard for a woman living all alone?"

"Dreadful," said Nanny Ogg, who had never prepared a meal or wielded a duster since her eldest daughter had been old enough to do it for her, and who had at least four meals cooked for her every day by various terrified daughters-in-law.

"It must be especially lonely at night," said Casanunda, out of habit as much as anything else.

"Well, there's Greebo," said Nanny "He keeps my feet warm."

"Greebo-"

"The cat. I say, do you think there's any pudding?"

Later, she asked for a doggy bottle.

Mr. Brooks the beekeeper ladled some greenish, foul smelling liquid out of the saucepan that was always simmering in his secret hut, and filled his squirter.

There was a wasps' nest in the garden wall. It'd be a mortuary by morning.

That was the thing about bees. They always guarded the entrance to the hive, with their lives if necessary. But wasps were adept at finding the odd chink in the woodwork around the back somewhere and the sleek little devils'd be in and robbing the hive before you knew it. Funny. The bees in the hive'd let them do it, too. They guarded the entrance, but if a wasp found another way in, they didn't know what to do.

He gave the plunger a push. A stream of liquid bubbled out and left a smoking streak on the floor.

Wasps looked pretty enough. But if you were for bees, you had to be against wasps.

There seemed to be some sort of party going on in the hall. He vaguely remembered getting an invitation but, on the whole, that sort of thing never really caught his imagination. And especially now. Things were wrong. None of the hives showed any signs of swarming. Not one.

As he passed the hives in the dusk he heard the humming. You got that, on a warm night. Battalions of bees stood at the hive entrance, fanning the air with their wings to keep the brood cool. But there was also the roar of bees circling the hive.

They were angry, and on guard.

There was a series of small weirs just on the borders of Lancre. Granny Weatherwax hauled herself up on to the damp woodwork, and squelched to the bank where she emptied her boots.

After a while a pointy wizard's hat drifted downriver, and rose to reveal a pointy wizard underneath it. Granny lent a hand to help Ridcully out of the water.

"There," she said, "bracing, wasn't it? Seemed to me you could do with a cold bath."

Ridcully tried to clean some mud out of his ear. He glared at Granny.

"Why aren't you wet?"

"I am."

"No you're not. You're just damp. I'm wet through. How can you float down a river and just be damp?"

"I dries out quick."

Granny Weatherwax glared up the rocks. A short distance away the steep road ran on to Lancre, but there were other, more private ways known to her among the trees,

"So," she said, more or less to herself. "She wants to stop me going there, does she? Well, we'll see about that."

"Going where?" said Ridcully.

"Ain't sure," said Granny. "All I know is, if she don't want me to go there, that's where I'm going. But I hadn't bargained on you tumin' up and having a rush of blood to the heart. Come on."

Ridcully wrung out his robe. A lot of the sequins had come off. He removed his hat and unscrewed the point.

Headgear picks up morphic vibrations. Quite a lot of trouble had once been caused in Unseen University by a former Archchancellor's hat, which had picked up too many magical vibrations after spending so much time on wizardly heads and had developed a personality of its very own. Ridcully had put a stop to this by having his own hat made to particular specifications by an Ankh-Morpork firm of completely insane hatters.

It was not a normal wizard hat. Few wizards have ever made much use of the pointy bit, except maybe to keep the odd pair of socks in it. But Ridcully's hat had small cupboards. It had surprises. It had four telescopic legs and a roll of oiled silk in the brim that extended downward to make a small but serviceable tent, and a patent spirit stove just above it. It had inner pockets with three days' supply of iron rations. And the tip unscrewed to dispense an adequate supply of spirituous liquors for use in emergencies, such as when Ridcully was thirsty.

Ridcully waved the small pointed cup at Granny.

"Brandy?" he said.

"What have you got on your head?"

Ridcully felt his pate gingerly.

"Urn . . ."

"Smells like honey and horse apples to me. And what's that thing?"

