Lords and Ladies

Magrat at all . Our Shawn said Millie Chillum said she was just a bag of nerves this morning.”
    “All these high-born folks,” said Granny, looking around at the crowned heads. “I feel like a fish out of water.”
    “Well, the way I see it, it’s up to you to make your own water,” said Nanny, picking up a cold roast chicken leg from the buffet and stuffing it up a sleeve.
    “Don’t drink too much. We’ve got to keep alert, Gytha. Remember what I said. Don’t let yourself get distracted—”
    “That’s never the delectable Mrs. Ogg, is it?”
    Nanny turned.
    There was no one behind her.
    “Down here,” said the voice.
    She looked down, into a wide grin.
    “Oh, blast,” she said.
    “It’s me, Casanunda,” said Casanunda, who was dwarfed still further by an enormous * powdered wig. “You remember? We danced the night away in Genua?”
    “No we didn’t.”
    “Well, we could have done.”
    “Fancy you turning up here,” said Nanny, weakly. The thing about Casanunda, she recalled, was that the harder you slapped him down the faster he bounced back, often in an unexpected direction.
    “Our stars are entwined,” said Casanunda. “We’re fated for one another. I wants your body, Mrs. Ogg.”
    “I’m still using it.”
    And while she suspected, quite accurately, that this was an approach the world’s second greatest lover used on anything that appeared to be even vaguely female, Nanny Ogg had to admit that she was flattered. She’d had many admirers in her younger days, but time had left her with a body that could only be called comfortable and a face like Mr. Grape the Happy Raisin. Long-banked fires gave off a little smoke.
    Besides, she’d rather liked Casanunda. Most men were oblique in their approach, whereas his direct attack was refreshing.
    “It’d never work,” she said. “We’re basically incompatible. When I’m 5' 4" you’ll still only be 3' 9". Anyway, I’m old enough to be your mother.”
    “You can’t be. My mother’s nearly 300, and she’s got a better beard than you.”
    And of course that was another point. By dwarf standards, Nanny Ogg was hardly more than a teenager.
    “La, sir,” she said, giving him a playful tap that made his ears ring, “you do know how to turn a simple country girl’s head and no mistake!”
    Casanunda picked himself up and adjusted his wig happily.
    “I like a girl with spirit,” he said. “How about you and me having a little tête-à-tête when this is over?”
    Nanny Ogg’s face went blank. Her cosmopolitan grip of language had momentarily let her down.
    “Excuse me a minute,” she said. She put her drink down on his head and pushed through the crowd until she found a likely looking duchess, and prodded her in the bustle regions.
    “Hey, your grace, what’s a tater tate?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “A tater tate? Do you do it with your clothes on or what?”
    “It means an intimate meeting, my good woman.”
    “Is that all? Oh. Ta.”
    Nanny Ogg elbowed her way back to the vibrating dwarf.
    “You’re on,” she said.
    “I thought we could have a little private dinner, just you and me,” said Casanunda. “In one of the taverns?”
    Never, in a long history of romance, had Nanny Ogg ever been taken out for an intimate dinner. Her courtships had been more noted for their quantity than their quality.
    “OK,” was all she could think of to say.
    “Dodge your chaperone and meet me at six o’clock?”
    Nanny Ogg glanced at Granny Weatherwax, who was watching them disapprovingly from a distance.
    “She’s not my—” she began.
    Then it dawned on her that Casanunda couldn’t possibly have really thought that Granny Weatherwax was chaperoning her.
    Compliments and flattery had also been very minor components in the machinery of Nanny Ogg’s courtships.
    “Yes, all right,” she said.
    “And now I shall circulate, so that people don’t talk and ruin your reputation,” said Casanunda, bowing and kissing Nanny Ogg’s hand.
    Her mouth dropped open. No one had ever kissed her hand before, either, and certainly no one had ever worried about her reputation, least of all Nanny Ogg.
    As the world’s second greatest lover bustled off to accost a countess, Granny Weatherwax—who had been watching from a discreet distance * —said, in an amiable voice: “You haven’t got the morals of a cat, Gytha Ogg.”
    “Now, Esme, you know that’s not true.”
    “All right. You have got the morals of a cat,