'Smells like rum, Air Travis.'
The senior coachman hesitated. From the streets came music and laughter as the first of the processions got under way. Fireworks popped across the sky. It wasn't a night to be without just a sip of alcohol.
'What a nice old lady,' he said.
Nanny Ogg waved the jug again. 'Up your eye!' she said. 'Mud in your bottom!'
What might be called the classical witch comes in two basic varieties, the complicated and the simple, or, to put it another way, the ones that have a room full of regalia and the ones that don't. Magrat was by inclination one of the former sort. For example, take magical knives. She had a complete collection of magical knives, all with the appropriate coloured handles and complicated runes all over them.
It had taken many years under the tutelage of Granny Weatherwax for Magrat to learn that the common kitchen breadknife was better than the most ornate of magic knives. It could do all that the magical knife could do, plus you could also use it to cut bread.
Every established kitchen has one ancient knife, its handle worn thin, its blade curved like a banana, and so inexplicably sharp that reaching into the drawer at night is like bobbing for apples in a piranha tank.
Magrat had hers stuck in her belt. Currently she was thirty feet above the ground, one hand holding on to her broomstick, the other on to a drainpipe, both legs dangling. Housebreaking ought to be easy, when you had a broomstick. But this did not appear to be the case.
Finally she got both legs around the pipe and a firm grip on a timely gargoyle. She waggled the knife in between the two halves of the window and lifted the latch. After a certain amount of grunting, she was inside, leaning against the wall and panting. Blue lights flashed in front of her eyes, echoing the fireworks that laced the night outside.
Granny had kept on asking her if she was sure she wanted to do this. And she was amazed to find that she was sure. Even if the snake women were already wandering around the house. Being a witch meant going into places you didn't want to go.
She opened her eyes.
There was the dress, in the middle of the floor, on a dressmaker's dummy.
A Klatchian Candle burst over Genua. Green and red stars exploded in the velvet darkness, and lit up the gems and silks in front of Magrat.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
She crept forward, her mouth dry.
Warm mists rolled through the swamp.
Mrs Gogol stirred the cauldron.
'What are they doing?' said Saturday.
'Stopping the story,' she said. 'Or . . . maybe not. . .'
She stood up.
'One way or another, it's our time now. Let's go to the clearing.'
She looked at Saturday's face.
'Are you frightened?'
'I ... know what will happen afterwards,' said the zombie. 'Even if we win.'
'We both do. But we've had twelve years.'
'Yes. We've had twelve years.'
'And Ella will rule the city.'
'Yes.'
In the coachmen's shed Nanny Ogg and the coachmen were getting along, as she put it, like a maison en flambe.
The underfootman smiled vaguely at the wall, and slumped forward.