Maskerade

I overdo the nutmeg.”
    Goatberger stared at her. Doubt was beginning to assail him. You only had to look at Nanny Ogg grinning back at you to believe she could write something like The Joye of Snacks .
    “Did you really write this?” he said.
    “From memory,” said Nanny, proudly.
    “And now she’d like some money,” said Granny.
    Mr. Goatberger’s face twisted up as though he’d just eaten a lemon and washed it down with vinegar.
    “But we gave her the money back ,” he said.
    “See?” said Nanny, her face falling. “I told you, Esme—”
    “She wants some more,” said Granny.
    “No, I don’t—”
    “No, she doesn’t!” Goatberger agreed.
    “She does,” said Granny. “She wants a little bit of money for every book you’ve sold.”
    “I don’t expect to be treated like royalty,” said Nanny. *
    “You shut up,” said Granny. “I know what you want. We want some money, Mr. Goatberger.”
    “And what if I won’t give it to you?”
    Granny glared at him.
    “Then we shall go away and think about what to do next,” she said.
    “That’s no idle threat,” said Nanny. “There’s a lot of people’ve regretted Esme thinking about what to do next.”
    “Come back when you’ve thought, then!” snapped Goatberger. He stormed off. “I don’t know, authors wanting to be paid, good grief—”
    He disappeared among the stacks of books.
    “Er…do you think that could have gone better?” said Nanny.
    Granny glanced at the table beside them. It was stacked with long sheets of paper. She nudged a dwarf, who had been watching the argument with some amusement.
    “What’re these?” she said.
    “They’re proofs for the Almanack.” He saw her blank expression. “They’re sort of a trial run for the book so’s we can check that all the spelling mistakes have been left in.”
    Granny picked it up. “Come, Gytha,” she said.
    “I don’t want trouble, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg as she hurried after her. “It’s only money.”
    “It ain’t money any more,” said Granny. “It’s a way of keepin’ score.”

    Mr. Bucket picked up a violin. It was in two pieces, held together by the strings. One of them broke.
    “Who’d do something like this?” he said. “Honestly, Salzella…what is the difference between opera and madness?”
    “Is this a trick question?”
    “No!”
    “Then I’d say: better scenery. Ah…I thought so…”
    Salzella rooted among the destruction, and stood up with a letter in his hand.
    “Would you like me to open it?” he said. “It’s addressed to you.”
    Bucket shut his eyes.
    “Go on,” he said. “Don’t bother about the details. Just tell me, how many exclamation marks?”
    “Five.”
    “Oh.”
    Salzella passed the paper over.
    Bucket read:
Dear Bucket
Whoops!
Ahahahahahahahaha!!!!!

Yrs
The Opera Ghost
    “What can we do?” he said. “One moment he writes polite little notes, the next he goes mad on paper!”
    “Herr Trubelmacher has got everyone out hunting for new instruments,” said Salzella.
    “Are violins more expensive than ballet shoes?”
    “There are few things in the world more expensive than ballet shoes. Violins happen to be among them,” said Salzella.
    “Further expense!”
    “It seems so, yes.”
    “But I thought the Ghost liked music! Herr Trubelmacher tells me the organ is beyond repair!!!”
    He stopped. He was aware that he had exclaimed a little less rationally than a sane man should.
    “Oh, well,” Bucket continued wearily. “The show must go on, I suppose.”
    “Yes, indeed,” said Salzella.
    Bucket shook his head. “How’s it all going for tonight?”
    “I think it will work, if that’s what you mean. Perdita seems to have a very good grasp of the part.”
    “And Christine?”
    “She has an astonishingly good grasp of wearing a dress. Between them, they make one prima donna.”
    The proud owner of the Opera House got slowly to his feet. “It all seemed so simple,” he moaned. “I thought: opera, how hard can it be? Songs. Pretty girls dancing. Nice scenery. Lots of people handing over cash. Got to be better than the cut-throat world of yogurt, I thought. Now everywhere I go there’s—”
    Something crunched under his shoe. He picked up the remains of a pair of half-moon spectacles.
    “These are Dr. Undershaft’s, aren’t they?” he said. “What’re they doing here?”
    His eyes met Salzella’s steady gaze.
    “Oh, no ,” he groaned.
    Salzella turned slightly, and stared hard at a