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'Yellow bricks,' said Nanny. 'Whoever heard of anyone making a road out of yellow bricks?'
Magrat and Granny Weatherwax stood looking in opposite directions with their arms folded.
'Brightens the place up, I suppose,' said Nanny. On the horizon, Genua sparkled in the middle of some more greenery. In between, the road dipped into a wide valley dotted with little villages. A river snaked through them on the way to the city.
The wind whipped at their skirts.
'We'll never fly in this,' said Nanny, still womanfully trying to make enough conversation for three people.
'So we'll walk, then, eh?' she said, and added, because there's a spark of spitefulness even in innocent souls like Nanny Ogg's, 'Singing as we go, how about it?'
'I'm sure it's not my place to mind what anyone chooses to do,' said Granny. 'It's nothing to do with me. I expect some people with wands and big ideas might have something to say.'
'Huh!' said Magrat.
They set off along the brick road towards the distant city, in single file with Nanny Ogg as a kind of mobile buffer state in the middle.
'What some people need,' said Magrat, to the world in general, 'is a bit more heart.'
'What some people need,' said Granny Weatherwax, to the stormy sky, 'is a lot more brain.'
Then she clutched at her hat to stop the wind from blowing it off.
What I need, thought Nanny Ogg fervently, is a drink.
Three minutes later a farmhouse dropped on her head.
By this time the witches were well spaced out. Granny Weatherwax was striding along in front, Magrat was sulking along at the rear, and Nanny was in the middle.
As she said afterwards, it wasn't even as if she was singing. It was just that one moment there was a small, plump witch, and the next there was the collapsing remains of a wooden farmhouse.
Granny Weatherwax turned and found herself looking at a crumbling, unpainted front door. Magrat nearly walked into a back door of the same grey, bleached wood.
There was no sound but the crackle of settling timber.
'Gytha?' said Granny.
'Nanny?' said Magrat.
They both opened their doors.
It was a very simple design of house, with two downstairs rooms separated by a front-to-back passageway. In the middle of the passageway, surrounded by shattered and termite-ridden floor-boards, under the pointy hat that had been rammed down to her chin, was Nanny Ogg. There was no sign of Greebo.
'Wha' happened?' she said. 'Wha' happened?'
'A farmhouse dropped on your head,' said Magrat.
'Oh. One o' them things,' said Nanny vaguely.
Granny gripped her by the shoulders.
'Gytha? How many fingers am I holding up?' she said urgently.
'Wha' fingers? 'S'all gone dark.'
Magrat and Granny gripped the brim of Nanny's hat and half lifted, half unscrewed it from her head. She blinked at them.
'That's the willow reinforcement,' she said, as the pointy hat creaked back into shape like a resurrecting umbrella. She was swaying gently. 'Stop a hammer blow, a hat with willow reinforcement. All them struts, see. Distributes the force. I shall write to Mr Vernissage.'
