"But I thought she was fighting you yesterday!" said Magrat.

"Makes no difference," said Granny. "Morning, your majesty."

King Verence nodded. Some kings would have shouted for the guards at this point but Verence did not because he ' was sensible, this was Granny Weatherwax and in any case the only available guard was Shawn Ogg, who was trying to straighten out his trumpet.

Nanny Ogg had drifted over to the sideboard. It wasn't that she was callous, but it had been a busy few hours and there was a lot of breakfast that no one seemed to be interested in.

"What happened to her?" said Magrat, inspecting the girl carefully.

Granny looked around the room. Suits of armour, shields hanging on the walls, rusty old swords and pikes . . . probably enough iron here . . .

"She was shot by an elf-"

"But-" said Magrat and Verence at the same time.

"Don't ask questions now, got no time. Shot by an elf. Them horrible arrows of theirs. They make the mind go wandering off all by itself. Now — can you do anything?"

Despite her better nature, Magrat felt a spark of righteous ire.

"Oh, so suddenly I'm a witch again when you-"

Granny Weatherwax sighed.

"No time for that, either," she said. "I'm just askin'. All you have to do is say no. Then I'll take her away and won't bother you again."

The quietness of her voice was so unexpected that Magrat tripped over her own anger, and tried to right herself.

"I wasn't saying I wouldn't, I was just-"

"Good."

There was a series of clangs as Nanny Ogg lifted the silver tureen lids.

"Hey, they've got three kinds of eggs!"

"Well, there's no fever," said Magrat. "Slow pulse. Eyes unfocused. Shawn?"

"Yes, Miss Queen?"

"Boiled, scrambled and fried. That's what I call posh."

"Run down to my cottage and bring back all the books you can find. I'm sure I read something about this once, Granny. Shawn?"

Shawn paused halfway to the door.

"Yes, Miss Queen?"

"On your way out, stop off in the kitchens and ask them to boil up a lot of water. We can start by getting the wound clean, at any rate. But look, elves-"

"I'll let you get on with it, then," said Granny, turning away. "Can I have a word with you, your majesty? There's something downstairs you ought to see."

"I shall need some help," said Magrat.

"Nanny'll do it."

"That's me," said Nanny indistinctly, spraying crumbs.

"What are you eating?"

"Fried egg and ketchup sandwich," said Nanny happily.

"You better get the cook to boil you, too," said Magrat, rolling up her sleeves. "Go and see her." She looked at the wound. "And see if she's got any mouldy bread . . ."

The basic unit of wizardry is the Order or the College or, of course, the University.

The basic unit of witchcraft is the witch, but the basic continuous unit, as has already been indicated, is the cottage.

A witch's cottage is a very specific architectural item. It is not exactly built, but put together over the years as the areas of repair join up, like a sock made entirely of dams. The chimney twists like a corkscrew. The roof is thatch so old that small but flourishing trees are growing in it, the floors are switchbacks, it creaks at night like a tea clipper in a gale. If at least two walls aren't shored up with balks of timber then it's not a true witch's cottage at all, but merely the home of some daft old bat who reads tea leaves and talks to her cat.

Cottages tend to attract similar kinds of witches. It's natural. Every witch trains up one or two young witches in their life, and when in the course of mortal time the cottage becomes vacant it's only sense for one of them to move in.

Magrat's cottage traditionally housed thoughtful witches who noticed things and wrote things down. Which herbs were better than others for headaches, fragments of old stories, odds and ends like that.

There were a dozen books of tiny handwriting and drawings, the occasional interesting flower or unusual frog pressed carefully between the pages.

It was a cottage of questioning witches, research witches. Eye of what newt? What species of ravined salt-sea shark? It's all very well a potion calling for Love-in-idleness, but which of the thirty-seven common plants called by that name in various parts of the continent was actually meant?

The reason that Granny Weatherwax was a better witch than Magrat was that she knew that in witchcraft it didn't matter a damn which one it was, or even if it was a piece of grass.

The reason that Magrat was a better doctor than Granny was that she thought it did.

The coach slowed to a halt in front of the barricade across the road.

The bandit chieftain adjusted his eyepatch. He had two good eyes, but people respect uniforms. Then he strolled toward the coach.

