“I'm not queen yet, Millie. And you've known me for twenty years,” panted Magrat, on the way up.
“Yes'm. But you're going to be queen. So me mam told me I was to be respectful,” said Millie, still curtsying nervously
“Oh. Well. All right, then. Where are my clothes?”
“Got 'em here, your pre-majesty.”
“They're not mine. And please stop going up and down all the time. I feel a bit sick.”
“The king ordered 'em from Sto Helit special, m'm.”
“Did he, eh? How long ago?”
“Dunno, m'm.”
He knew I was coming home, thought Magrat. How? What's going on here?
There was a good deal more lace than Magrat was used to, but that was, as it were, the icing on the cake. Magrat normally wore a simple dress with not much underneath it except Magrat. Ladies of quality couldn't get away with that kind of thing. Millie had been provided with a sort of technical diagram, but it wasn't much help.
They studied it for some time.
“This is a standard queen outfit, then?”
“Couldn't say, m'm. I think his majesty just sent 'em a lot of money and said to send you everything.” They spread out the bits on the floor.
“Is this the pantoffle?”
Outside, on the battlements, the guard changed. In fact he changed into his gardening apron and went off to hoe the beans. Inside, there was considerable sartorial discussion.
“I think you've got it up the wrong way, m'm. Which bit's the farthingale?”
“Says here Insert Tabbe A into Slotte B. Can't find slotte B.”
“These're like saddlebags. I'm not wearing these. And this thing?”
“A ruff, m'm. Um. They're all the rage in Sto Helit, my brother says.”
“You mean they make people angry? And what's this?”
“Brocade, I think.”
“It's like cardboard. Do I have to wear this sort of thing every day?”
“Don't know, I'm sure, m'm.”
“But Verence just trots around in leather gaiters and an old jacket!”
“Ah, but you're queen. Queens can't do that sort of thing. Everyone knows that, m'm. It's all right for kings to go wandering around with their arse half out their trous-”
She rammed her hand over her mouth.
“It's all right,” said Magrat. “I'm sure even kings have . . . tops to their legs just like everyone else. Just go on with what you were saying.”
Millie had gone bright red.
“I mean, I mean, I mean, queens has got to be ladylike,” she managed. “The king got books about it. Etti-quetty and stuff.”
Magrat surveyed herself critically in the mirror.