“Um, no. Um.” Perdita had never heard Nanny sing, but news gets around.
“I like your black lace hanky,” said Nanny, not a bit abashed. “Very good for not showing the bogies.”
Perdita stared at the circle as though hypnotized. “Um. Shall we start, then?”
“Right.”
Nanny Ogg scurried back to the bench and elbowed Granny in the ribs.
“Wake up!”
Granny opened an eye.
“I weren't asleep, I was just resting me eyes.”
“All you've got to do is stare her down!”
“At least she knows about the importance of the stare, then. Hah! Who does she think she is? I've been staring at people all my life!”
“Yes, that's what's bothering me - aaahh . . . who's Nona's little boy, then?”
The rest of the Ogg clan had arrived.
Granny Weatherwax personally disliked young Pewsey. She disliked all small children, which is why she got on with them so well. In Pewsey's case, she felt that no one should be allowed to wander around in just a vest even if they were four years old. And the child had a permanently runny nose and ought to be provided with a handkerchief or, failing that, a cork.
Nanny Ogg, on the other hand, was instant putty in the hands of any grandchild, even one as sticky as Pewsey
“Want sweetie,” growled Pewsey, in that curiously deep voice some young children have.
“Just in a moment, my duck, I'm talking to the lady,” Nanny Ogg fluted.
“Want sweetie now.”
“Bugger off, my precious, Nana's busy right this minute.”
Pewsey pulled hard on Nanny Ogg's skirts.
“Now sweetie now!”
Granny Weatherwax leaned down until her impressive nose was about level with Pewsey's gushing one.
“If you don't go away,” she said gravely, “I will personally rip your head off and fill it with snakes.”
“There!” said Nanny Ogg. “There's lots of poor children in Klatch that'd be grateful for a curse like that.”
Pewsey's little face, after a second or two of uncertainty, split into a pumpkin grin.
“Funny lady,” he said.
“Tell you what,” said Nanny, patting Pewsey on the head and then absentmindedly wiping her hand on her dress, “you see them young ladies on the other side of the square? They've got lots of sweeties.”
Pewsey waddled off.
“That's germ warfare, that is,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“Come on,” said Nanny. “Our Jason's put a couple of chairs in the circle. You sure you're all right?”
“I'll do.”
Perdita Nitt traipsed across the road again.
“Er . . . Mrs. Ogg?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Er. Diamanda says you don't understand, she says they won't be trying to outstare one another . . .”
Magrat was bored. She'd never been bored when she was a witch. Permanently bewildered and overworked yes, but not bored.
She kept telling herself it'd probably be better when she really was queen, although she couldn't quite see how.
In the meantime she wandered aimlessly through the castle's many rooms, the swishing of her dress almost unheard above the background roar of the turbines of tedium:
-humdrumhumdrumhumdrum-
She'd spent the whole morning trying to learn to do tapestry, because Millie assured her that's what queens did, and the sampler with its message “Gods bless this House” was even now lying forlornly on her chair.
In the Long Gallery were huge tapestries of ancient battles, done by previous bored regal incumbents; it was amazing how all the fighters had been persuaded to stay still long enough. And she'd looked at the many, many paintings of the queens themselves, all of them pretty, all of them well-dressed according to the fashion of their times, and all of them bored out of their tiny well-shaped skulls.
Finally she went back to the solar. This was the big room on top of the main tower. In theory, it was there to catch the sun. It did. It also caught the wind and the rain. It was a sort of drift net for anything the sky happened to throw.
She yanked on the bellpull that in theory summoned a servant. Nothing happened. After a couple of further pulls, and secretly glad of the exercise, she went down to the kitchen. She would have liked to spend more time there. It was always warm and there was generally someone to talk to. But nobblyess obligay - queens had to live Above Stairs.
Below Stairs there was only Shawn Ogg, who was cleaning the oven of the huge iron stove and reflecting that this was no job for a military man.
“Where's everyone gone?”
Shawn leapt up, banging his head on the stove. “Ow! Sorry, miss! Um! Everyone's . . . everyone's down in the square, miss. I'm only here because Mrs. Scorbic said she'd have my hide if I didn't get all the yuk off.”
“What's happening in the square, then?”
“They say there's a couple of witches having a real set-to, miss.”
“What? Not your mother and Granny Weatherwax!”
“Oh no, miss. Some new witch.”
“In Lancre? A new witch?”
“I think that's what Mum said.”
“I'm going to have a look.”
“Oh, I don't think that'd be a good idea, miss,” said Shawn.
Magrat drew herself up regally.
“We happen to be Queen,” she said. “Nearly. So you don't tell one one can't do things, or one'll have you cleaning the privies!”
“But I does clean the privies,” said Shawn, in a reasonable voice. “Even the garderobe-”
“And that's going to go, for a start,” said Magrat, shuddering. “One's seen it.”
“Doesn't bother me, miss, it'll give me Wednesday afternoons free,” said Shawn, “but what I meant was, you'll have to wait till I've gone down to the armoury to fetch my horn for the fanfare.”
“One won't need a fanfare, thank you very much.”
“But you got to have a fanfare, miss.”