“It's all right,” said Granny “I don't mind.”
“Sorry, Esme.”
“Everything happens somewhere. I know. I know. Everything happens somewhere. So it's all the same in the end.”
“That's very continuinuinuum thinking, Esme.”
“Cake's nice,” said Granny, “but. . . right now . . . don't know why . . . what I could really do with, Gytha, right now . . . is a sweet.”
The last word hung in the evening air like the echo of a gunshot.
Nanny stopped. Her hand flew to her pocket, where the usual bag of fluff-encrusted boiled sweets resided. She stared at the back of Esme Weatherwax's head, at the tight bun of grey hair under the brim of the pointy hat.
“Sweet?” she said.
“I expect you've got another bag now,” said Granny, without looking around.
“Esme-”
“You got anything to say, Gytha? About bags of sweets?”
Granny Weatherwax still hadn't turned around.
Nanny looked at her boots.
“No, Esme,” she said meekly.
“I knew you'd go up to the Long Man, you know. How'd you get in?”
“Used one of the special horseshoes.”
Granny nodded. “You didn't ought to have brung him into it, Gytha.”
“Yes, Esme.”
“He's as tricky as she is.”
“Yes, Esme.”
“You're trying preemptive meekness on me.”
“Yes, Esme.”
They walked a little further.
“What was that dance your Jason and his men did when they'd got drunk?” said Granny.
“It's the Lancre Stick and Bucket Dance, Esme.”
“It's legal, is it?”
“Technically they shouldn't do it when there's women present,” said Nanny. “Otherwise it's sexual morrisment.”
“And I thought Magrat was very surprised when you recited that poem at the reception.”
“Poem?”
“The one where you did the gestures.”