Carpe Jugulum (Discworld 23)

The odd thing was, quite a lot of villagers had turned up to his funeral, and there had been mutterings from one or two people on the lines of, yes, well, but overall he wasn't such a bad chap... and anyway, maybe she made him say it. And she'd got the dark looks.

Supposing there was justice for all, after all? For every unheeded beggar, every harsh word, every neglected duty, every slight... every choice... Because that was the point, wasn't it? You had to choose. You might be right, you might be wrong, but you had to choose, knowing that the rightness or wrongness might never be clear or even that you were deciding between two sorts of wrong, that there was no right anywhere. And always, always, you did it by yourself. You were the one there, on the edge, watching and listening. Never any tears, never any apology, never any regrets... You saved all that up in a way that could be used when needed.

She never discussed this with Nanny Ogg or any of the other witches. That would be breaking the secret. Sometimes, late at night, when the conversation tiptoed around to that area, Nanny might just drop in some line like 'Old Scrivens went peacefully enough at the finish' and may or may not mean something by it. Nanny, as far as she could see, didn't agonize very much. To her, some things obviously had to be done, and that was that. Any of the thoughts that hung around she kept locked up tight, even from herself. Granny envied her.

Who'd come to her funeral when she died?

They didn't ask her!

Memories jostled. Other figures marched out into the shadows around the candlelight.

She'd done things and been places, and found ways to turn anger outwards that had surprised even her. She'd faced down others far more powerful than she was, if only she'd allowed them to believe it. She'd given up so much, but she'd learned a lot...

It was a sign. She knew it'd come sooner or later... They'd realized it, and now she was no more use...

What had she ever earned? The reward for toil had been more toil. If you dug the best ditches they gave you a bigger shovel.

And you got these bare walls, this bare floor, this cold cottage. '

The darkness in the corners grew out into the room and began to tangle in her hair.

They didn't ask her!

She'd never, ever asked for anything in return. And the trouble with not asking for anything in return was that sometimes you didn't get it.

She'd always tried to face towards the light. She'd always tried to face towards the light. But the harder you stared into the brightness the harsher it burned into you until, at last, the temptation picked you up and bid you turn around to see how long, rich, strong and dark, streaming away behind you, your shadow had become-

Someone mentioned her name.

There was a moment of light and noise and bewilderment.

And then she awoke and looked at the darkness flowing in, and saw things in black and white.

'So sorry... delays on the road, you know how it is...'

The newcomers hurried in and joined the crowd, who paid little attention because they were watching the unplanned entertainment around the thrones.

'Note Spelling?'

'Definitely a bit tricky,' said Nanny. 'Esmerelda, now, that was a good one. Gytha would have been good too, but Esmerelda, yes, you can't argue with it. But you know kids. They'll all be calling her Spelly.'

'If she's lucky,' said Agnes gloomily.

'I didn't expect anyone to say it!' Magrat hissed.

'I just wanted to make sure she didn't end up with "Magrat'!'

Mightily Oats was standing with his eyes cast upwards and his hands clasped together. Occasionally he made a whimpering sound.

'We can change it, can't we?' said King Verence. 'Where's the Royal Historian?'

Shawn coughed. 'It's not Wednesday evening and I'll have to go and fetch the proper hat, sire-'

'Can we change it or not, man?'

'Er... it has been said, sire. At the official time. I think it's her name now, but I'll need to go and look it up. Everyone heard it, sire.'

'No, you can't change it,' said Nanny, who as the Royal Historian's mum took it as read that she knew more than the Royal Historian. 'Look at old Moocow Poorchick over in Slice, for one.'