There was a robin's nest in the kettle, too. The birds had got in through a broken window pane. She carefully took the kettle outside and wedged it over the door so's to be safe from weasels, and boiled up some water in a saucepan.

Then she wound up the clock. Witches didn't have much use for clocks, but she kept it for the tick . . . well, mainly for the tick. It made a place seem lived in. It had belonged to her mother, who'd wound it up every day.

It hadn't come as a surprise to her when her mother died, firstly because Esme Weatherwax was a witch and witches have an insight into the future and secondly because she was already pretty experienced in medicine and knew the signs. So she'd had a chance to prepare herself, and hadn't cried at all until the day afterward, when the clock stopped right in the middle of the funeral lunch. She'd dropped a tray of ham rolls and then had to go and sit by herself in the privy for a while, so that no one would see.

Time to think about that sort of thing, now. Time to think about the past. . .

The clock ticked. The water boiled. Granny Weatherwax fished a bag of tea from the meagre luggage on her broomstick, and swilled out the teapot.

The fire settled down. The clamminess of a room unlived-in for months was gradually dispelled. The shadows lengthened.

Time to think about the past. Witches have an insight into the future. The business she'd have to mind soon enough would be her own. . .

And then she looked out of the window.

Nanny Ogg balanced carefully on a stool and ran a finger along the top of the dresser. Then she inspected the finger. It was spotless.

“Hummph,” she said. “Seems to be moderately clean.”

The daughters-in-law shivered with relief.

“So far,” Nanny added.

The three young women drew together in their mute terror.

Her relationship with her daughters-in-law was the only stain on Nanny Ogg's otherwise amiable character. Sons-in-law were different-she could remember their names, even their birthdays, and they joined the family like overgrown chicks creeping under the wings of a broody bantam. And grandchildren were treasures, every one. But any woman incautious enough to marry an Ogg son might as well resign herself to a life of mental torture and nameless domestic servitude.

Nanny Ogg never did any housework herself, but she was the cause of housework in other people.

She got down from the stool and beamed at them.

“You kept the place quite nice,” she said. “Well done.”

Her smile faded.

“Under the bed in the spare room,” she said. “Haven't looked under there yet, have I?”

Inquisitors would have thrown Nanny Ogg out of their ranks for being too nasty.

She turned as more members of the family filed into the room, and her face contorted into the misty grin with which she always greeted grandchildren.

Jason Ogg pushed his youngest son forward. This was Pewsey Ogg, aged four, who was holding something in his hands.

“What you got there, then?” said Nanny. “You can show your Nan.”

Pewsey held it up.

“My word, you have been a-”

It happened right there, right then, right in front of her.

* * *

And then there was Magrat.

She'd been away eight months.

Now panic was setting in. Technically she was engaged to the king, Verence II. Well . . . not exactly engaged, as such. There was, she was almost sure, a general unspoken understanding that engagement was a definite option. Admittedly she'd kept on telling him that she was a free spirit and definitely didn't want to be tied down in any way, and of course this was the case, more or less, but. . . but. . .

But. . . well . . . eight months. Anything could have happened in eight months. She should have come straight back from Genua, but the other two had been enjoying themselves.

She wiped the dust off her mirror and examined herself critically. Not a lot to work with, really. No matter what she did with her hair it took about three minutes for it to tangle itself up again, like a garden hosepipe left in a shed.[4] She'd bought herself a new green dress, but what had looked exciting and attractive on the plaster model looked like a furled umbrella on a Magrat.

Whereas Verence had been here reigning for eight months. Of course, Lancre was so small that you couldn't lie down without a passport, but he was a genuine king and genuine kings tended to attract young women looking for career opportunities in the queening department.

She did her best with the dress and dragged a vengeful brush through her hair.

Then she went up to the castle.

Guard duty at Lancre castle was the province of anyone who didn't have much of anything else to do at the moment. On duty today was Nanny Ogg's youngest son Shawn, in ill-fitting chain-mail. He brought himself to what he probably thought was attention as Magrat pattered past, and then dropped his pike and hurried after her.

“Can you slow down a bit, please, miss?”

He overtook her, ran up the steps to the door, picked up a trumpet that was hanging from a nail by a bit of string, and blew an amateurish fanfare. Then he looked panicky again.

“Wait right there, miss, right there . ., count to five, and then knock,” he said, and darted through the door, slamming it behind him.

Magrat waited, and then tried the knocker.

After a few seconds Shawn opened the door. He was red in the face and had a powdered wig on back to front.

“Yeeeuss?” he drawled, and tried to look like a butler.

“You've still got your helmet on under the wig,” said Magrat helpfully.

Shawn deflated. His eyes swivelled upward.

“Everyone at the haymaking?” said Magrat.

