'Run awayy, furry toy?' he suggested.

Behind the frightened eyes man and mouse fought for supremacy. But they needn't have bothered. They would lose either way. As consciousness flickered between the states it saw either a grinning cat or a six-foot, well-muscled, one-eyed grinning bully.

The coachmouse fainted. Greebo patted him a few times, in case he was going to move . . .

'Wake up, little mousey . . .'

. . . and then lost interest.

The coach door rattled, jammed, and then opened.

'What's happening?' said Ella.

'Wrowwwwl!'

Nanny Ogg's boot hit Greebo on the back of his head.

'Oh no you don't, my lad,' she said.

'Want to,' said Greebo sulkily.

'You always do, that's your trouble,' said Nanny, and smiled at Ella. 'Out you come, dear.'

Greebo shrugged, and then slunk off, dragging the stunned coachman after him.

'What's happening?' complained Ella. 'Oh. Magrat. Did you do this?'

Magrat allowed herself a moment's shy pride.

'I said you wouldn't have to go to the ball, didn't I?'

Ella looked around at the disabled coach, and then back to the witches.

'You ain't got any snake women in there with you, have you?' said Granny. Magrat gripped the wand.

'They went on ahead,' said Ella. Her face clouded as she recalled something.

'Lilith turned the real coachmen into beetles,' she whispered. 'I mean, they weren't that bad! She made them get some mice and she made them human and then she said, there's got to be balance, and the sisters dragged in the coachmen and she turned them into beetles and then . . . she trod on them . . .'

She stopped, horrified.

A firework burst in the sky, but in the street below a bubble of terrible silence hung in the air.

'Witches don't kill people,' said Magrat.

'This is foreign parts,' muttered Nanny, looking away.

'I think,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'that you ought to get right away from here, young lady.'

'They just went crack - '

'We've got the brooms,' said Magrat. 'We could all get away.'

'She'd send something after you,' said Ella darkly. 'I know her. Something from out of a mirror.'

'So we'd fight it,' said Magrat.

'No,' said Granny.' Whatever's going to happen's going to happen here. We'll send the young lady off somewhere safe and then ... we shall see.'

'But if I go away she'll know,' said Ella. 'She's expecting to see me at the ball right now! And she'll come looking!'

'That sounds right, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg. 'You want to face her somewhere you choose. I don't want her lookin' for us on a night like this. I want to see her coming.'

There was a fluttering in the darkness above them. A small dark shape glided down and landed on the cobbles. Even in the darkness its eyes gleamed. It stared expectantly at the witches with far too much intelligence for a mere fowl.

'That's Mrs Gogol's cockerel,' said Nanny, 'ain't it?'

'Exactly what it is I might never exactly decide,' said Granny. 'I wish I knew where she stood.'

'Good or bad, you mean?' said Magrat.

'She's a good cook,' said Nanny. 'I don't think anyone can cook like she do and be that bad.'

'Is she the woman who lives out in the swamp?' said Ella. 'I've heard all kinds of stories about her.'

'She's a bit too ready to turn dead people into zombies,' said Granny. 'And that's not right.'

'Well, we just turned a cat into a person - I mean, a human person' - Nanny, inveterate cat lover, corrected herself- 'and that's not strictly right either. It's probably a long way from strictly right.'

'Yes, but we did it for the right reasons,' said Granny.

'We don't know what Mrs Gogol's reasons are - '

There was a growl from the alley-way. Nanny scuttled towards it, and they heard her scolding voice.

'No! Put him down this minute!'

'Mine! Mine!'

Legba strutted a little way along the street, and then turned and looked expectantly at them.

Granny scratched her chin, and walked a little way away from Magrat and Ella, sizing them up. Then she turned and looked around.

'Hmm,' she said. 'Lily is expecting to see you, ain't she?'

'She can look out of reflections,' said Ella nervously.

'Hmm,' said Granny again. She stuck her finger in her ear and twiddled it for a moment. 'Well, Magrat, you're the godmother around here. What's the most important thing we have to do?'

Magrat had never played a card game in her life.

'Keep Ella safe,' she said promptly, amazed at Granny suddenly admitting that she was, after all, the one who had been given the wand. 'That's what fairy godmothering is all about.'

'Yes?'

Granny Weatherwax frowned.

'You know,' she said, 'you two are just about the same size . . .'

Magrat's expression of puzzlement lasted for half a second before it was replaced by one of sudden horror.

She backed away.

'Someone's got to do it,' said Granny.

'Oh, no! No! It wouldn't work! It really wouldn't work! No!'

'Magrat Garlick,' said Granny Weatherwax, tri-| umphantly, 'you shall go to the ball!'

The coach cornered on two wheels. Greebo stood on the coachman's box, swaying and grinning madly and cracking the whip. This was even better than his fluffy ball with a bell in it...

Inside the coach Magrat was wedged between the two older witches, her head in her hands.

'But Ella might get lost in the swamp!'

'Not with that cockerel leading the way. She'll be safer in Mrs Gogol's swamp than at the ball, I know that,' said Nanny.

' Thank youl'

'You're welcome,' said Granny.

'Everyone'll know I'm not her!'

'Not with the mask on they won't,' said Granny.

'But my hair's the wrong colour!''I can tint that up a treat, no problem,' said Nanny.

'I'm the wrong shapel'

'We can - ' Granny hesitated. 'Can you, you know, puff yourself out a bit more?'

