Wyrd Sisters

sleeping, eating and fathering the most enormous incestuous feline tribe. He opened his eye like a yellow window into Hell when he heard Granny’s broomstick land awkwardly on the back lawn. With the instinct of his kind he recognized Granny as an inveterate cat-hater and oozed gently under a chair.
    Magrat was already seated primly by the fire.
    It is one of the few unbendable rules of magic that its practitioners cannot change their own appearance for any length of time. Their bodies develop a kind of morphic inertia and gradually return to their original shape. But Magrat tried. Every morning her hair was long, thick and blond, but by the evening it had always returned to its normal worried frizz. To ameliorate the effect she had tried to plait violets and cowslips in it. The result was not all she had hoped. It gave the impression that a window box had fallen on her head.
    “Good evening,” said Granny.
    “Well met by moonlight,” said Magrat politely. “Merry meet. A star shines on—”
    “Wotcha,” said Nanny Ogg. Magrat winced.
    Granny sat down and started removing the pins that nailed her tall hat to her bun. Finally the sight of Magrat dawned on her.
    “Magrat!”
    The young witch jumped, and clamped her knuckly hands to the virtuous frontage of her gown.
    “Yes?” she quavered.
    “What have you got on your lap?”
    “It’s my familiar,” she said defensively.
    “What happened to that toad you had?”
    “It wandered off,” muttered Magrat. “Anyway, it wasn’t very good.”
    Granny sighed. Magrat’s desperate search for a reliable familiar had been going on for some time, and despite the love and attention she lavished on them they all seemed to have some terrible flaw, such as a tendency to bite, get trodden on or, in extreme cases, metamorphose.
    “That makes fifteen this year,” said Granny. “Not counting the horse. What’s this one?”
    “It’s a rock,” chuckled Nanny Ogg.
    “Well, at least it should last,” said Granny.
    The rock extended a head and gave her a look of mild amusement.
    “It’s a tortoise,” said Magrat. “I bought it down in Sheep-ridge market. It’s incredibly old and knows many secrets, the man said.”
    “I know that man,” said Granny. “He’s the one who sells goldfish that tarnish after a day or two.”
    “Anyway, I shall call him Lightfoot,” said Magrat, her voice warm with defiance. “I can if I want.”
    “Yes, yes, all right, I’m sure,” said Granny. “Anyway, how goes it, sisters? It is two months since last we met.”
    “It should be every new moon,” said Magrat sternly. “Regular.”
    “It was our Grame’s youngest’s wedding,” said Nanny Ogg. “Couldn’t miss it.”
    “And I was up all night with a sick goat,” said Granny Weatherwax promptly.
    “Yes, well,” said Magrat doubtfully. She rummaged in her bag. “Anyway, if we’re going to start, we’d better light the candles.”
    The senior witches exchanged a resigned glance.
    “But we got this lovely new lamp our Tracie sent me,” said Nanny Ogg innocently. “And I was going to poke up the fire a bit.”
    “I have ex cellent night vision, Magrat,” said Granny sternly. “And you’ve been reading them funny books. Grimmers.”
    “Grimories—”
    “You ain’t going to draw on the floor again, neither,” warned Nanny Ogg. “It took our Dreen days to clean up all those wossnames last time—”
    “Runes,” said Magrat. There was a look of pleading in her eyes. “Look, just one candle?”
    “All right,” said Nanny Ogg, relenting a bit. “If it makes you feel any better. Just the one, mind. And a decent white one. Nothing fancy.”
    Magrat sighed. It probably wasn’t a good idea to bring out the rest of the contents of her bag.
    “We ought to get a few more here,” she said sadly. “It’s not right, a coven of three.”
    “I didn’t know we was still a coven. No one told me we was still a coven,” sniffed Granny Weatherwax. “Anyway, there’s no one else this side of the mountain, excepting old Gammer Dismass, and she doesn’t get out these days.”
    “But a lot of young girls in my village…” said Magrat. “You know. They could be keen.”
    “That’s not how we do it, as well you know,” said Granny disapprovingly. “People don’t go and find witchcraft, it comes and finds them.”
    “Yes, yes,” said Magrat. “Sorry.”
    “Right,” said Granny, slightly mollified. She’d never mastered the talent for apologizing,