Maskerade

black coat, long black tights, shoes with them shiny buckles, one of those top hats, a big cloak with a red silk lining, a bow tie, a really posh black cane with a very nobby silver knob on it…and…a black eye patch.”
    “An eye patch?”
    “Yes. Maybe with sequins or something on it, since it’s the opera.”
    The tailor stared at Nanny. “This is a little irregular,” he said. “Why can’t the gentleman come in himself?”
    “He ain’t quite a gentleman yet.”
    “But, madam, I meant that we have to get the size right.”
    Nanny Ogg looked around the shop. “Tell you what,” she said, “you sell me something that looks about right and we’ll adjust him to fit. ’Scuse me…”
    She turned away demurely—
    —twingtwangtwong—
    —and turned back, smoothing down her dress and holding a leather bag.
    “How much’ll it be?” she said.
    The tailor looked blankly at the bag. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to have all that ready until at least next Wednesday,” he said.
    Nanny Ogg sighed. She felt she was becoming familiar with one of the most fundamental laws of physics. Time equaled money. Therefore, money equaled time.
    “I was sort of hoping to get it all a bit quicker than that,” she said, jingling the bag up and down.
    The tailor looked down his nose at her. “We are craftsmen, madam. How long did you think it should take?”
    “How about ten minutes?”
    Twelve minutes later she left the shop with a large packet under one arm, a hat box under the other, and an ebony cane between her teeth.
    Granny was waiting outside. “Got it all?”
    “Ess.”
    “I’ll take the eye patch, shall I?”
    “We’ve got to get a third witch,” said Nanny, trying to rearrange the parcels. “Young Agnes has got good strong arms.”
    “You know if we was to drag her out of there by the scruff of her neck we’d never hear the last of it,” said Granny. “She’ll be a witch when she wants to be.”
    They headed for the Opera House’s stage door.
    “Afternoon, Les,” said Nanny cheerfully as they entered. “Stopped itching now, has it?”
    “Marvelous bit of ointment that was you gave me, Mrs. Ogg,” said the stage doorkeeper, his mustache bending into something that might have been a smile.
    “Mrs. Les keeping well? How’s her sister’s leg?”
    “Doing very well, Mrs. Ogg, thank you for asking.”
    “This is just Esme Weatherwax who’s helping me with some stuff,” said Nanny.
    The doorkeeper nodded. It was clear that any friend of Mrs. Ogg was a friend of his. “No trouble at all, Mrs. Ogg.”
    As they passed through into the dusty network of corridors Granny reflected, not for the first time, that Nanny had a magic all of her own.
    Nanny didn’t so much enter places as insinuate herself; she had unconsciously taken a natural talent for liking people and developed it into an occult science. Granny Weatherwax did not doubt that her friend already knew the names, family histories, birthdays and favorite topics of conversation of half the people here, and probably also the vital wedge that would cause them to open up. It might be talking about their children, or a potion for their bad feet, or one of Nanny’s really filthy stories, but Nanny would be in and after twenty-four hours they’d have known her all their lives. And they’d tell her things. Of their own free will . Nanny Got On with people. Nanny could get a statue to cry on her shoulder and say what it really thought about pigeons.
    It was a knack. Granny had never had the patience to acquire it. Just occasionally, she wondered whether it might have been a good idea.
    “Curtain up in an hour and a half,” said Nanny. “I promised Giselle I’d give her a hand…”
    “Who’s Giselle?”
    “She does makeup.”
    “You don’t know how to do makeup!”
    “I distempered our privy, didn’t I?” said Nanny. “And I paint faces on eggs for the kiddies every Soul Cake Tuesday.”
    “Got to do anything else, have you?” said Granny sarcastically. “Open the curtains? Fill in for a ballet dancer who’s been taken poorly?”
    “I did say I’d help with the drinks at the swarray,” said Nanny, letting the irony slide off like water on a red-hot stove. “Well, a lot of the staff have buggered off ’cos of the Ghost. It’s in the big foyer in half an hour. I expect you ought to be there, being a patronizer.”
    “What’s a swarray?” said Granny suspiciously.
    “It’s a sort of posh party before the