Maskerade

blow their cover without sucking at it as well.
    This was a new world, all right. She was used to a life where the men wore the bright clothes and the women wore black. It made it a lot easier to decide what to put on in the mornings. But inside the Opera House the rules of clothing were all in reverse, just like the laws of common sense. Here the women dressed like frosted peacocks and the men looked like penguins.
    So…there were coppers here. Nanny Ogg was basically a law-abiding person when she had no reason to break the law, and therefore had that kind of person’s attitude to law-enforcement officers, which was one of deep and permanent distrust.
    There was their approach to theft, for example. Nanny had a witch’s view of theft, which was a lot more complicated than the attitude adopted by the law and, if it came to it, people who owned property worth stealing. They tended to wield the huge blunt ax of the law in circumstances that required the delicate scalpel of common sense.
    No, thought Nanny. Policemen with their great big boots were not required here on a night like this. It would be a good idea to put a thumbtack under the ponderous feet of Justice.
    She ducked behind a gilt statue and fumbled in the recesses of her clothing while people nearby looked around in puzzlement at the erratic twanging of elastic. She was sure she had one around somewhere—she’d packed it in case of emergencies…
    There was the clink of a small bottle. Ah, yes.
    A moment later Nanny Ogg emerged decorously with two small glasses on her tray, and headed purposefully for the Watchmen.
    “Fruit drink, officers?” she said. “Oh, silly me, what am I saying, I didn’t mean officers. Homemade fruit drink?”
    Detritus sniffed suspiciously, immediately clearing his sinuses. “What’s in it?” he said.
    “Apples,” said Nanny Ogg promptly. “Well…mainly apples.”
    Under her hand, a couple of spilt drops finished eating their way through the metal of the tray and dropped onto the carpet, where they smoked.

    The auditorium buzzed with the sound of operagoers settling down and Mrs. Lawsy trying to find her shoes.
    “You really shouldn’t have taken them off, mother.”
    “My feet are giving me gyp.”
    “Did you bring your knitting?”
    “I think I must’ve left it in the Ladies.”
    “Oh, mother .”
    Henry Lawsy marked his place in his book and raised his runny eyes heavenward, and blinked. Right above him—a long way above him—was a glittering circle of light.
    His mother followed his gaze. “What’s that, then?”
    “I think it’s a chandelier, mother.”
    “It’s a pretty big one. What’s holding it up?”
    “I’m sure they’ve got special ropes and things, mother.”
    “Looks a bit dangerous, to my mind.”
    “I’m sure it’s absolutely safe, mother.”
    “What do you know about chandeliers?”
    “I’m sure people wouldn’t come into the Opera House if there was any chance of a chandelier dropping on their heads, mother,” said Henry, trying to read his book.
Il Truccatore, The Master of Disguise . Il Truccatore (ten.), a mysterious nobleman, causes scandal in the city when he woos high-born ladies while disguised as their husbands. However, Laura (sop.), the new bride of Capriccio (bar.), refuses to give in to his blandishments—
    Henry put a bookmark in the book, took a smaller book from his pocket, and carefully looked up “blandishments.” He was moving in a world he wasn’t quite sure of; embarrassment lay waiting at every turn, and he wasn’t going to get caught out over a word. Henry lived his life in permanent dread of Being Asked Questions Later.
—and with the help of his servant Wingie (ten.) he adopts a subterfuge—
    The dictionary came out again for a moment.
—culminating—
    And again.
—in the scene at the famous Masked Ball at the Duke’s Palace. But Il Truccatore has not reckoned with his old adversary the Count de—
    “Adversary”…Henry sighed, and reached for his pocket.

    Curtain up in five minutes…
    Salzella reviewed his troops. They consisted of scene builders and painters and all those other employees who could be spared for the evening. At the end of the line, about fifty percent of Walter Plinge had managed to stand to attention.
    “Now, you all know your positions,” said Salzella. “And if you see anything, anything at all, you are to let me know at once. Do you understand?”
    “Mr. Salzella!”
    “Yes, Walter?”
    “We mustn’t