Witches Abroad

she wants to start living her own life.”
    “Whose life she bin living, then?”
    Magrat gave him a puzzled look. She hadn’t questioned the wisdom of the thought when it had first arrived in her head.
    “You see, what it is,” she said, making an explanation up as she went along, “there comes a time in a woman’s life when she wants to find herself.”
    “Why dint she start looking here?” said Jason plaintively. “I mean, I ain’t wanting to talk out of turn, Miss Garlick, but we was looking to you to persuade her and Mistress Weatherwax not to go.”
    “I tried,” said Magrat. “I really did. I said, you don’t want to go, I said. Anno domini, I said. Not as young as you used to be, I said. Silly to go hundreds of miles just for something like this, especially at your age.”
    Jason put his head on one side. Jason Ogg wouldn’t end up in the finals of the All-Discworld uptake speed trials, but he knew his own mother.
    “You said all that to our mum?” he said.
    “Look, don’t worry,” said Magrat, “I’m sure no harm can—”
    There was a crash somewhere over their heads. A few autumn leaves spiraled gently toward the ground.
    “Bloody tree…who put that bloody tree there?” came a voice from on high.
    “That’ll be Granny,” said Magrat.
    It was one of the weak spots of Granny Weatherwax’s otherwise well-developed character that she’d never bothered to get the hang of steering things. It was alien to her nature. She took the view that it was her job to move and the rest of the world to arrange itself so that she arrived at her destination. This meant that she occasionally had to climb down trees she’d never climbed up. This she did now, dropping the last few feet and daring anyone to comment.
    “Well, now we’re all here,” said Magrat brightly.
    It didn’t work. Granny Weatherwax’s eyes focused immediately somewhere around Magrat’s knees.
    “And what do you think you’re wearing?” she said.
    “Ah. Um. I thought…I mean it gets cold up there…what with the wind and everything,” Magrat began. She had been dreading this, and hating herself for being so weak. After all, they were practical. The idea had come to her one night. Apart from anything else, it was almost impossible to do Mr. Lobsang Dibbler’s cosmic harmony death kicks when your legs kept getting tangled in a skirt.
    “ Trousers? ”
    “They’re not exactly the same as ordinary—”
    “And there’s men ’ere lookin’,” said Granny. “I think it’s shameful!”
    “What is?” said Nanny Ogg, coming up behind her.
    “Magrat Garlick, standin’ there bifurcated,” said Granny, sticking her nose in the air.
    “Just so long as she got the young man’s name and address,” said Nanny Ogg amiably.
    “Nanny!” said Magrat.
    “I think they look quite comfy,” Nanny went on. “A bit baggy, though.”
    “I don’t ’old with it,” said Granny. “Everyone can see her legs.”
    “No they can’t,” said Nanny. “The reason being, the material is in the way.”
    “Yes, but they can see where her legs are ,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “That’s silly. That’s like saying everyone’s naked under their clothes,” said Magrat.
    “Magrat Garlick, may you be forgiven,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “Well, it’s true!”
    “ I’m not,” said Granny flatly, “I got three vests on.”
    She looked Nanny up and down. Gytha Ogg, too, had made sartorial preparations for foreign parts. Granny Weatherwax could find little to disapprove of, although she made an effort.
    “And will you look at your hat,” she mumbled.Nanny, who had known Esme Weatherwax for seventy years, merely grinned.
    “All the go, ain’t it?” she said. “Made by Mr. Vernissage over in Slice. It’s got willow reinforcing all the way up to the point and eighteen pockets inside. Can stop a blow with a hammer, this hat. And how about these?”
    Nanny raised the hem of her skirt. She was wearing new boots. As boots, Granny Weatherwax could find nothing to complain of in them. They were of proper witch construction, which is to say that a loaded cart could have run over them without causing a dent in the dense leather. As boots, the only thing wrong with them was the color.
    “ Red? ” said Granny. “That’s no color for a witch’s boots!”
    “I likes ’em,” said Nanny.
    Granny sniffed. “You can please yourself, I’m sure,” she said. “I’m sure in foreign parts they goes in for all sorts of