Maskerade

as it were,” said Bucket, “to ghost the part…”
    “Ghost?” said Agnes.
    “It’s a stage term,” said Salzella.
    “Oh, I see,” said Agnes. “Yes. Well, of course. I shall certainly do my best.”
    “ Jolly good,” said Bucket. “We won’t forget this. And I’m certain a very suitable part for you will come along very soon. See Dr. Undershaft this afternoon and he will take you through the role.”
    “Er. I know it quite well, I think,” said Agnes, uncertainly.
    “Really? How?”
    “I’ve been…taking lessons.”
    “That is good, lass,” said Mr. Bucket. “Shows keenness. We’re very impressed. But see Dr. Undershaft in any case…”
    Agnes got up and, still looking down, trooped out.
    Undershaft sighed and shook his head.
    “Poor child,” he said. “Born too late. Opera used to be just about voices. You know, I remember the days of the great sopranos. Dame Violetta Gigli, Dame Clarissa Extendo…whatever became of them, I sometimes wonder.”
    “Didn’t the climate change?” said Salzella nastily.
    “There goes a figure that should prompt a revival of The Ring of the Nibelungingung ,” Undershaft went on. “Now that was an opera.”
    “Three days of gods shouting at one another and twenty minutes of memorable tunes?” said Salzella. “No, thank you very much.”
    “But can’t you hear her singing Hildabrun, leader of the Valkyries?”
    “Yes. Oh, yes. But unfortunately I can also hear her singing Nobbo the dwarf and Io, Chief of the Gods.”
    “Those were the days,” said Undershaft sadly, shaking his head. “We had proper opera then. I recall when Dame Veritasi stuffed a musician into his own tuba for yawning—”
    “Yes, yes, but this is the Century of the Fruitbat,” said Salzella, standing up. He glanced at the door again, and shook his head.
    “Amazing,” he said. “Do you think she knows how fat she is?”

    The door of Mrs. Palm’s discreet establishment opened at Granny’s knock.
    The person on the other side was a young woman. Very obviously a young woman. There was no possible way that she could have been mistaken for a young man in any language, especially Braille.
    Nanny peered around the young lady’s powdered shoulder at the red plush and gilt interior beyond, and then up at Granny Weatherwax’s impassive face, and then back at the young lady.
    “I’ll tan our Nev’s hide when I get home,” she muttered. “Come away, Esme, you don’t want to go in there. It’d take too long to explain—”
    “Why, Granny Weatherwax!” said the girl happily. “And who’s this?”
    Nanny looked up at Granny, whose expression hadn’t changed.
    “Nanny Ogg,” Nanny said eventually. “Yes, I’m Nanny Ogg. Nev’s mum,” she added darkly. “Yes, indeed. Yes. On account of me bein’ a”—the words “respectable widow woman” tried to range themselves in her vocal cords, and shriveled at the sheer enormity of the falsehood, forcing her to settle for “mother to him. Nev. Yes. Nev’s mum.”
    “Hello, Colette,” said Granny. “What fascinatin’ earrings you are wearing. Is Mrs. Palm at home?”
    “She’s always at home to important visitors,” said Colette. “Do come in, everyone will be so pleased to see you again!”
    There were cries of welcome as Granny stepped into the scarlet gloom.
    “What? You’ve been here before?” said Nanny, eying the pink flesh and white lace that made up much of the scenery.
    “Oh, yes. Mrs. Palm is an old friend. Practic’ly a witch.”
    “You…you do know what kind of place this is, do you, Esme?” said Nanny Ogg. She felt curiously annoyed. She’d happily give way to Granny’s expertise in the worlds of mind and magic, but she felt very strongly that there were some more specialized areas that were definitely Ogg territory, and Granny Weatherwax had no business even to know what they were.
    “Oh, yes,” said Granny, calmly.
    Nanny’s patience gave out. “It’s a house of ill repute, is what it is!”
    “On the contrary,” said Granny. “I believe people speak very highly of it.”
    “You knew ? And you never told me ?”
    Granny raised an ironic eyebrow. “The lady who invented the Strawberry Wobbler?”
    “Well, yes, but—”
    “We all live life the best way we can, Gytha. And there’s a lot of people who think witches are bad.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Before you criticize someone, Gytha, walk a mile in their shoes,” said Granny, with a faint smile.
    “In those shoes she