Oats laughed.
'Er... yes. Er... I might come and see you off in the morning...'said Agnes, uncertainly.
'That would be nice of you.'
'So... until... you know...'
'Yes.'
Agnes seemed to be struggling with some inner resistance. Then she said, 'And, er... there's something I've been meaning to... I mean, perhaps you could...'
'Yes?'
Agnes's right hand dived urgently into her pocket and she pulled out a small package wrapped in greased paper.
'It's a poultice,' she blurted out. 'It's a very good recipe and the book says it always works and if you heat it up and leave it on it'll do wonders for your boil.'
Oats took it gently. 'It's just possible that's the nicest thing anyone's ever given me,' he said.
'Er... good. It's from... er... both of us. Goodbye.'
Oats watched her leave the circle of light, and then something drew his eye upwards again.
The circling eagle had risen above the shadow of the mountains and into the light of the setting sun. For a moment it flashed gold, and then dropped into the dark again.
From up here the eagle could see for miles across the mountains.
Over Uberwald, the threatened storm had broken. Lightning scribbled across the sky.
Some of it crackled around the highest tower of Don'tgonearthe Castle, and on the rainhat that Igor wore to stop his head rusting. It raised little balls of glowing light on the big telescopic iron spike as, taking care to stand on his portable rubber mat, he patiently wound it upwards.
At the foot of the apparatus, which was already humming with high tension, was a bundle wrapped in a blanket.
The spike locked itself in position. Igor sighed, and waited.
DOWN, BOY! DOWN, I SAYI! WILL YOU STOP- LET GO! LET GO THIS MINUTE! ALL RIGHT, LOOK... FETCH? FETCH? THERE WE GO...
Death watched Scraps bound away.
He wasn't used to this. It wasn't that people weren't sometimes glad to see him, because the penultimate moments of life were often crowded and complex and a cool figure in black came as something of a relief. But he'd never encountered quite this amount of enthusiasm or, if it came to it, this amount of flying mucus. It was disconcerting. It made him feel he wasn't doing his job properly.
THERE'S A SATISFACTORY DOG. NOW... DROP. LET GO, PLEASE. DID YOU HEAR ME SAY LET GO? LET GO THIS MINUTE!
Scraps bounced away. This was far too much fun to end.
There was a soft chiming from within his robe. Death rubbed his hand on the cloth in an effort to get it dry and brought out a lifetimer, its sand all pooled in the bottom bulb. But the glass itself was misshapen, twisted, covered in welts of raised glass and, as Death watched, it filled up with crackling blue light.
Normally, Death was against this sort of thing but, he reasoned as he snapped his fingers, at the moment it looked as though it was the only way he'd get his scythe back.
The lightning hit.
There was a smell of singed wool.
Igor waited a while and then trudged round to the bundle, trailing molten rubber behind him. Kneeling down, he carefully unwrapped the blanket.
Scraps yawned. A large tongue licked Igor's hand.
As he smiled with relief there came, from far down below in the castle, the sound of the mighty organ playing 'Toccata for Young Women in Underwired Nightdresses'.