'-the other one,' said Agnes. 'Oh yes, I know that. But that's just a bit of superstition, isn't it? Witches don't have to come in threes.'
'Oh, no. Course not,' said Nanny. 'You can have any number up to about, oh, four or five.'
'What happens if there's more, then? Something awful?'
'Bloody great row, usually,' said Nanny. 'Over nothin' much. And then they all goes off and sulks. Witches don't like being compressed up, much. But three... sort of... works well. I don't have to draw you a picture, do I?'
'And now Magrat's a mother-' said Agnes.
'Ah, well, that's where it all goes a bit runny,' said Nanny. 'This maiden and mother thing... it's not as simple as you'd think, see? Now you,' she prodded Agnes with her pipe, 'are a maiden. You are, aren't you?'
'Nanny! That's not the sort of thing people discuss!'
'Well, I knows you are, 'cos I'd soon hear if you wasn't,' said Nanny, the kind of person who discussed that kind of thing all the time. 'But that ain't really important, because it ain't down to technicalities, see? Now me, I don't reckon I was ever a maiden ment'ly. Oh, you don't need to go all red like that. What about your Aunt May over in Creel Springs? Pour kids and she's still bashful around men. You got your blush from her. Tell her a saucy joke and if you're quick you can cook dinner for six on her head. When you've been around for a while, miss, you'll see that some people's body and head don't always work together.'
'And what's Granny Weatherwax, then?' said Agnes, and added, a little nastily because the reference to the blush had gone home, 'Ment'ly.'
'Damned if I've ever worked that out,' said Nanny. 'But I reckon she sees there's a new three here. That bloody invitation must've been the last straw. So she's gone.' She poked at her pipe. 'Can't say I fancy being a crone. I ain't the right shape and anyway I don't know what sound they make.'
Agnes had a sudden and very clear and horrible mental image of the broken cup.
'But Granny isn't a... wasn't a... I mean, she didn't look like a-' she began.
'There's no point in lookin' at a dog an' sayin' that's not a dog 'cos a dog don't look like that,' said Nanny simply.
Agnes fell silent. Nanny was right, of course. Nanny was someone's mum. It was written all over her. If you cut her in half, the word 'Ma' would be all the way through. Some girls were just naturally... mothers. And some, Perdita added, were cut out to be professional maidens. As for the third, Agnes went on, ignoring her own interruption, perhaps it wasn't so odd that people generally called Nanny out for the births and Granny for the deaths.
'She thinks we don't need her any more?'
'I reckon so.'
'What is she going to do, then?'
'Dunno. But if you had three, and now there's four... well, something's got to go, hasn't it?'
'What about the vampires? The two of us can't cope with them!'
'She's been telling us there's three of us,' said Nanny.
'What? Magrat? But she's-' Agnes stopped herself. 'She's no Nanny Ogg,' she said.
'Well, I sure as hell ain't an Esme Weatherwax, if it comes to that,' said Nanny. 'The ment'I stuff is meat and drink to her. Getting inside other heads, puttin' her mind somewhere else... that's her for-tay, right enough. She'd wipe the smile off that Count's face for him. From the inside, if I know Esme.'
They sat and stared glumly at the cold fireplace.
'Maybe we weren't always very nice to her,' said Agnes. She kept thinking of the broken cup. She was sure Granny Weatherwax hadn't done that accidentally. She may have thought she'd done it accidentally, but maybe everyone had a Perdita inside. She'd walked around this gloomy cottage, which was as much in tune with her thoughts by now as a dog is with its master, and she'd had three on her mind. Three, three, three...
'Esme doesn't thrive on nice,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Take her an apple pie and she'll complain about the pastry.'
'But people don't often thank her. And she does do a lot.'
'She's not set up for thanks, neither. Ment'ly. To tell you the honest truth, there's always been a bit of the dark in the Weatherwaxes, and that's where the trouble is. Look at old Alison Weatherwax.'
'Who was she?'
'Her own granny. Went to the bad, they say, just packed up one day and headed for Uberwald. And as for Esme's sister...' Nanny stopped, and restarted. 'Anyway, that's why she's always standin' behind herself and criticizin' what she's doing. Sometimes I reckon she's terrified she'll go bad without noticin'.'
'Granny? But she's as moral as-'