Ridcully lifted the small cage off his head. There was a small treadmill in it, in a complex network of glass rods. A couple of feeding bowls were visible. And there was a small, hairy and currently quite wet mouse.

"Oh, it's something some of the young wizards came up with," said Ridcully diffidently "I said I'd . . . try it out for them. The mouse hair rubs against the glass rods and there's sparks, don't'y'know, and . . . and . . ."

Granny Weatherwax looked at the Archchancellor's somewhat grubby hair and raised an eyebrow.

"My word," she said. "What will they think of next?"

"Don't really understand how it works, Stibbons is the man for this sort of thing, I thought I'd help them out. . ."

"Lucky you were going bald, eh?"

In the darkness of her sickroom Diamanda opened her eyes, if they were her eyes. There was a pearly sheen to them. The song was as yet only on the threshold of hearing. And the world was different. A small part of her mind was still Diamanda, and looked out through the mists of enchantment. The world was a pattern of fine silver lines, constantly moving, as though everything was coated with filigree. Except where there was iron. There the lines were crushed and tight and bent. There, the whole world was invisible. Iron distorted the world. Keep away from iron.

She slipped out of bed, using the edge of the blanket to grasp the door handle, and opened the door.

Shawn Ogg was standing very nearly to attention.

Currently he was guarding the castle and Seeing How Long He Could Stand On One Leg.

Then it occurred to him that this wasn't a proper activity for a martial artist, and he turned it into No. 19, the Flying Chrysanthemum Double Drop Kick.

After a while he realized that he had been hearing something. It was vaguely rhythmical, and put him in mind of a grasshopper chirruping. It was coming from inside the castle.

He turned carefully, keeping alert in case the massed armies of Foreign Parts tried to invade while his back was turned.

This needed working out. He wasn't on guard from things inside the castle, was he? "On guard" meant things outside. That was the point of castles. That's why you had all the walls and things. He'd got the big poster they gave away free with Jane's All the World's Siege Weapons. He knew what he was talking about.

Shawn was not the quickest of thinkers, but his thoughts turned inexorably to the elf in the dungeon. But that was locked up. He'd locked the door himself. And there was iron all over the place, and Mum had been very definite about the iron.

Nevertheless. . .

He was methodical about it. He raised the drawbridge and dropped the portcullis and peered over the wall for good measure, but there was just the dusk and the night breeze.

He could feel the sound now. It seemed to be coming out of the stone, and had a saw-toothed edge to it that grated on his nerves.

It couldn't have got out, could it? No, it stood to reason. People hadn't gone around building dungeons you could get out of.

The sound swung back and forth across the scale.

Shawn leaned his rusty pike against the wall and drew his sword. He knew how to use it. He practiced for ten minutes every day, and it was one sorry hanging sack of straw when he'd finished with it.

He slipped into the keep by the back door and sidled along the passages toward the dungeon. There was no one else around. Of course, everyone was at the Entertainment. And they'd be back any time now, carousing all over the place.

The castle felt big, and old, and cold.

Any time now.

Bound to.

The noise stopped.

Shawn peered around the comer. There were the steps, there was the open doorway to the dungeons.

"Stop!" shouted Shawn, just in case.

The sound echoed off the stones.

"Stop! Or . . . or . . . or . . . Stop!"

He eased his way down the steps and looked through the

archway

"I warn you! I'm learning the Path of the Happy Jade

Lotus!"

There was the door to the cell, standing ajar. And a

white-clad figure next to it. Shawn blinked. "Aren't you Miss Tockley?"

She smiled at him. Her eyes glowed in the dim light. "You're wearing chain-mail, Shawn," she said. "What, miss?" He glanced at the open door again. "That's terrible. You must take it off, Shawn. How can

you hear with all that stuff around your ears?"

Shawn was aware of the empty space behind him. But

he daren't look around.

"I can hear fine, miss," he said, trying to ease himself around so that his back was against a wall.

