'Haha,' said Agnes. 'So, er. . . see you tomorrow, then. . .'
'Fine.' Agnes headed back to her room, deep in thought. Christine was there, looking critically at herself in the mirror. She spun around as Agnes entered; she even moved with exclamation marks.
'Oh, Perdita!! Have you heard?! I'm to sing the part of Iodine tonight!! Isn't that wonderful?!' She dashed across the room and endeavoured to pick Agnes up and hug her, settling eventually for just hugging her. 'And I heard they're already letting you in the chorus!?'
'Yes, indeed.'
'Isn't that nice?! I've been practising all morning with Mr Salzella. Kesta!? Mallydetta!! Porter see bloker!!' She twirled happily. Invisible sequins filled the air with their shine. 'When I am very famous,' she said, 'you won't regret having a friend in me!! I shall do my very best to help you!! I am sure you bring me luck!!'
'Yes, indeed,' said Agnes, hopelessly. 'Because my dear father told me that one day a dear little pixie would arrive to help me achieve my great ambition, and, do you know, I think that little pixie is you!!' Agnes smiled unhappily. After you'd known Christine for any length of time, you found yourself fighting a desire to look into her ear to see if you could spot daylight coming the other way. 'Er. I thought we had swapped rooms?'
'Oh, that!!' said Christine, smiling. 'Wasn't I silly?! Anyway, I shall need the big mirror now that I am to be a prima donna! You don't mind, do you!?'
'What? Oh. No. No, of course not. Er. If you're sure. . .' Agnes looked at the mirror, and then at the bed. And then at Christine. 'No,' she said, shocked at the enormity of the idea that had just presented itself, delivered from the Perdita of her soul. 'I'm sure that will be fine.' Dr Undershaft blew his nose and tried to tidy himself up. Well, he didn't have to stand for it. Perhaps the child was somewhat on the heavy side, but Gigli, for example, had once crushed a tenor to death and no one had thought any worse of her for it. He'd protest to Mr Bucket. Dr Undershaft was a single-minded man. He believed in voices. It didn't matter what anyone looked like. He never watched opera with his eyes open. It was the music that mattered, not the acting and certainly not the shape of the singers. What did it matter what shape she was? Dame Tessitura had a beard you could strike a match on and a nose flattened half across her face, but she was still one of the best basses who ever opened beer bottles with her thumb. Of course, Salzella said that, while everyone accepted that large women of fifty could play thin girls of seventeen, people wouldn't accept that a fat girl of seventeen could do it. He said they'd cheerfully swallow a big lie and choke on a little fib. Salzella said that sort of thing. Something was going wrong these days. The whole place seemed. . . sick, if a building could be sick. The crowds were still coming, but the money just didn't seem to be there any more; everything seemed to be so expensive. . . And now they were owned by a cheesemonger, for heaven's sake, some grubby counter jumper who'd probably want to bring in fancy ideas. What they needed was a businessman, some clerk who could add up columns of figures properly and not interfere. That was the trouble with all the owners he had experienced-they started off thinking of themselves as businessmen, and then suddenly began to think they could make an artistic contribution. Still, possibly cheesemongers had to add up cheeses. just so long as this one stayed in his office with the books, and didn't go around acting as though he owned the place just because he happened to own the place. . .