"Morning, Jim. What've we got today, then?"

"Uh. This could be difficult," said the coachman. "Uh, there's a handful of wizards. And a dwarf. And an ape." He rubbed his head, and winced. "Yes. Definitely an ape. Not, and I think I should make this clear, any other kind of manshaped thing with hair on."

"You all right, Jim?"

"I've had this lot ever since Ankh-Morpork. Don't talk to me about dried frog pills."

The bandit chief raised his eyebrows.

"All right. I won't."

He knocked on the coach door. The window slid down.

"I wouldn't like you to think of this as a robbery," he said. "I'd like you to think of it more as a colourful anecdote you might enjoy telling your grandchildren about."

A voice from within said, "That's him! He stole my horse!"

A wizard's staff poked out. The chieftain saw the knob on the end.

"Now, then," he said, pleasantly. "I know the rules. Wizards aren't allowed to use magic against civilians except in genuine life-threatening situa-"

There was a burst of octarine light.

"Actually, it's not a rule," said Ridcully. "It's more a guideline." He turned to Ponder Stibbons. "Interestin' use of Stacklady's Morphic Resonator here, I hope you noticed."

Ponder looked down.

The chieftain had been turned into a pumpkin although, in accordance with the rules of universal humour, he still had his hat on.

"And now," said Ridcully, "I'd be obliged if all you fellows hidin' behind the rocks and things would just step out where I can see you. Very good. Mr. Stibbons, you and the Librarian just pass around with the hat, please."

"But this is robbery!" said the coachman. "And you've turned him into a fruit!"

"A vegetable," said Ridcully "Anyway, it'll wear off in a couple of hours."

"And I'm owed a horse," said Casanunda.

The bandits paid up, reluctantly handing over money to Ponder and reluctantly but very quickly handing over money to the Librarian.

"There's almost three hundred dollars, sir," said Ponder.

"And a horse, remember. In fact, there were two horses. I'd forgotten about the other horse until now."

"Capital! We're in pocket on the trip. So if these gentlemen would just remove the roadblock, we'll be on our way."

"In fact, there was a third horse I've just remembered about."

"This isn't what you're supposed to do! You're supposed to be robbed!" shouted the coachman.

Ridcully pushed him off the board.

"We're on holiday," he said.

The coach rattled away There was a distant cry of "And four horses, don't forget" before it rounded a bend.

The pumpkin developed a mouth.

"Have they gone?"

"Yes, boss."

"Roll me into the shade, will you? And no one say anything about this ever again. Has anyone got any dried frog pills?"

Verence II respected witches. They'd put him on the throne. He was pretty certain of that, although he couldn't quite work out how it had happened. And he was in awe of Granny Weatherwax.

He followed her meekly toward the dungeons, hurrying to keep up with her long stride.

"What's happening, Mistress Weatherwax?"

"Got something to show you."

"You mentioned elves."

"That's right."

"I thought they were a fairy story."

"Well?"

"I mean . . . you know . . . an old wives' tale?"

"So?"

Granny Weatherwax seemed to generate a gyroscopic field — if you started out off-balance, she saw to it that you remained there.

He tried again.

"Don't exist, is what I'm trying to say."

Granny reached a dungeon door. It was mainly age-blackened oak, but with a large barred grille occupying some of the top half.

"In there."

Verence peered inside.

"Good grief!"

"I got Shawn to unlock it. I don't reckon anyone else saw us come in. Don't tell anyone. If the dwarfs and the trolls find out, they'll tear the walls apart to get him out."

"Why? To kill him?"

"Of course. They've got better memories than humans."

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Just keep it locked up. How should I know? I've got to think!"

Verence peered in again at the elf. It was lying curled up in the centre of the floor.

"That's an elf? But it's . . . just a long, thin human with a foxy face. More or less. I thought they were supposed to be beautiful?"

"Oh, they are when they're conscious," said Granny, waving a hand vaguely "They project this . . . this . . . when people look at them, they see beauty, they see something they want to please. They can look just like you want them to look. 'S'called glamour. You can tell when elves are around. People act funny. They stop thinking clear. Don't you know anything?"

"I thought . . . elves were just stories . . . like the Tooth Fairy. . ."

