"...and now it's started on the Nougat Whirls!"

Granny s.n.a.t.c.hed at her hat and did a crabwise run along the row, crushing some of the finest footwear in Ankh-Morpork under her thick Lancre soles.

Nanny hung back reluctantly. She'd quite enjoyed the song, and she wanted to applaud. But her pair of hands wasn't necessary. The audience had exploded as soon as the last note had died away.

Nanny Ogg looked at the stage, and took note of something, and smiled. "Like that, eh?"

"Gytha!"

She sighed. "Coming, Esme. 'Scuse me. 'Scuse me. Sorry. 'Scuse me..."

Granny Weatherwax was out in the red plush corridor, leaning with her forehead against the wall.

"This is a bad one, Gytha," she muttered. "It's all twisted up. I ain't at all sure I can make it happen right. The poor soul..."

She straightened up. "Look at me, Gytha, will you?"

Gytha obediently opened her eyes wide. She winced a little as a fragment of Granny Weatherwax's consciousness crept behind her eyes.

Granny put her hat on, tucking in the occasional errant wisp of gray hair and then taking, one by one, the eight hat pins and ramming them home with the same frowning deliberation with which a mercenary might check his weapons.

"All right," she said at last.

Nanny Ogg relaxed. "It's not that I mind, Esme," she said, "but I wish you'd use a mirror."

"Waste of money," said Granny.

Now fully armored, she strode off along the corridor.

"Glad to see you didn't lose your temper with the man who went on about your hat," said Nanny, running along behind.

"No point. He's going to be dead tomorrow."

"Oh, dear. What of?"

"Run over by a cart, I think."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"I could be wrong."

Granny reached the stairs and thundered down them.

"Where're we going?"

"I want to see who's behind those curtains."

The applause, distant but still thunderous, filled the stairwell.

"They certainly like Agnes's voice," said Nanny.

"Yes. I hopes we're in time."

"Oh, b.u.g.g.e.r!"

"What?"

"I left Greebo up there!"

"Well, he likes meeting new people. Good grief, this place is a maze maze."

Granny stepped out into a curved corridor, rather plusher than the one they had left. There was a series of doors along it.

"Ah. Now, then..."

She walked along the row, counting, and then tried a handle.

"Can I help you, ladies?"

They turned. A little old woman had come up softly behind them, carrying a tray of drinks.

Granny smiled at her. Nanny Ogg smiled at the tray.

"We were just wondering," said Granny, "which person in these Boxes likes to sit with the curtains nearly shut?"

The tray began to shake.

"Here, shall I hold that for you?" said Nanny. "You'll spill something if you're not careful."

"What do you know about Box Eight?" said the old lady.

"Ah. Box Eight," said Granny. "That'd be the one, yes. That's this one over here, isn't it...?"

"No, please..."

Granny strode forward and grasped the handle.

The door was locked.

The tray was thrust into Nanny's welcoming hands. "Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do..." she said.

The woman pulled at Granny's arm. "Don't! It'll bring terrible bad luck!"

Granny thrust out her hand. "The key, madam!" Behind her, Nanny inspected a gla.s.s of champagne.

"Don't make him angry! It's bad enough as it is!" The woman was clearly terrified.

"Iron," said Granny, rattling the handle. "Can't magic iron..."

"Here," said Nanny, stepping forward a little unsteadily. "Give me one of your hat pins. Our Nev's taught me all kindsa tricks..."

Granny's hand rose to her hat, and then she looked at Mrs. Plinge's lined face. She lowered her hand.

"No," she said. "No, I reckon we'll leave it for now..."

"I don't know what's happening..." sobbed Mrs. Plinge. "It never used to be like this..."

"Have a good blow," said Nanny, handing her a grubby handkerchief and patting her kindly on the back.

"...there was none of this killing people...he just wanted somewhere to watch the opera...it made him feel better..."

"Who's this we're talking about?" said Granny.

Nanny Ogg gave her a warning look over the top of the old woman's head. There were some things best left to Nanny.

"...he'd unlock it for an hour every Friday for me to tidy up and there was always his little note saying thank you or apologizing for the chocolates down the seat...and where was the harm in it, that's what I'd like to know..."

