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... he needed more muscle, all these bones were the wrong shape, these legs ought to be longer . . .
And then it was finished.
Greebo unfolded himself and stood up, a little unsteadily.
Nanny stared, her mouth open.
Then her eyes moved downwards.
'Cor,' she said.
'I think,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'that we d better imagine some clothes on him right now.'
That was easy enough. When Greebo had been clothed to her satisfaction Granny nodded and stood back.
'Magrat, you can open your eyes,' she said.
'I hadn't got them closed.'
'Well, you should have had.'
Greebo turned slowly, a faint, lazy smile on his scarred fpce. As a human, his nose was broken and a black patch covered his bad eye. But the other one glittered like the sins of angels, and his smile was the downfall of saints. Female ones, anyway.
Perhaps it was pheromones, or the way his muscles rippled under his black leather shirt. Greebo broadcast a kind of greasy diabolic sexuality in the megawatt range. Just looking at him was enough to set dark wings fluttering in the crimson night.
'Uh, Greebo,' said Nanny.
He opened his mouth. Incisors glittered.
'Wrowwwwl,' he said.
'Can you understand me?'
'Yessss, Nannyyy.'
Nanny Ogg leaned against the wall for support.
There was the sound of hooves. The coach had turned into the street.
'Get out there and stop that coach!'
Greebo grinned again, and darted out of the alley.
Nanny fanned herself with her hat.
'Whoo-eee,' she said. 'And to think I used to tickle his tummy . . . No wonder all the lady cats scream at night.'
'Gytha!'
'Well, you've gone very red, Esme.'
'I'm just out of breath,' said Granny.
'Funny, that. It's not as if you've been running.'
The coach rattled down the street.
The coachmen and footmen were not at all sure what they were. Their minds oscillated wildly. One moment they were men thinking about cheese and bacon rinds. And the next they were mice wondering why they had trousers on.
