Witches Abroad

remained a few steps up from the foot of the stairs and was smiling beneficently.
    Then she tried to put a focus on the future.
    It was horribly, easy.
    Normally the future is branching off at every turn and it’s only possible to have the haziest idea of what is likely to happen, even when you’re as temporally sensitive as a witch. But here there were stories coiled around the tree of events, bending it into a new shape.
    Granny Weatherwax wouldn’t know what a pattern of quantum inevitability was if she found it eating her dinner. If you mentioned the words “paradigms of space-time” to her she’d just say “What?” But that didn’t mean she was ignorant. It just meant that she didn’t have any truck with words, especially gibberish. She just knew that there were certain things that happened continually in human history, like three-dimensional clichés. Stories.
    “And now we’re part of it! And I can’t stop it,” said Granny. “There’s got to be a place where I can stop it, and I can’t find it!”
    The band struck up. It was playing a waltz.
    Magrat and the Prince whirled around the dance floor once, never taking their eyes off each other. Then a few couples dared to join them. And then, as if the whole ball was a machine whose spring had been wound up again, the floor was full of dancing couples and the sounds of conversation flowed back into the void.
    “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” said Casanunda, from somewhere near Nanny’s elbow. People swept past them.
    “It’s all got to happen,” said Granny, ignoring the low-level interruption. “Everything. The kiss, the clock striking midnight, her running out and losing the glass slipper, everything.”
    “Ur, yuk,” said Nanny, leaning on her partner’s head. “I’d rather lick toads.”
    “She looks just my type,” said Casanunda, his voice slightly muffled. “I’ve always been very attracted to dominant women.”
    The witches looked at the whirling couple, who were staring into one another’s eyes.
    “I could trip them up, no trouble,” said Nanny.
    “You can’t. That’s not something that can happen.”
    “Well, Magrat’s sensible…more or less sensible,” said Nanny. “Maybe she’ll notice something’s wrong.”
    “I’m good at what I do, Gytha Ogg,” said Granny. “She won’t notice nothing until the clock strikes midnight.”
    They both turned to look up. It was barely nine.
    “Y’know,” said Nanny Ogg. “Clocks don’t strike midnight. Seems to me they just strike twelve. I mean, it’s just a matter of bongs.”
    They both looked up at the clock again.

    In the swamp, Legba the black cockerel crowed. He always crowed at sunset.

    Nanny Ogg pounded up another flight of stairs and leaned against the wall to catch her breath.
    It had to be somewhere around here.
    “Another time you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut, Gytha Ogg,” she muttered.
    “I expect we’re leaving the hurly-burly of the ball for an intimate tête-à-tête somewhere?” said Casanunda hopefully, trotting along behind her.
    Nanny tried to ignore him and ran along a dusty passage. There was a balcony rail on one side, looking down into the ballroom. And there…
    …a small wooden door.
    She rammed it open with her elbow. Within, mechanisms whirred in counterpoint to the dancing figures below as if the clock was propelling them, which, in a metaphorical sense, it was.
    Clockwork, Nanny thought. Once you know about clockwork, you know about everything .
    I wish I bloody well knew about clockwork.
    “Very cozy,” said Casanunda.
    She squeezed through the gap and into the clock space. Cogwheels clicked past her nose.
    She stared at them for a moment.
    Lawks. All this just to chop Time up into little bits.
    “It might be just the teensiest bit cramped,” said Casanunda, from somewhere near her armpit. “But needs must, ma’am. I remember once in Quirm, there was this sedan chair and…”
    Let’s see, thought Nanny. This bit is connected to that bit, this one turns, that one turns faster , this spiky bit wobbles backward and forward…
    Oh, well. Just twist the first thing you can grab, as the High Priest said to the vestal virgin. *
    Nanny Ogg spat on her hands, gripped the largest cog-wheel, and twisted.
    It carried on turning, pulling her with it.
    Blimey. Oh, well…
    Then she did what neither Granny Weatherwax nor Magrat would have dreamed of doing in the circumstances. But Nanny Ogg’s voyages on the