Undershaft blinked. He'd gone the wrong way again. No matter how long you'd been here, this place was a maze. He was behind the stage, in the orchestra's room. Instruments and folding chairs had been stacked everywhere. His foot toppled a beer bottle. The twang of a string made him look around. Broken instruments littered the floor. There were half a dozen smashed violins. Several oboes had been broken. The from had been pulled right out of a trombone. He looked up into someone's face. 'But. . . why are you-' The half-moon spectacles tumbled over and over, and smashed on the boards. Then the attacker lowered his mask, as smooth and white as the skull of an angel, and stepped forward purposefully. . . Dr Undershaft blinked. There was darkness. A cloaked figure raised its head and looked at him through bony white sockets. Dr Undershaft's recent memories were a little confused, but one fact stood out. 'Aha,' he said. 'Got you! You're the Ghost!' YOU KNOW, YOU'RE RATHER AMUSINGLY WRONG. Dr Undershaft watched another masked figure pick up the body of. . . Dr Undershaft, and drag it into the shadows. 'Oh, I see. I'm dead.' Death nodded. SUCH WOULD APPEAR TO BE THE CASE. 'That was murder! Does anyone know?' THE MURDERER. AND YOU, OF COURSE. 'But him? How can-?' Undershaft began. WE MUST GO, said Death. 'But he just killed me! Strangled me with his bare hands!' YES. CHALK IT UP TO EXPERIENCE. 'You mean I can't do anything about it?' LEAVE IT TO THE LIVING. GENERALLY SPEAKING, THEY GET UNEASY WHEN THE DECEASED TAKES A CONSTRUCTIVE ROLE IN A MURDER INVESTIGATION. THEY TEND TO LOSE CONCENTRATION. 'You know, you do have a very good bass voice.' THANK YOU. 'Are there going to be. . . choirs and things?' WOULD YOU LIKE SOME? Agnes slipped out through the stage-door and into the streets of Ankh- Morpork. She blinked in the light. The air felt slightly prickly, and sharp, and too cold. What she was about to do was wrong. Very wrong. And all her life she'd done things that were right. Go on, said Perdita. In fact, she probably wouldn't even do it. But there was no harm in just asking where there was a herbal shop, so she asked. And there was no harm in going in, so she went in. And it certainly wasn't against any kind of law to buy the ingredients she bought. After all, she might get a headache later on, or be unable to sleep. And it would mean nothing at all to take them back to her room and tuck them under the mattress. That's right, said Perdita.
In fact, if you averaged out the moral difficulty of what she was proposing over all the little activities she had to undergo in order to do it, it probably wasn't that bad at all, really- These comforting thoughts were arranging themselves in her mind as she headed back. She turned a corner and nearly walked into Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax. She flung herself against the wall and stopped breathing. They hadn't seen her, although Nanny's foul cat leered at her over its owner's shoulder. They'd take her back! She just knew they would! The fact that she was a free agent and her own mistress and quite at liberty to go off to Ankh-Morpork had nothing to do with it. They'd interfere. They always did. She scurried back along the alley and ran as fast as she could to the rear of the Opera House. The stage-doorkeeper took no notice of her. Granny and Nanny strolled through the city towards the area known as the Isle of Gods. It wasn't exactly Ankh and it wasn't exactly Morpork, being situated where the river bent so much it almost formed an island. It was where the city kept all those things it occasionally needed but was uneasy about, like the Watch-house, the theatres, the prison and the publishers. It was the place for all those things which might go off bang in unexpected ways. Greebo ambled along behind them. The air was full of new smells, and he was looking forward to seeing if any of them belonged to anything he could eat, fight or ravish. Nanny Ogg found herself getting increasingly worried. 'This isn't really us, Esme,' she said. 'Who is it, then?'
'I mean the book was just a bit of fun. No sense in making ourselves unpopular, is there?'
'Can't have witches being done down, Gytha.'
'I don't feel done down. I felt fine until you told me I was done down,' said Nanny, putting her finger on a major sociological point. 'You've been exploited,' said Granny firmly. 'No I ain't.'
'Yes you have. You're a downtrodden mass.'
'No I ain't.'
'You've been swindled out of your life savings,' said Granny. , 'Two dollars?'
'Well, it's all you'd actually saved,' said Granny, accurately. 'Only 'cos I spent everything else,' said Nanny. Other people salted away money for their old age, but Nanny preferred to accumulate memories. 'Well, there you are, then.'