"Nothing funny about the Tooth Fairy," said Granny. "Very hard-working woman. I'll never know how she manages with the ladder and everything. No. Elves are real. Oh, drat. Listen. . ."

She turned, and held up a finger.

"Feudal system, right?"

"What?"

"Feudal system! Pay attention. Feudal system. King on top, then barons and whatnot, then everyone else . . . witches off to one side a bit," Granny added diplomatically. She steepled her fingers. "Feudal system. Like them pointy buildings heathen kings get buried in. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Right. That's how the elves see things, yes? When they get into a world, everyone else is on the bottom. Slaves. Worse than slaves. Worse than animals, even. They take what they want, and they want everything. But worst of all, the worst bit is . . . they read your mind. They hear what you think, and in self-defence you think what they want. Glamour. And it's barred windows at night, and food out for the fairies, and turning around three times before you talks about 'em, and horseshoes over the door."

"I thought that sort of thing was, you know," the king grinned sickly, "folklore?"

"Of course it's folklore, you stupid man!"

"I do happen to be king, you know," said Verence reproachfully.

"You stupid king, your majesty,"

"Thank you."

"I mean it doesn't mean it's not true! Maybe it gets a little muddled over the years, folks forget details, they forget why they do things. Like the horseshoe thing."

"I know my granny had one over the door," said the king.

"There you are. Nothing to do with its shape. But if you lives in an old cottage and you're poor, it's probably the nearest bit of iron with holes in it that you can find."

"Ah."

"The thing about elves is they've got no . . . begins with m," Granny snapped her fingers irritably.

"Manners?"

"Hah! Right, but no."

"Muscle? Mucus? Mystery?"

"No. No. No. Means like . . . seein' the other person's point of view."

Verence tried to see the world from a Granny Weatherwax perspective, and suspicion dawned.

"Empathy?"

"Right. None at all. Even a hunter, a good hunter, can feel for the quarry. That's what makes 'em a good hunter. Elves aren't like that. They're cruel for fun, and they can't understand things like mercy. They can't understand that anything apart from themselves might have feelings. They laugh a lot, especially if they've caught a lonely human or a dwarf or a troll. Trolls might be made out of rock, your majesty, but I'm telling you that a troll is your brother compared to elves. In the head, I mean."

"But why don't I know all this?"

"Glamour. Elves are beautiful. They've got," she spat the word, "style. Beauty. Grace. That's what matters. If cats looked like frogs we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That's what people remember. They remember the glamour. All the rest of it, all the truth of it, becomes . . . old wives' tales."

"Magrat's never said anything about them."

Granny hesitated.

"Magrat doesn't know too much about elves," she said. "Hah. She ain't even a young wife yet. They're not something that gets talked about a lot these days. It's not good to talk about them. It's better if everyone forgets about them. They . . . come when they're called. Not called like 'Cooee.' Called inside people's heads. It's enough for people just to want them to be here."

Verence waved his hands in the air.

"I'm still learning about monarchy," he said. "I don't understand this stuff."

"You don't have to understand. You're a king. Listen. You know about weak places in the world? Where it joins other worlds?"

"No."

"There's one up on the moor. That's why the Dancers were put up around it. They're a kind of wall."

"But sometimes the barriers between worlds is weaker, see? Like tides. At circle time."

"Ah."

"And if people act stupidly then, even the Dancers can't keep the gateway shut. 'Cos where the world's thin, even the wrong thought can make the link."

"Ah."

Verence felt the conversation had orbited back to that area where he could make a contribution.

"Stupidly?" he said.

"Calling them. Attracting them."

"Ah. So what do I do?"

"Just go on reigning. I think we're safe. They can't get through. I've stopped the girls, so there'll be no more channeling. You keep this one firmly under lock and key, and don't tell Magrat. No sense in worrying her, is there? Something came through, but I'm keeping an eye on it."

Granny rubbed her hands together in grim satisfaction.

"I think I've got it sorted," she said.

She blinked.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"What did I just say?" she said.

"Uh. You said you thought you'd got it sorted," said the king.

Granny Weatherwax blinked.

"That's right," she said. "I said that. Yes. And I'm in the castle, aren't I? Yes."

"Are you all right. Mistress Weatherwax?" said the king, his voice taut with sudden worry.

