Maskerade (Discworld 18)

'Damn' thing keeps holding on to the edge of the pan! Let go, you wretched insect-' There was the sound of crockery being swept up, and then a rubbery noise that could approximately be described as a spoing. 'Now where's it gone?'

'Don't know Mrs Clamp!'

'And what's that cat doing in here?' André turned back to Agnes and flashed her a sad smile. 'It is a little cruel, I suppose,' he said. 'The poor chap is a bit daft.'

'I'm not at all sure,' said Agnes, 'that I've met anyone here who isn't.' He grinned again. 'I know,' he said. 'I mean, everyone acts as if it's only the music that matters! The plots don't make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because they've got a tiny mask on! Large ladies play the part of consumptive girls! No one can act properly! No wonder everyone accepts me singing for Christine-that's practically normal compared to opera! It's an operatic kind of idea! There should be a sign on the door saying “Leave your common sense here”! If it wasn't for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous!' She realized he was looking at her with an opera face. 'Of course, that's it, isn't it? It is the show that matters, isn't it?' she said. 'It's all show.'

'It's not meant to be real,' said André. 'It's not like theatre. No one's saying, “You've got to pretend this is a big battlefield and that guy in the cardboard crown is really a king.” The plot's only there to fill in time before the next song.' He leaned forward and took her hand. 'This must be wretched for you,' he said.

No male had ever touched Agnes before, except perhaps to push her over and steal her sweets. She pulled her hand away. 'I, er, better go and practise,' she said, feeling the blush start. 'You really picked up the role of Iodine very well,' said André. 'I, er, have a private tutor,' said Agnes. 'Then he's really studied opera; that's all I can say.'

'I. . . think he has.'

'Esme?'

'Yes, Gytha?'

'It's not that I' m complaining or anything. . .'

'Yes?'

'. . .but why isn't it me who's being the posh opera patronizes?'

'Because you're as common as muck, Gytha.'

'Oh. Right.' Nanny subjected this statement to some thought and couldn't see any point of inaccuracy that would sway a jury. 'Fair enough.'

'It's not as though I like this.'

'Shall I do madam's feet?' said the manicurist. She stared at Granny's boots and wondered if it might be necessary to use a hammer. 'I got to admit, it's a nice hairstyle,' said Nanny. 'Madam has marvellous hair,' said the hairdresser. 'What is the secret?'

'You've got to make sure there's no newts in the water,' said Granny. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over the washbasin, and went to look away. . . and then sneaked another glance. Her lips pursed. 'Hmm,' she said. At the other end, the manicurist had succeeded in getting Granny's boots and socks off. Much to her amazement there was revealed, instead of the corned and bunioned monstrosities she'd been expecting, a pair of perfect feet. She didn't know where to start because there was nowhere to begin, but this manicure was costing twenty dollars and in those circumstances you damn well find something to do. Nanny sat beside their pile of packages and tried to work everything out on a scrap of paper. She didn't have Granny's gift for numbers. They tended to writhe under her gaze and add themselves up wrong. 'Esme? I reckon we've spent. . . probably more'n a thousand dollars so far, and that's not including hirin' the coach, and we haven't paid Mrs Palm for the room.'

'You said nothing was too much trouble to help a Lancre girl,' said Granny. But I didn't say nothing was too much money, thought Nanny, and then scolded herself for thinking like that. But she was definitely feeling a little lighter in the underwear regions. There seemed to be a general consensus among the artisans of beauty that they'd done what they could. Granny swivelled the chair around. 'What do you think?' she said. Nanny Ogg stared. She'd seen many strange things in her life, some of them twice. She'd seen elves and walking stones and the shoeing of a unicorn. She'd had a farmhouse dropped on her head. But she'd never seen Granny Weatherwax in rouge. All her normal expletives of shock and surprise fused instantly, and she found herself resorting to an ancient curse belonging to her grandmother. 'Well, I'll be mogadored!' she said. 'Madam has extremely good skin,' said the cosmetics lady. 'I know,' said Granny. 'Can't seem to do anything about it.'

'I'll be mogadored!' said Nanny again.

'Powder and paint,' said Granny. 'Huh. Just another kind of mask. Oh, well.' She gave the hairdresser a dreadful smile. 'How much do we owe you?' she said. 'Er. . . thirty dollars?' said the hairdresser. 'That is. . ., 'Give the w. . . man thirty dollars and another twenty to make up for his trouble,' said Granny, clutching at her head. 'Fifty dollars? You could buy a shop for-'

'Gytha!'

'Oh, all right. 'Scuse me, I'm just going to the bank.' She turned away demurely, raised the hem of her skirt -twangtwingtwongtwang -and turned back with a handful of coins. 'There you go, my good wo. . . sir,' she said sourly. There was a coach waiting outside. It was the best Granny had been able to hire with Nanny's money. A footman held open the door as Nanny helped her friend aboard. 'We'll go straight to Mrs Palm's so's I can change,' said Granny as they pulled away. 'And then to the Opera House. We ain't got much time.'

'Are you all right?'

'Never felt better.' Granny patted her hair. 'Gytha Ogg, you wouldn't be a witch if you couldn't jump to conclusions, right?' Nanny nodded. 'Oh, yes.' There was no shame in it. Sometimes there wasn't time to do anything else but take a flying leap. Sometimes you had to trust to experience and intuition and general awareness and take a running jump. Nanny herself could clear quite a tall conclusion from a standing start. 'So I've no doubt at all that there's some kind of idea floating around in your mind about this Ghost. . .'

'Well. . . sort of an idea, yes. . .'

'A name, perhaps?' Nanny shifted uncomfortably, and not only because of the moneybags under her skirt. 'I got to admit something crossed my mind. A kind of. . . feeling. I mean, you never can tell. . .' Granny nodded. 'Yes. It's all neat, isn't it? It's a lie.'

'You said last night you saw the whole thing!'

'It's still a lie. Like the lie about masks.'

'What lie about masks?'

'The way people say they hide faces.'