Witches Abroad

oyster.”
    “Well, yes, but she is my sister.”
    Granny opened the door.
    “Well, well,” she said.
    “What’s up? What’s up? Don’t just stand there.” Nanny peered around her and into the room.
    “Coo,” she said.

    Magrat paused in the big, red-velvet anteroom. Strange thoughts fireworked around her head; she hadn’t felt like this since the herbal wine. But struggling among them like a tiny prosaic potato in a spray of psychedelic chrysanthemums was an inner voice screaming that she didn’t even know how to dance. Apart from in circles.
    But it couldn’t be difficult if ordinary people managed it.
    The tiny inner Magrat struggling to keep its balance on the surge of arrogant self-confidence wondered if this was how Granny Weatherwax felt all the time .
    She raised the hem of her dress slightly and looked down at her shoes.
    They couldn’t be real glass, or else she’d be hobbling toward some emergency first aid by now. Nor were they transparent. The human foot is a useful organ but is not, except to some people with highly specialized interests, particularly attractive to look at.
    The shoes were mirrors. Dozens of facets caught the light.
    Two mirrors on her feet. Magrat vaguely recalled something about…about a witch never getting caught between two mirrors, wasn’t it? Or was it never trust a man with orange eyebrows? Something she’d been taught, back when she’d been an ordinary person. Something…like…a witch should never stand between two mirrors because, because, because the person that walked away might not be the same person. Or something. Like…you were spread out among the images, your whole soul was pulled out thin, and somewhere in the distant images a dark part of you would get out and come looking for you, if you weren’t very careful. Or something.
    She overruled the thought. It didn’t matter.
    She stepped forward, to where a little knot of other guests were waiting to make their entrance.
    “Lord Henry Gleet and Lady Gleet!”
    The ballroom wasn’t a room at all, but a courtyard open to the soft night air. Steps led down into it. At the far end, another much wider staircase, lined with flickering torches, led up into the palace itself. On the far wall, huge and easily visible, was a clock.
    “The Honorable Douglas Incessant!”
    The time was a quarter to eight. Magrat had a vague recollection of some old woman shouting something about the time, but…that didn’t matter either…
    “Lady Volentia D’ Arrangement!”
    She reached the top of the stairs. The butler who was announcing the arrivals looked her up and down and then, in the manner of one who had been coached carefully all afternoon for this very moment, bellowed:
    “Er…Mysterious and beautiful stranger!”
    Silence spread out from the bottom of the steps like spilled paint. Five hundred heads turned to look at Magrat.
    A day before, even the mere thought of having five hundred people staring at her would have melted Magrat like butter in a furnace. But now she stared back, smiled, and raised her chin haughtily.
    Her fan snapped open like a gunshot.
    The mysterious and beautiful stranger, daughter of Simplicity Garlick, granddaughter of Araminta Garlick, her self-possession churning so strongly that it was crystalizing out on the sides of her personality…
    …stepped out.

    A moment later another guest stalked past the butler.
    The butler hesitated. Something about the figure worried him. It kept going in and out of focus. He wasn’t entirely certain if there was anyone else there at all.
    Then his common sense, which had temporarily gone and hidden behind something, took over. After all, it was Samedi Nuit Mort—people were supposed to dress up and look weird. You were allowed to see people like that.
    “Excuse me, er, sir,” he said. “Who shall I say it is?”
    I’ M HERE INCOGNITO .
    The butler was sure nothing had been said, but he was also certain that he had heard the words.
    “Um…fine…” he mumbled. “Go on in, then…um.” He brightened. “Damn good mask, sir.”
    He watched the dark figure walk down the steps, and leaned against a pillar.
    Well, that was about it. He pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket, removed his powdered wig, and wiped his brow. He felt as though he’d just had a narrow escape, and what was even worse was that he didn’t know from what .
    He looked cautiously around, and then sidled into the anteroom and took up a position behind a velvet