"But you can't hear truly," said Diamanda, drifting forward. "The iron makes you deaf."

Shawn was not yet used to thinly clad young women approaching him with a dreamy look on their faces. He fervently wished he could take the Path of the Retreating Back.

He glanced sideways.

There was a tall skinny shape outlined in the open cell doorway. It was standing very carefully, as if it wanted to keep as far away from its surroundings as possible.

Diamanda was smiling at him in a funny way.

He ran.

Somehow, the woods had changed. Ridcully was certain that in his youth they'd been full of bluebells and primroses and — and bluebells and whatnot and so on. Not bloody great briars all over the place. They snagged at his robe and once or twice some tree-climbing equivalent knocked his hat off.

What made it worse was that Esme Weatherwax seemed to avoid all of them.

"How do you manage that?"

"I just know where I am all the time," said Granny.

"Well? I know where I am, too."

"No you don't. You just happen to be present. That's not the same."

"Well, do you happen to know where a proper path is?"

"This is a short cut."

"Between two places where you're not lost, d'you mean?"

"I keep tellin' you, I ain't lost! I'm . . . directionally challenged."

"Hah!"

But it was a fact about Esme Weatherwax, he had to admit. She might be lost, and he had reason to suspect this was the case now, unless there were in this forest two trees with exactly the same arrangement of branches and a strip of his robe caught on one of them, but she did have a quality that in anyone not wearing a battered pointy hat and an antique black dress might have been called poise. Absolute poise. It would be hard to imagine her making an awkward movement unless she wanted to.

He'd seen that years ago, although of course at the time he'd just been amazed at the way her shape fitted perfectly into the space around it. And—

He'd got caught up again.

"Wait a minute!"

"Entirely the wrong sort of clothes for the country!"

"I wasn't expecting a hike through the woods! This is ceremonial damn costume!"

"Take it off, then."

"Then how will anyone know I'm a wizard?"

"I'll be sure to tell them!"

Granny Weatherwax was getting rattled. She was also, despite everything that she'd said, getting lost. But the point was that you couldn't get lost between the weir at the bottom of the Lancre rapids and Lancre town itself. It was uphill all the way Besides, she'd walked through the local forests all her life. They were her forests.

She was pretty sure they'd passed the same tree twice. There was a bit of Ridcully's robe hanging on it.

It was like getting lost in her own garden.

She was also sure she'd seen the unicorn a couple of times. It was tracking them. She'd tried to get into its mind. She might as well have tried to climb an ice wall.

It wasn't as if her own mind was tranquil. But now at least she knew she was sane.

When the walls between the universes are thin, when the parallel strands of If bunch together to pass through the Now, then certain things leak across. Tiny signals, perhaps, but audible to a receiver skilled enough.

In her head were the faint, insistent thoughts of a thousand Esme Weatherwaxes.

Magrat wasn't sure what to pack. Most of her original clothes seemed to have evaporated since she'd been in the castle, and it was hardly good manners to take the ones Verence had bought for her. The same applied to the engagement ring. She wasn't sure if you were allowed to keep it.

She glared at herself in the mirror.

She'd have to stop thinking like this. She seemed to have spent her whole life trying to make herself small, trying to be polite, apologizing when people walked over her, trying to be good-mannered. And what had happened? People had treated her as if she was small and polite and good-mannered.

She'd stick the, the, the damn letter on the mirror, so they'd all know why she'd gone.

She'd a damn good mind to go off to one of the cities and become a courtesan.

Whatever that was.

And then she heard the singing.

It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful sound Magrat had ever heard. It flowed straight through the ears and into the hindbrain, into the blood, into the bone . . .

A silk camisole dropped from her fingers on to the floor.

She wrenched at the door, and a tiny part of her mind still capable of rational thought remembered about the key.

The song filled the passageway. She gripped some folds of the wedding dress to make running easier and hurried toward the stairs . . .

