It had taken many years under the tutelage of Granny Weatherwax for Magrat to learn that the common kitchen breadknife was better than the most ornate of magic knives. It could do all that the magical knife could do, plus you could also use it to cut bread.
Every established kitchen has one ancient knife, its handle worn thin, its blade curved like a banana, and so inexplicably sharp that reaching into the drawer at night is like bobbing for apples in a piranha tank.
Magrat had hers stuck in her belt. Currently she was thirty feet above the ground, one hand holding on to her broomstick, the other on to a drainpipe, both legs dangling. Housebreaking ought to be easy, when you had a broomstick. But this did not appear to be the case.
Finally she got both legs around the pipe and a firm grip on a timely gargoyle. She waggled the knife in between the two halves of the window and lifted the latch. After a certain amount of grunting, she was inside, leaning against the wall and panting. Blue lights flashed in front of her eyes, echoing the fireworks that laced the night outside.
Granny had kept on asking her if she was sure she wanted to do this. And she was amazed to find that she was sure. Even if the snake women were already wandering around the house. Being a witch meant going into places you didn't want to go.
She opened her eyes.
There was the dress, in the middle of the floor, on a dressmaker's dummy.
A Klatchian Candle burst over Genua. Green and red stars exploded in the velvet darkness, and lit up the gems and silks in front of Magrat.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
She crept forward, her mouth dry.
Warm mists rolled through the swamp.
Mrs Gogol stirred the cauldron.
'What are they doing?' said Saturday.
'Stopping the story,' she said. 'Or . . . maybe not. . .'
She stood up.
'One way or another, it's our time now. Let's go to the clearing.'
She looked at Saturday's face.
'Are you frightened?'
'I ... know what will happen afterwards,' said the zombie. 'Even if we win.'
'We both do. But we've had twelve years.'
'Yes. We've had twelve years.'
'And Ella will rule the city.'
'Yes.'
In the coachmen's shed Nanny Ogg and the coachmen were getting along, as she put it, like a maison en flambe.
The underfootman smiled vaguely at the wall, and slumped forward.
'That's youngpipple today,' said the head coachman, trying to fish his wig out of his mug. 'Can't hold their drin . . . their drine . . . stuff. . .'
'Have a hair of the dog, Mr Travis?' said Nanny, filling the mug. 'Or scale of the alligator or whatever you call it in these parts.'
'Reckon,' said the senior footman, 'we should be gettin' the coesshe ready, what say?'
'Reckon you've got time for one more yet,' said Nanny Ogg.
'Ver' generous,' said the coachman. 'Ver' generous. Here's lookin' at you, Mrsrsrs Goo . . .'