Maskerade

back. Here was a man who had hang-glided over Hell.
    “ You tell them,” said the driver, and walked away.
    The agent stared after him, and then walked around to the door.
    A small man with a hunted look climbed out, dragging a huge fat man behind him and gabbling urgently in a language the agent didn’t understand.
    And then the agent was left alone with a coach and horses and an expanding circle of hurrying passengers.
    He opened the door and peered inside.
    “Good morning, mister,” said Nanny Ogg.
    He looked, in some puzzlement, from her to Granny Weatherwax.
    “Is everything all right, ladies?”
    “Very nice journey,” said Nanny Ogg, taking his arm. “We shall def’nitly patronize you another time.”
    “The driver seemed to think there was a problem…”
    “Problem?” said Granny. “I didn’t notice any problems. Did you, Gytha?”
    “He could’ve been a bit quicker fetching the ladder,” said Nanny, climbing down. “And I’m sure he muttered something under his breath that time we stopped to admire the view. But I’m prepared to be gracious about it.”
    “You stopped to admire the view ?” said the agent. “When?”
    “Oh, several times,” said Nanny. “No sense in rushing around the whole time, is there? More haste less speed, etcetera. Could you point us in the direction of Elm Street? Only we’ve lodgings at Mrs. Palm’s. Our Nev speaks highly of the place, he says no one ever looked for him there…”
    The agent stepped back, as people generally did in the face of Nanny’s pump-action chatter.
    “Elm Street?” he stuttered. “But… respectable ladies shouldn’t go there…”
    Nanny patted him on the shoulder. “That’s good,” she said. “That way we won’t run into anyone we know.”
    As Granny walked past the horses they tried to hide behind the coach.

    Bucket smiled brightly. There were little beads of sweat around the edges of his face.
    “Ah, Perdita,” he said. “Do sit down, lass. Er. You are enjoying your time with us so far?”
    “Yes, thank you, Mr. Bucket,” said Agnes dutifully.
    “Good. That’s good. Isn’t that good, Mr. Salzella? Don’t you think that’s good, Dr. Undershaft?”
    Agnes looked at the three worried faces.
    “We’re all very pleased,” said Mr. Bucket. “And, er, well, we have an amazing offer for you which I’m sure will help you to enjoy it even more .”
    Agnes watched the assembled faces. “Yes?” she said guardedly.
    “I know you, er, have only been with us hardly any time but we have decided to, er”—Bucket swallowed, and glanced at the other two for moral support—“let you sing the part of Iodine in tonight’s production of La Triviata .”
    “Yes?”
    “Um. It isn’t the major role but of course it does include the famous ‘Departure’ aria…”
    “Oh. Yes?”
    “Er…there is, er…that is, er…” Bucket gave up and looked helplessly at his director of music. “Mr. Salzella?”
    Salzella leaned forward. “What in fact we would like you to do…Perdita…is sing the role, indeed, but not, in fact… play the role.”
    Agnes listened while they explained. She’d stand in the chorus, just behind Christine. Christine would be told to sing very softly. It had been done dozens of times before, Salzella explained. It was done far more often than the audiences ever realized—when singers had a sore throat, or had completely dried, or had turned up so drunk they could barely stand, or, in one notorious instance many years previously, had died in the interval and subsequently sung their famous aria by means of a broom handle stuck up their back and their jaw operated with a piece of string.
    It wasn’t immoral. The show had to go on.
    The ring of desperately grinning faces watched her.
    I could just walk away, she thought. Walk away from these grinning faces and the mysterious Ghost. They couldn’t stop me.
    But there’s nowhere to walk to except back.
    “Yes, er, yes,” she said. “I’m very…er…but why do it like this? Couldn’t I simply take her place and sing the part?”
    The men looked at one another, and then all started talking at once.
    “Yes, but you see, Christine is…has…more stage experience—”
    “—technical grasp—”
    “—stage presence—”
    “—apparent lyrical ability—”
    “—fits the costume—”
    Agnes looked down at her big hands. She could feel the blush advancing like a barbarian horde, burning everything as it came.
    “We would like you,