Something bulleted out of another doorway and bore her to the floor.

It was Shawn Ogg. Through the chromatic haze she could see his worried face peering out from its hood of rusty—

—iron.

The song changed while staying the same. The complex harmonies, the fascinating rhythm did not alter but suddenly grated, as if she was hearing the song through different ears.

She was dragged into the doorway.

"Are you all right. Miss Queen?"

"What's happening?"

"Dunno, Miss Queen. But I think we've got elves."

"Elves?"

"And they've got Miss Tockley. Um. You know you took the iron away-"

"What are you talking about, Shawn?"

Shawn's face was white.

"That one down the dungeons started singing, and they'd put their mark on her, so she's doing what they want-"

"Shawn!"

"And Mum said they don't kill you, if they can help it. Not right away. You're much more fun if you're not dead."

Magrat stared at him.

"I had to run away! She was trying to get my hood off! I had to leave her, miss! You understand, miss?"

"Elves?"

"You got to hold on to something iron, miss! They hate iron!"

She slapped his face, hurting her fingers on the mail.

"You're gabbling, Shawn!"

"They're out there, miss! I heard the drawbridge go down! They're out there and we're in here and they don't kill you, they keep you alive-"

"Stand to attention, soldier!"

It was all she could think of. It seemed to work. Shawn pulled himself together.

"Look," said Magrat, "everyone knows there really aren't any elves any mo . . . " Her voice faded. Her eyes narrowed. "Everyone but Magrat Garlick knows different, yes?"

Shawn shook. Magrat grabbed his shoulders.

"Me mum and Mistress Weatherwax said you wasn't to know!" Shawn wailed. "They said it was witch business!"

"And where are they now, when they've got some witch business to mind?" said Magrat. "I don't see them, do you? Are they behind the door? No! Are they under the bed? How strange, they're not . . . there's just me, Shawn Ogg. And if you don't tell me everything you know right now I'll make you regret the day I was born."

Shawn's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he considered this. Then he shook himself free of Magrat's grasp and listened at the door.

The singing had stopped. For a moment Magrat thought she heard footsteps outside the door, hurrying away.

"Well, Miss Queen, our mum and Mistress Weatherwax was up at the Dancers-"

Magrat listened.

Finally she said, "And where's everyone now?"

"Dunno, miss. All gone to the Entertainment . . . but they ought to've been back by now."

"Where's the Entertainment?"

"Dunno, miss. Miss?"

"Yes?"

"Why've you got your wedding dress on?"

"Never you mind."

"It's unlucky for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding," said Shawn, taking refuge in run-of-the-mill idiocies to relieve his terror.

"It will be for him if I see him first," snarled Magrat.

"Miss?"

"Yes?"

"I'm feared about what's happened to everyone. Our Jason said they'd be back in an hour or so, and that was hours ago."

"But there's almost a hundred guests and everyone from the town, practically. Elves couldn't do anything to them."

"They wouldn't have to, miss." Shawn went to the unglazed window. "Look, miss. I can drop down on to the granary in the stable yard from here. It's thatch, I'll be all right. Then I can sneak around the kitchens and out by the little gate by the hubward tower with military precision."

"What for?"

"To get help, miss."

"But you don't know if there's any help to get."

"Can you think of anything else, miss?"

She couldn't.

"It's very . . . brave of you, Shawn," said Magrat.

"You stay here and you'll be right as rain," said Shawn. "Tell you what. . . How about if I lock the door and take the key with me? Then even if they sing at you they can't get you to open the door."

Magrat nodded.

Shawn tried to smile. "Wish we had another suit of mail," he said. "But it's all in the armoury."

"I'll be fine," said Magrat. "Off you go, then."

Shawn nodded. He waited for a moment on the window ledge, and then dropped into the darkness.

Magrat pushed the bed against the door and sat on it.

It occurred to her that she should have gone as well. But that would mean leaving the castle empty, and that didn't feel right.

Besides, she was scared.

