Witches Abroad (Discworld 12)

Ella looked slightly puzzled for a moment, as if trying to work out why - if Magrat could look like whatever she wanted - she'd chosen to look like Magrat.

'Well, now,' she said. 'What do we do next?'

'You mentioned tea,' said Magrat, buying time.

'Oh, sure.' Ella turned to the fireplace, where a blackened kettle hung over what Granny Weatherwax always called an optimist's fire.*

'What's your name?' she said over her shoulder.

'Magrat,' said Magrat, sitting.

'That's a ... nice name,' said Ella, politely. 'Of course, you know mine. Mind you, I spend so much time cooking over this wretched thing now that Mrs Pleasant calls me Embers. Silly, isn't it.'

Emberella, thought Magrat. I'm fairy godmothering a girl who sounds like something you put up in the rain.

* Two logs and hope.

'It could use a little work,' she conceded.

'I haven't the heart to tell her off, she thinks it sounds jolly,' she said. 'I think it sounds like something you put up in the rain.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' said Magrat. 'Uh. Who's Mrs Pleasant?'

'She's the cook at the palace. She comes around to cheer me up when they're out. . .'

Ella spun around, holding the blackened kettle like a weapon.

'I'm not going to that ball!' she snapped. 'I'm not going to marry the prince! Do you understand?'

The words came out like steel ingots.

'Right! Right!' said Magrat, taken aback by their force.

'He looks slimy. He makes my flesh crawl,' said Embers darkly. 'They say he's got funny eyes. And everyone knows what he does at night!'

Everyone bar one, Magrat thought. No-one ever tells me...

Aloud, she said: 'Well, it shouldn't be too much to arrange. I mean, normally it's marrying princes that's the hard bit.'

'Not for me it isn't,' said Embers. 'It's all been arranged. My other godmother says I've got to do it. She says it's my destiny.'

'Other godmother?' said Magrat.

'Everyone gets two,' said Ella. 'The good one and the bad one. You know that. Which one are you?'

Magrat's mind raced.

'Oh, the good one,' she said. 'Definitely.'

'Funny thing,' said Ella. 'That's just what the other one said, too.'

Granny Weatherwax sat in her special knees-clenched, elbows-in way that put as little as possible of herself in contact with the outside world.

'By gor', this is good stuff,' said Nanny Ogg, polishing her plate with what Granny could only hope was bread. 'You ought to try a drop, Esme.'

'Another helping, Mrs Ogg?' said Mrs Gogol.

'Don't mind if I do, Mrs Gogol.' Nanny nudged Granny in the ribs. 'It's really good, Esme. Just like stew.'