"Fine, fine. Fine. In the castle. And the children are all right, too?"

"Sorry?"

She blinked again.

"What?"

"You don't look well. . ."

Granny screwed up her face and shook her head. "Yes. The castle. I'm me, you're you, Gytha's upstairs with Magrat. That's right." She focused on the king. "Just a bit of . . . of overtiredness there. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about at all."

Nanny Ogg looked doubtfully at Magrat's preparation.

"A mouldy bread poultice doesn't sound very magical to me," she said.

"Goodie Whemper used to swear by it. But I don't know what we can do about the coma."

Magrat thumbed hopefully through the crackling, ancient pages. Her ancestral witches had written things down pretty much as they occurred to them, so that quite important spells and observations would be interspersed with comments about the state of their feet.

"It says here 'The smalle pointy stones sometimes found are knowne as Elf-shot, beinge the heads of Elf arrows from Times Past.' " That's all I can find. And there's a drawing. But I've seen these little stones around, too."

"Oh, there's lots of them," said Nanny, bandaging Diamanda's shoulder. "Dig 'em up all the time, in my garden."

"But elves don't shoot people! Elves are good."

"They probably just fired at Esme and the girl in fun, like?"

"But-"

"Look, dear, you're going to be queen. It's an important job. You look after the king now, and let me and Esme look after . . . other stuff."

"Being Queen? It's all tapestry and walking around in unsuitable dresses! I know Granny. She doesn't like anything that's . . . that's got style and grace. She's so sour."

"I daresay she's got her reasons," said Nanny amiably. "Well, that's got the girl patched up. What shall we do with her now?"

"We've got dozens of spare bedrooms," said Magrat, "and they're all ready for the guests. We can put her in one of them. Um. Nanny?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to be a bridesmaid?"

"Not really, dear. Bit old for that sort of thing." Nanny hovered. "There isn't anything you need to ask me, though, is there?"

"What do you mean?"

"What with your mum being dead and you having no female relatives and everything. . ."

Magrat still looked puzzled.

"After the wedding, is what I'm hinting about," said Nanny.

"Oh, that. No, most of that's being done by a caterer. The cook here isn't much good at canapes and things."

Nanny looked carefully at the ceiling.

"And what about after that?" she said. "If you catch my meaning."

"I'm getting a lot of girls in to do the clearing up. Look, don't worry. I've thought of everything. I wish you and Granny wouldn't treat me as if I don't know anything."

Nanny coughed. "Your man," she said. "Been around a bit, I expect? Been walking out with dozens of young women, I've no doubt."

"Why do you say that? I don't think he has. Fools don't have much of a private life and, of course, he's been very busy since he's been king. He's a bit shy with girls."

Nanny gave up.

"Oh, well," she said, "I'm sure you'll work it all out as you-"

Granny and the king reappeared.

"How's the girl?" said Granny.

"We took out the arrow and cleaned up the wound, anyway," said Magrat. "But she won't wake up. Best if she stays here."

"You sure?" said Granny. "She needs keeping an eye on. I've got a spare bedroom."

"She shouldn't be moved," said Magrat, briskly.

"They've put their mark on her," said Granny. "You sure you know how to deal with it?"

"I do know it's quite a nasty wound," said Magrat, briskly.

"I ain't exactly thinking about the wound," said Granny. "She's been touched by them is what I mean. She's-"

"I'm sure I know how to deal with a sick person," said Magrat. "I'm not totally stupid, you know."

"She's not to be left alone," Granny persisted.

"There'll be plenty of people around," said Verence. "The guests start arriving tomorrow."

"Being alone isn't the same as not having other people around," said Granny.

"This is a castle. Granny."

"Right. Well. We won't keep you, then," said Granny. "Come, Gytha."

Nanny Ogg helped herself to an elderly lamb chop from under one of the silver covers, and waved it vaguely at the royal pair.

"Have fun," she said. "Insofar as that's possible."

"Gytha!"

"Coming."

Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.

Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.

Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.

Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.

Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.

Elves are terrific. They beget terror.

The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.

No one ever said elves are nice.

Elves are bad.

"Well, that's it," said Nanny Ogg, as the witches walked out over the castle's drawbridge. "Well done, Esme."

"It ain't over," said Granny Weatherwax.

