Maskerade

“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, bugger!”
    “What?”
    “I left Greebo up there!”
    “Well, he likes meeting new people. Good grief, this place is a 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 glass 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