There was one candle in the room, and that was half burned down. When it was gone, there'd be nothing but the moonlight. Magrat had always liked moonlight. Up to now.

It was quiet outside. There should be the noises of the town.

It crept over her that letting Shawn go away with a key to the door was not a wholly sensible thing, because if they caught him they could open—

There was a scream, which went on for a long time.

And then the night rolled back in again.

After a few minutes there was a scrabbling at the lock, such as might be made by someone trying to manipulate a key held in several thicknesses of cloth, so as not to come into contact with the iron.

The door began to open, and wedged up against the bed.

"Will you not step outside, lady?"

The door creaked again.

"Will you not come dance with us, pretty lady?"

The voice had strange harmonics and an echo that buzzed around the inside of the head for several seconds after the last word had been spoken.

The door burst open.

Three figures slid into the room. One looked up the bed, and the others poked into dark comers. Then one of them crossed to the window and looked out.

The crumbling wall stretched down to the thatched roof entirely unoccupied.

The figure nodded to two more shapes in the courtyard, its blond hair glowing in the moonlight.

One of them pointed up, to where a figure, its long white dress billowing in the breeze, was climbing up the wall of the keep.

The elf laughed. This was going to be more enjoyable than it'd suspected.

Magrat pulled herself over the windowsill and collapsed, panting, on the floor. Then she staggered across to the door, which was missing its key. But there were two heavy wooden bars, which she slotted into place.

There was a wooden shutter for the window.

They'd never let her get away with it again. She'd been expecting an arrow but . . . no, something as simple as that wouldn't have been enough fun.

She glared at the darkness. So . . . there was this room. She didn't even know which one it was. She found a candlestick and a bundle of matches and, after some scrabbling, got it lit.

There were some boxes and cases piled by the bed. So . . . a guest room.

The thoughts trickled through the silence of her brain, one after another.

She wondered if they'd sing to her, and if she could stand it again. Maybe if you knew what to expect. . .

There was a gentle tap at the door.

"We have your friends downstairs, lady. Come dance with me."

Magrat stared desperately around the room.

It was as featureless as guest bedrooms everywhere. Jug and basin on a stand, the horrible garderobe alcove inadequately concealed behind a curtain, the bed which had a few bags and bundles tossed on it, a battered chair with all the varnish gone and a small square of carpet made grey with age and ground-in dust.

The door rattled. "Let me in, sweet lady."

The window was no escape this time. There was the bed to hide under, and that'd work for all of two seconds, wouldn't it?

Her eye was drawn by some kind of horrible magic back to the room's garderobe, lurking behind its curtain.

Magrat lifted the lid. The shaft was definitely wide enough to admit a body. Garderobes were notorious in that respect. Several unpopular kings had met their end, as it were, in the garderobe, at the hands of an assassin with good climbing ability, a spear, and a fundamental approach to politics.

Something hit the door hard.

"Lady, shall I sing to you?"

Magrat reached a decision.

It was the hinges that gave way eventually, the rusty bolts finally losing their grip on the stone.

The alcove's half-drawn curtain moved in the breeze.

The elf smiled, strode to the curtain, and pulled it aside.

The oak lid was up.

The elf looked down.

Magrat rose up behind it like a white ghost and hit it hard across the back of the neck with the chair, which shattered.

The elf tried to turn and keep its balance, but there was still enough chair left in Magrat's hands for her to catch it on the desperate upswing. It toppled backward, flailed at the lid, and only succeeded in pulling it shut behind it. Magrat ' heard a thump and a scream of rage as it dropped into the noisome darkness. It'd be too much to hope that the fall would kill it. After all, it'd land in something soft.

"Not just high," said Magrat to herself, "but stinking."

Hiding under the bed is only good for about two seconds, but sometimes two seconds is enough.

She let go of the chair. She was shaking. But she was still alive, and that felt good. That's the thing about being alive. You're alive to enjoy it.