"You said yourself they can't get through now. No one else round here's going to try any magic at the stones, that's sure enough."

"Yes, but it'll be circle time for another day or so yet. Anything could happen."

"That Diamanda girl's out of it, and you've put the wind up the others," said Nanny Ogg, tossing the lamb bone into the dry moat. "Ain't no one else going to call 'em, I know that."

"There's still the one in the dungeon."

"You want to get rid of it?" said Nanny. "I'll send our Shawn to King Ironfoundersson up at Copperhead, if you like. Or I could hop on the old broomstick meself and go and drop the word to the Mountain King. The dwarfs and trolls'll take it off our hands like a shot. No more problem."

Granny ignored this.

"There's something else," she said. "Something we haven't thought of. She'll still be looking for a way."

They'd reached the town square now. She surveyed it. Of course, Verence was king and that was right and proper, and this was his kingdom and that was right and proper too. But in a deeper sense the kingdom belonged to her. And to Gytha Ogg, of course. Verence's writ only ran to the doings of mankind; even the dwarfs and trolls didn't acknowledge him as king, although they were very polite about it. But when it came to the trees and the rocks and the soil. Granny Weatherwax saw it as hers. She was sensitive to its moods.

It was still being watched. She could sense the watchfulness. Sufficiently close examination changes the thing being observed, and what was being observed was the whole country. The whole country was under attack, and here she was, her mind unravelling . . .

"Funny thing," said Nanny Ogg, to no one in particular, "while I was sitting up there at the Dancers this morning I thought, funny thing. . ."

"What're you going on about now?"

"I remember when I was young there was a girl like Diamanda. Bad-tempered and impatient and talented and a real pain in the bum to the old witches. I don't know if you happen to remember her, by any chance?"

They passed Jason's forge, which rang to the sound of his hammer.

"I never forgot her," said Granny, quietly.

"Funny thing, how things go round in circles . . ."

"No they don't," said Granny Weatherwax firmly. "I wasn't like her. You know what the old witches round here were like. Set in their ways. No more than a bunch of old wart-charmers. And I wasn't rude to them. I was just . . . firm. Forthright. I stood up for meself. Part of being a witch is standing up for yourself — you're grinning."

"Just wind, I promise."

"It's completely different with her. No one's ever been able to say I wasn't open to new ideas."

"Well known for being open to new ideas, you are," said Nanny Ogg. "I'm always saying, that Esme Weatherwax, she's always open to new ideas."

"Right." Granny Weatherwax looked up at the forested hills around the town, and frowned.

"The thing is," she said, "girls these days don't know how to think with a clear mind. You've got to think clearly and not be distracted. That's Magrat for you, always being distracted. It gets in the way of doing the proper thing." She stopped. "I can feel her, Gytha. The Queen of the Fairies. She can get her mind past the stones. Blast that girl! She's got a way in. She's everywhere. Everywhere I look with my mind, I can smell her."

"Everything's going to be all right," said Nanny, patting her on the shoulder. "You'll see."

"She's looking for a way," Granny repeated.

"Good morrow, brothers, and wherehap do we whist this merry day?" said Carter the baker.

The rest of the Lancre Morris Men looked at him.

"You on some kind of medication or what?" said Weaver the thatcher.

"Just trying to enter into the spirit of the thing," said Carter.

"That's how rude mechanicals talk."

"Who're rude mechanicals?" said Baker the weaver.

"They're the same as Comic Artisans, I think," said Carter the baker.

"I asked my mum what artisans are," said Jason.

"Yeah?"

"They're us."

"And we're Rude Mechanicals as well?" said Baker the weaver.

"I reckon."

"Bum!"

"Well, we certainly don't talk like these buggers in the writing," said Carter the baker. "I never said 'fol-de-rol' in my life. And I can't understand any of the jokes."

"You ain't supposed to understand the jokes, this is a play," said Jason.

"Drawers!" said Baker the weaver.

"Oh, shut up. And push the cart."

"Don't see why we couldn't do the Stick and Bucket Dance . . ." mumbled Tailor the other weaver.

"We're not doing the Stick and Bucket dance! I never want to hear any more ever about the Stick and Bucket dance! I still get twinges in my knee! So shut up about the Stick and Bucket dance!"