"Have another good blow," said Nanny.

"...and now there's people dropping like flies out of the flies...they say it's him, but I know he never meant any harm..."

"'Course not," said Nanny, soothingly.

"...many's the time I've seen 'em look up at the Box. They always felt the better for it if they saw him...and then poor Mr. Pounder was strangulated. I looked around and there was his hat, just like that..."

"It's terrible when that happens," said Nanny Ogg. "What's your name, dear?"

"Mrs. Plinge," sniffed Mrs. Plinge. "It came right down in front of me. I'd have recognized it anywhere..."

"I think it would be a good idea if we took you home, Mrs. Plinge," said Granny.

"Oh, dear! I've got all these ladies and gentlemen to see to! And anyway it's dangerous going home this time of night...Walter walks me home but he's got to stay late tonight...oh dear..."

"Have another good blow," said Nanny. "Find a bit that isn't too soggy."

There was a series of sharp pops. Granny Weatherwax had interlocked her fingers and extended her hands at arm's length, so that her knuckles cracked.

"Dangerous, eh?" she said. "Well, we can't see you all upset like this. I'll walk you home and Mrs. Ogg will see to things here."

"...only I've got to attend to the Boxes...I've got all these drinks to serve...could've sworn I had them a moment ago..."

"Mrs. Ogg knows all about drinks," said Granny, glaring at her friend.

"There's nothing I don't know about drinks," agreed Nanny, shamelessly emptying the last gla.s.s. "Especially these."

"...and what about our Walter? He'll worry himself silly..."

"Walter's your son?" said Granny. "Wears a beret?"

The old woman nodded.

"Only I always comes back for him if he's working late..." she began.

"You come back for him...but he he sees you home?" said Granny. sees you home?" said Granny.

"It's...he's...he's..." Mrs. Plinge rallied. "He's a good boy," she said defiantly.

"I'm sure he is, Mrs. Plinge," said Granny.

She carefully lifted the little white bonnet off Mrs. Plinge's head and handed it to Nanny, who put it on, and also took the little white ap.r.o.n. That was the good thing about black. You could be nearly anything, wearing black. Mother Superior or Madam, it was really just a matter of the style. It just depended on the details.

There was a click. Box Eight had bolted itself. And then there was the very faint sc.r.a.pe of a chair being wedged under the door handle.

Granny smiled, and took Mrs. Plinge's arm. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she said.

Nanny nodded, and watched them go.

There was a little cupboard at the end of the corridor. It contained a stool, Mrs. Plinge's knitting, and a small but very well stocked bar. There were also, on a polished mahogany plank, a number of bells on big coiled springs.

Several of them were bouncing up and down angrily.

Nanny poured herself a gin and gin with a dash of gin and inspected the rows of bottles with considerable interest.

Another bell started to ring.

There was a huge jar of stuffed olives. Nanny helped herself to a handful and blew the dust off a bottle of port.

A bell fell off its spring.

Somewhere out in the corridor a door opened and a young man's voice bellowed, "Where are those drinks, woman!"

Nanny tried the port.

Nanny Ogg was used to the idea of domestic service. As a girl, she'd been a maid at Lancre Castle, where the king was inclined to press his intentions and anything else he could get hold of. Young Gytha Ogg had already lost her innocence* but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king's activities above them. but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king's activities above them.

The brief experience had given her certain views which weren't anything so definite as political but were very firmly Oggish. And Mrs. Plinge had looked as if she didn't get very much to eat and not a lot of time to sleep, either. Her hands had been thin and red. Nanny had a lot of time for the Plinges of the world.

Did port go with sherry? Oh, well, no harm in trying...

All the bells were ringing now. It must be coming up to the interval.

She methodically unscrewed the top off a jar of c.o.c.ktail onions, and thoughtfully crunched a couple.

Then, as other people started to poke their heads around the doors and make angry demands, she went to the champagne shelf and took down a couple of magnums. She gave them a d.a.m.n good shake, tucked one under each arm with a thumb on the corks, and stepped out into the corridor.

Nanny's philosophy of life was to do what seemed like a good idea at the time, and do it as hard as possible. It had never let her down.