Wyrd Sisters

capabilities as yet…but surely—” the ghost of the king waved a hand in a vague gesture which encompassed the dungeon, Nanny and the manacles—“to a witch all this is just so much—”
    “Solid iron,” said Nanny. “You might be able to walk through it, but I can’t.”
    “I didn’t realize,” said Verence. “I thought witches could do magic.”
    “Young man,” said Nanny, “you will oblige me by shutting up.”
    “Madam! I am a king!”
    “You are also dead, so I wouldn’t aspire to hold any opinions if I was you. Now just be quiet and wait, like a good boy.”
    Against all his instincts, the king found himself obeying. There was no gainsaying that tone of voice. It spoke to him across the years, from his days in the nursery. Its echoes told him that if he didn’t eat it all up he would be sent straight to bed.
    Nanny Ogg stirred in her chains. She hoped they would turn up soon.
    “Er,” said the king uneasily. “I feel I owe you an explanation…”

    “Thank you,” said Granny Weatherwax, and because Shawn seemed to be expecting it, added, “You’ve been a good boy.”
    “Yes’m,” said Shawn. “M’m?”
    “Was there something else?”
    Shawn twisted the end of his chain-mail vest out of embarrassment. “It’s not true what everyone’s been saying about our mam, is it, m’m?” he said. “She doesn’t go around putting evil curses on folk. Except for Daviss the butcher. And old Cake-bread, after he kicked her cat. But they wasn’t what you’d call real curses, was they, m’m?”
    “You can stop calling me m’m.”
    “Yes, m’m.”
    “They’ve been saying that, have they?”
    “Yes, m’m.”
    “Well, your mam does upset people sometimes.”
    Shawn hopped from one leg to another.
    “Yes, m’m, but they says terrible things about you, m’m, savin’ your presence, m’m.”
    Granny stiffened.
    “What things?”
    “Don’t like to say, m’m.”
    “ What things ?”
    Shawn considered his next move. There weren’t many choices.
    “A lot of things what aren’t true, m’m,” he said, establishing his credentials as early as possible. “All sorts of things. Like, old Verence was a bad king and you helped him on the throne, and you caused that bad winter the other year, and old Norbut’s cow dint give no milk after you looked at it. Lot of lies, m’m,” he added, loyally.
    “Right,” said Granny.
    She shut the door in his panting face, stood in thought for a moment, and retired to her rocking chair.
    Eventually she said, once more, “Right.”
    A little later she added, “She’s a daft old besom, but we can’t have people going around doing things to witches. Once you’ve lost your respect, you ain’t got a thing. I don’t remember looking at old Norbut’s cow. Who’s old Norbut?”
    She stood up, took her pointed hat from its hook behind the door and, glaring into the mirror, skewered it in place with a number of ferocious hatpins. They slid on one by one, as unstoppable as the wrath of God.
    She vanished into the outhouse for a moment and came back with her witch’s cloak, which served as a blanket for sick goats when not otherwise employed.
    Once upon a time it had been black velvet; now it was just black. It was carefully and slowly fastened by a tarnished silver brooch.
    No samurai, no questing knight, was ever dressed with as much ceremony.
    Finally Granny drew herself up, surveyed her dark reflection in the glass, gave a thin little smile of approval, and left via the back door.
    The air of menace was only slightly dispelled by the sound of her running up and down outside, trying to get her broomstick started.

    Magrat was also regarding herself in the mirror.
    She’d dug out a startlingly green dress that was designed to be both revealing and clinging, and would have been if Magrat had anything to display or cling to, so she’d shoved a couple of rolled-up stockings down the front in an effort to make good the more obvious deficiencies. She had also tried a spell on her hair, but it was naturally magic-resistant and already the natural shape was beginning to assert itself (a dandelion clock at about 2 p.m.).
    Magrat had also tried makeup. This wasn’t an unqualified success. She didn’t have much practice. She was beginning to wonder if she’d overdone the eyeshadow.
    Her neck, fingers and arms between them carried enough silverware to make a full-sized dinner service, and over everything she had thrown a black cloak lined with