"Belly!" shouted Baker, who wasn't a man to let go of an idea.

The cart containing the props bumped and skidded on the rutted track.

Jason had to admit that Morris dancing was a lot easier than acting. People didn't keep turning up to watch and giggle. Small children didn't stand around jeering. Weaver and Thatcher were in almost open rebellion now, and mucking up the words. The evenings were becoming a constant search for somewhere to rehearse.

Even the forest wasn't private enough. It was amazing how people would just happen to be passing.

Weaver stopped pushing, and wiped his brow.

"You'd have thought the Blasted Oak would've been safe," he said. "Half a mile from the nearest path, and damn me if after five minutes you can't move for charcoal burners, hermits, trappers, tree tappers, hunters, trolls, bird-limers, hurdle-makers, swine-herds, truffle hunters, dwarfs, bodgers and suspicious buggers with big coats on. I'm surprised there's room in the forest for the bloody trees. Where to now?"

They'd reached a crossroads, if such it could be called.

"Don't remember this one," said Carpenter the poacher. "Thought I knew all the paths around here."

"That's 'cos you only ever sees 'em in the dark," said Jason.

"Yeah, everyone knows 'tis your delight on a shining night," said Thatcher the carter.

"Tis his delight every night," said Jason.

"Hey," said Baker the weaver, "we're getting really good at this rude mechanism, ain't we?"

"Let's go right," said Jason.

"Nah, it's all briars and thorns that way."

"All right, then, left then."

"It's all winding," said Weaver.

"What about the middle road?" said Carter.

Jason peered ahead.

There was a middle track, hardly more than an animal path, which wound away under shady trees. Ferns grew thickly alongside it. There was a general green, rich, dark feel to it, suggested by the word "bosky[22]"

His blacksmith's senses stood up and screamed.

"Not that way," he said.

"Ah, come on," said Weaver. "What's wrong with it?"

"Goes up to the Dancers, that path does," said Jason. "Me mam said no one was to go up to the Dancers 'cos of them young women dancing round 'em in the nudd."

"Yeah, but they've been stopped from that," said Thatcher. "Old Granny Weatherwax put her foot down hard and made 'em put their drawers on."

"And they ain't to go there anymore, neither," said Carter. "So it'll be nice and quiet for the rehearsing."

"Me mam said no one was to go there," said Jason, a shade uncertainly.

"Yeah, but she probably meant . . . you know . . . with magical intent," said Carter. "Nothing magical about prancing around in wigs and stuff."

"Right," said Thatcher. "And it'll be really private."

"And," said Weaver, "if any young women fancies sneaking back up there to dance around without their drawers on, we'll be sure to see 'em."

There was a moment of absolute, introspective silence.

"I reckon," said Thatcher, voicing the unspoken views of nearly all of them, "we owes it to the community."

"We-ell," said Jason, "me mam said . . ."

"Anyway, your mum's a fine one to talk," said Weaver. "My dad said that when he was young, your mum hardly ever had-"

"Oh, all right," said Jason, clearly outnumbered. "Can't see it can do any harm. We're only actin'. It's . . . it's make-believe. It's not as if it's anything real. But no one's to do any dancing. Especially, and I want everyone to be absolutely definite about this, the Stick and Bucket dance."

"Oh, we'll be acting all right," said Weaver. "And keeping watch as well, o'course."

"It's our duty to the community," said Thatcher, again.

"Make-believe is bound to be all right," said Jason, uncertainly.

Clang boinng clang ding . . .

The sound echoed around Lancre.

Grown men, digging in their gardens, flung down their spades and hurried for the safety of their cottages . . .

Clang boinnng goinng ding . . .

Women appeared in doorways and yelled desperately for their children to come in at once . . .

. . . BANG buggrit Dong boinng . . .

Shutters thundered shut. Some men, watched by their frightened families, poured water on the fire and tried to stuff sacks up the chimney . . .

Nanny Ogg lived alone, because she said old people needed their pride and independence. Besides, Jason lived on one side, and he or his wife whatshername could easily be roused by means of a boot applied heavily to the wall, and Shawn lived on the other side and Nanny had got him to fix up a long length of string with some tin cans on it in case his presence was required. But this was only for emergencies, such as when she wanted a cup of tea or felt bored.