Shawn raised his wig, removed the helmet, and put the wig back. Then he distractedly put the helmet back on top of the wig.

“Yes, and Mr. Spriggins the butler is in bed with his trouble again,” said Shawn. “There's only me, miss. And I've got to get the dinner started before I'm off 'ome because Mrs. Scorbic is poorly.”

“You don't have to show me in,” said Magrat. “I do know the way.”

“No, it's got to be done proper,” said Shawn. “You just keep movin' slow and leave it to me.”

He ran on ahead and flung open some double doors-

“Meeeyisss Magraaaaat Garrrrrliick!”

-and scurried toward the next set of doors.

By the third pair he was out of breath, but he did his best.

“Meeeyisss . . . Magraaaaa . . . Garrrrrliick . . . His Majesteeeyyaa the Ki - Oh, bugger, now where's he gone?”

The throne room was empty.

They eventually found Verence II, King of Lancre, in the stable yard.

Some people are born to kingship. Some achieve kingship, or at least Arch-Generalissimo-Father-of-His-Countryship. But Verence had kingship thrust upon him. He hadn't been raised to it, and had only arrived at the throne by way of one of those complicated mix-ups of fraternity and parentage that are all too common in royal families.

He had in fact been raised to be a Fool, a man whose job it was to caper and tell jokes and have custard poured down his trousers. This had naturally given him a grave and solemn approach to life and a grim determination never to laugh at anything ever again, especially in the presence of custard.

In the role of ruler, then, he had started with the advantage of ignorance. No one had ever told him how to be a king, so he had to find out for himself. He'd sent off for books on the subject. Verence was a great believer in the usefulness of knowledge derived from books.

He had formed the unusual opinion that the job of a king is to make the kingdom a better place for everyone to live in.

Now he was inspecting a complicated piece of equipment. It had a pair of shafts for a horse, and the rest of it looked like a cartful of windmills.

He glanced up, and smiled in an absentminded way.

“Oh, hello,” he said. “All back safe then?”

“Um-” Magrat began.

“It's a patent crop rotator,” said Verence. He tapped the machine. “Just arrived from Ankh-Morpork. The wave of the future, you know. I've really been getting interested in agricultural improvement and soil efficiency. We'll really have to get cracking on this new three-field system.”

Magrat was caught off balance.

“But I think we've only got three fields,” she said, “and there isn't much soil in-”

“It's very important to maintain the correct relationship between grains, legumes, and roots,” said Verence, raising his voice. “Also, I'm seriously considering clover. I should be interested to know what you think!”

“Um-”

“And I think we should do something about the pigs!” Verence shouted, “The Lancre Stripe! Is very hardy! But we could really bring the poundage up! By careful cross-breeding! With, say, the Sto Saddleback! I'm having a boar sent up - Shawn, will you only stop blowing that damn trumpet!”

Shawn lowered the trumpet.

“I'm doin' a fanfare, your majesty.”

“Yes, yes, but you're not supposed to go on. A few brief notes are a sufficiency.” Verence sniffed. “And something's burning.”

“Oh, blow . . . it's the carrots . . .” Shawn hurried away

“That's better,” said Verence. “Where were we?”

“Pigs, I think,” said Magrat, “but I really came to-”

“It all comes down to the soil,” said Verence. “Get the soil right, and everything else follows. Incidentally, I'm arranging the marriage for Midsummer Day I thought you'd like that.”

Magrat's mouth formed an 0.

“We could move it, of course, but not too much because of the harvest,” said Verence.

“I've had some invitations sent out already, to the more obvious guests,” said Verence.

“And I thought it might be a nice idea to have some sort of fair or festival beforehand,” said Verence.

“I asked Boggi's in Ankh-Morpork to send up their best dressmaker with a selection of materials and one of the maids is about your size and I think you'll be very pleased with the result,” said Verence.

“And Mr. Ironfoundersson, the dwarf, came down the mountain specially to make the crown,” said Verence.

“And my brother and Mr. Vittoller's Men can't come because they're touring Klatch, apparently, but Hwel the playsmith has written a special play for the wedding entertainment. Something even rustics can't muck up, he says,” said Verence.

“So that's all settled then?” said Verence.

Finally, Magrat's voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.

“Aren't you supposed to ask me?” she demanded.

“What? Urn. No, actually,” said Verence. “No. Kings don't ask. I looked it up. I'm the king, you see, and you are, no offence meant, a subject. I don't have to ask.”

Magrat's mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.

Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away. And he'll probably come after you.

Very probably.

Urn.

Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice little man with gentle runny eyes but he's also a king and he's been looking things up. But very probably quite probably

But. . .

Do you want to bet the rest of your life? Isn't this what you wanted anyway? Isn't it what you came here hoping for? Really?