'I was putting that by for some new piping for my still up at Copperhead,' said Nanny.[5] 'You know how that scumble eats away at the metal-'
'You were putting a little something by for some security and peace of mind in your old age,' Granny translated. 'You don't get peace of mind with my scumble,' said Nanny happily. 'Pieces, yes; but not peace. It's made from the finest apples, you know,' she added. 'Well, mainly apples.' Granny stopped outside an ornate doorway, and peered at the brass plate affixed thereon. 'This is the place,' she said. They looked at the door.
'I've never been one for front doors,' said Nanny, shifting from one foot to the other. Granny nodded. Witches had a thing about front doors. A brief search located an alleyway which led around the back of the building. Here was a pair of much larger doors, wide open. Several dwarfs were loading bundles of books on to a cart. A rhythmic thumping came from somewhere beyond the doorway. No one took any notice of the witches as they wandered inside. Movable type was known in Ankh-Morpork, but if wizards heard about it they moved it where no one could find it. They generally didn't interfere with the running of the city, but when it came to movable type the pointy foot was put down hard. They had never explained why, ' and people didn't press the issue because you didn't press the issue with wizards, not if you liked yourself the shape you were. They simply worked around the problem, and engraved everything. This took a long time and meant that Ankh-Morpork was, for example, denied the benefit of newspapers, leaving the population to fool themselves as best they could. A press was thumping gently at one end of the warehouse. Beside it, at long tables, a number of dwarfs and humans were stitching pages together and gluing on the covers. Nanny took a book off a pile. It was The Joye of Snacks. 'Can I help you, ladies?' said a voice. Its tone suggested very clearly that it wasn't anticipating offering any kind of help whatsoever, except out into the street at speed. 'We've come about this book,' said Granny. 'I'm Mrs Ogg,' said Nanny Ogg. The man looked her up and down. 'Oh yes? Can you identify yourself?'
'Certainly. I'd know me anywhere.'
'Hah! Well, I happen to know what Gytha Ogg looks like, madam, and she does not look like you.' Nanny Ogg opened her mouth to reply, and then said, in the voice of one who has stepped happily into the road and only now remembers about the onrushing coach:'. . . Oh.'
'And how do you know what Mrs Ogg looks like?' said Granny. 'Oh, is that the time? We'd better be going-'said Nanny. 'Because, as a matter of fact, she sent me a picture,' said Goatberger, taking out his wallet. 'I'm sure we're not at all interested,' said Nanny hurriedly, pulling on Granny's arm. 'I'm extremely interested,' said Granny. She snatched a folded piece of paper out of Goatberger's hands, and peered at it. 'Hah! Yes. . . that's Gytha Ogg all right,' she said. 'Yes, indeed. I remember when that young artist came to Lancre for the summer.'
'I wore my hair longer in those days,' muttered Nanny. 'Just as well, considering,' said Granny. 'I didn't know you had copies, though.'
'Oh, you know how it is when you're young,' said Nanny dreamily. 'It was doodle, doodle, doodle all summer long.' She awoke from her reverie. 'And I still weigh the same now as I did then,' she added. 'Except that it's shifted,' said Granny, nastily. She handed the sketch back to Goatberger. 'That's her all right,' she said. 'But it's out by about sixty years and several layers of clothing. This is Gytha Ogg, right here.'
'You're telling me this came up with Banana Soup Surprise?'
'Did you try it?' said Nanny. 'Mr Cropper the head printer did, yes.'
'Was he surprised?'
'Not half as surprised as Mrs Cropper.'
'It can take people like that,' said Nanny. 'I think perhaps I overdo the nutmeg.' Goatberger stared at her. Doubt was beginning to assail him. You only had to look at Nanny Ogg grinning back at you to believe she could write something like The Joye of Snacks. 'Did you really write this?' he said. 'From memory,' said Nanny, proudly. 'And now she'd like some money,' said Granny. Mr Goatberger's face twisted up as though he'd just eaten a lemon and washed it down with vinegar. 'But we gave her the money back,' he said. 'See?' said Nanny, her face falling. 'I told you, Esme-'