Maskerade

day on industrial lines, his napkin tucked neatly into his collar. The fork was loaded while the current consignment was being thoroughly masticated, so that the actual time between mouthfuls was as small as possible. Even Nanny, no stranger to a metabolism going for the burn, was impressed. Enrico Basilica ate like a man freed at last from the tyranny of tomatoes with everything.
    “I’ll order another mint-sauce tanker, shall I?” she said.
    Mr. Bucket turned to Granny Weatherwax. “You were saying that you might be inclined to patronize our Opera House,” he murmured.
    “Oh, yes,” said Granny. “Is Señor Basilica going to sing tonight?”
    “Mmfmmf.”
    “I hope so,” muttered Salzella. “That or explode.”
    “Then I shall definitely want to be there,” said Granny. “A little more lamb here, my good woman.”
    “Yes ma’am,” said Nanny Ogg, making a face at the back of Granny’s head.
    “Er…seats for tonight, in fact, are—” Bucket began.
    “A Box would do me,” said Granny. “I’m not fussy.”
    “In fact, even the Boxes are—”
    “How about Box Eight? I’ve heard as Box Eight is always empty.”
    Bucket’s knife rattled on his plate. “Er, Box Eight, Box Eight, you see, we don’t…”
    “I was thinking of donating a little something,” said Granny.
    “But Box Eight, you see, although technically unsold, is…”
    “Two thousand dollars was what I had in mind,” said Granny. “Oh, dear me, your waitress has let her dumplings go all over the place. It’s so difficult to get reliable and polite staff these days, ain’t it…?”
    Salzella and Bucket stared at one another across the table.
    Then Bucket said, “Excuse me, my lady, I must just have a brief discussion with my director of music.”
    The two men hurried to the far end of the room, where they began to argue in whispers.
    “Two thousand dollars!” hissed Nanny, watching them.
    “It might not be enough,” said Granny. “They’re both looking very red in the face.”
    “Yes, but two thousand dollars !”
    “It’s only money.”
    “Yes, but it’s only my money, not only your money,” Nanny pointed out.
    “We witches have always held everything in common, you know that,” said Granny.
    “Well, yes ,” said Nanny, and once again cut to the heart of the sociopolitical debate. “It’s easy to hold everything in common when no one’s got anything.”
    “Why, Gytha Ogg,” said Granny, “I thought you despised riches!”
    “Right, so I’d like to get the chance to despise them up close.”
    “But I knows you, Gytha Ogg. Money’d spoil you.”
    “I’d just like the chance to prove that it wouldn’t, that’s all I’m saying.”
    “Hush, they’re coming back—”
    Mr. Bucket approached, smiled uneasily, and sat down. “Er,” he began, “it has to be Box Eight, does it? Only we could perhaps persuade someone in one of the other—”
    “Wouldn’t hear of it,” said Granny. “I’ve heard that there’s no one ever seen in Box Eight.”
    “Er…haha…it’s laughable, I know, but there are some old theatrical traditions associated with Box Eight, absolute rubbish of course, but…”
    He left the “but” hanging there hopefully. It froze in the face of Granny’s stare.
    “You see, it’s haunted,” he mumbled.
    “Oh lawks,” said Nanny Ogg, vaguely remembering to stay in character. “Another vat of slumpie, Senior Basilica? And how about another quart of beer?”
    “Mmfmmf,” said the tenor encouragingly, taking time out from his eating to point a fork at his empty mug.
    Granny went on staring.
    “Excuse me,” said Bucket again.
    He and Salzella went into another huddle, out of which came sounds like “But two thousand dollars ! That’s a lot of shoes!”
    Bucket surfaced again. His face was gray. Granny’s stare could do that to people.
    “Er…because of the danger, er, which of course doesn’t exist, haha, we…that is, the management…feel it incumbent on us to insist, that is, politely request, that if you do enter Box Eight you do so in company with a…man.”
    He ducked slightly.
    “A man?” said Granny.
    “For protection,” said Bucket in a little voice.
    “Although who’d protect him we really couldn’t say,” said Salzella under his breath.
    “We thought perhaps one of the staff…” Bucket mumbled.
    “Ai am quate capable of finding my own man should the need arise,” said Granny, in a voice with snow on it.
    Bucket’s polite reply died