'No!'

'Have you got a spare handkerchief, Gytha?'

'I reckon I could tear a bit off my petticoat, Esme.'

'Ouch!'

'There!'

'And these glass shoes don't fit!'

'They fit me fine,' said Nanny. 'I gave 'em a try.'

'Yes, but I've got smaller feet than you!'

'That's all right,' said Granny. 'You put on a couple of pairs of my socks and they'll fit real snug.'

Bereft of all further excuses, Magrat struck out in sheer desperation.

'But I don't know how to behave at balls!'

Granny Weatherwax had to admit that she didn't, either. She raised her eyebrows at Nanny.

'You used to go dancin' when you were young,' she "said.

'Well,' said Nanny Ogg, social tutor, 'what you do is, you tap men with your fan - got your fan? - and say things like “La, sir!” It helps to giggle, too. And flutter your eyelashes a bit. And pout.'

'How am I supposed to pout?'

Nanny Ogg demonstrated.

'Yuk!'

'Don't worry,' said Granny. 'We'll be there too.'

'And that's supposed to make me feel better, is it?'

Nanny reached behind Magrat and grabbed Granny's shoulder. Her lips formed the words: Won't work. She's all to pieces. No confidence.

Granny nodded.

'Perhaps I ought to do it,' said Nanny, in a loud voice. 'I'm experienced at balls. I bet if I wore my hair long and wore the mask and them shiny shoes and we hemmed up the dress a foot no one'd know the difference, what do you say?'

Magrat was so overawed by the sheer fascinating picture of this that she obeyed unthinkingly when Granny Weatherwax said, 'Look at me, Magrat Garlick.'

The pumpkin coach entered the palace drive at high speed, scattering horses and pedestrians, and braked by the steps in a shower of gravel.

'That was fun,' said Greebo. And then lost interest.

A couple of flunkies bustled forward to open the door, and were nearly thrown back by the sheer force of the arrogance that emanated from within.

'Hurry up, peasants!'

Magrat swept out, pushing the major-domo away. She gathered up her skirts and ran up the red carpet. At the top, a footman was unwise enough to ask her for her ticket.

'You impertinent lackeyl'

The footman, recognizing instantly the boundless bad manners of the well-bred, backed away quickly.

Down by the coach, Nanny Ogg said, 'You don't think you might have overdone it a little bit?'

'I had to,' said Granny. 'You know what she's like.'

'How are we going to get in? We ain't got tickets. And we ain't dressed properly, either.'

'Get the broomsticks down off the rack,' said Granny. 'We're going straight to the top.'

They touched down on the battlements of a tower overlooking the palace grounds. The strains of courtly music drifted up from below, and there was the occasional pop and flare of fireworks from the river.

Granny opened a likely-looking door in the tower and descended the circular stairs, which led to a landing.

'Posh carpet on the floor,' said Nanny. 'Why's it on the walls too ?'

'Them's tapestries,' said Granny.

'Cor,' said Nanny. 'You live and learn. Well, I do anyway.'

Granny stopped with her hand on a doorknob.

'What do you mean by that?' she said.

'Well, I never knew you had a sister.'

'We never talked about her.'

'It's a shame when families break up like that,' said Nanny.

'Huh! You said your sister Beryl was a greedy ingrate with the conscience of an oyster.'

'Well, yes, but she is my sister.'

Granny opened the door.

'Well, well,' she said.

'What's up? What's up? Don't just stand there.' Nanny peered around her and into the room.

'Coo,' she said.

Magrat paused in the big, red-velvet ante-room. Strange thoughts fireworked around her head; she hadn't felt like this since the herbal wine. But struggling among them like a tiny prosaic potato in a spray of psychedelic chrysanthemums was an inner voice screaming that she didn't even know how to dance. Apart from in circles.

But it couldn't be difficult if ordinary people managed it.

The tiny inner Magrat struggling to keep its balance on the surge of arrogant self-confidence wondered if this was how Granny Weatherwax felt all the time.

She raised the hem of her dress slightly and looked down at her shoes.

They couldn't be real glass, or else she'd be hobbling towards some emergency first aid by now. Nor were they transparent. The human foot is a useful organ but is not, except to some people with highly specialized interests, particularly attractive to look at.

The shoes were mirrors. Dozens of facets caught the light.

Two mirrors on her feet. Magrat vaguely recalled something about . . . about a witch never getting caught between two mirrors, wasn't it? Or was it never trust a man with orange eyebrows? Something she'd been taught, back when she'd been an ordinary person. Something. . . like ... a witch should never stand between two mirrors because, because, because the person that walked away might not be the same person. Or something. Like . . . you were spread out among the images, your whole soul was pulled out thin, and somewhere in the distant images a dark part of you would get out and come looking for you, if you weren't very careful. Or something.

She overruled the thought. It didn't matter.

She stepped forward, to where a little knot of other guests were waiting to make their entrance.

'Lord Henry Gleet and Lady Gleet!'

The ballroom wasn't a room at all, but a courtyard open to the soft night airs. Steps led down into it. At the far end, another much wider staircase, lined with nickering torches, led up into the palace itself. On the far wall, huge and easily visible, was a clock.

'The Honourable Douglas Incessant!'

The time was a quarter to eight. Magrat had a vague recollection of some old woman shouting something about the time, but. . . that didn't matter either . . .