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'It's a shame when families break up like that,' said Nanny.
'Huh! You said your sister Beryl was a greedy ingrate with the conscience of an oyster.'
'Well, yes, but she is my sister.'
Granny opened the door.
'Well, well,' she said.
'What's up? What's up? Don't just stand there.' Nanny peered around her and into the room.
'Coo,' she said.
Magrat paused in the big, red-velvet ante-room. Strange thoughts fireworked around her head; she hadn't felt like this since the herbal wine. But struggling among them like a tiny prosaic potato in a spray of psychedelic chrysanthemums was an inner voice screaming that she didn't even know how to dance. Apart from in circles.
But it couldn't be difficult if ordinary people managed it.
The tiny inner Magrat struggling to keep its balance on the surge of arrogant self-confidence wondered if this was how Granny Weatherwax felt all the time.
She raised the hem of her dress slightly and looked down at her shoes.
They couldn't be real glass, or else she'd be hobbling towards some emergency first aid by now. Nor were they transparent. The human foot is a useful organ but is not, except to some people with highly specialized interests, particularly attractive to look at.
The shoes were mirrors. Dozens of facets caught the light.
Two mirrors on her feet. Magrat vaguely recalled something about . . . about a witch never getting caught between two mirrors, wasn't it? Or was it never trust a man with orange eyebrows? Something she'd been taught, back when she'd been an ordinary person. Something. . . like ... a witch should never stand between two mirrors because, because, because the person that walked away might not be the same person. Or something. Like . . . you were spread out among the images, your whole soul was pulled out thin, and somewhere in the distant images a dark part of you would get out and come looking for you, if you weren't very careful. Or something.
She overruled the thought. It didn't matter.
She stepped forward, to where a little knot of other guests were waiting to make their entrance.
'Lord Henry Gleet and Lady Gleet!'
The ballroom wasn't a room at all, but a courtyard open to the soft night airs. Steps led down into it. At the far end, another much wider staircase, lined with nickering torches, led up into the palace itself. On the far wall, huge and easily visible, was a clock.
'The Honourable Douglas Incessant!'
The time was a quarter to eight. Magrat had a vague recollection of some old woman shouting something about the time, but. . . that didn't matter either . . .
awayy, furry toy?' he suggested.
Behind the frightened eyes man and mouse fought for supremacy. But they needn't have bothered. They would lose either way. As consciousness flickered between the states it saw either a grinning cat or a six-foot, well-muscled, one-eyed grinning bully.
The coachmouse fainted. Greebo patted him a few times, in case he was going to move . . .
'Wake up, little mousey . . .'
. . . and then lost interest.
The coach door rattled, jammed, and then opened.
'What's happening?' said Ella.
'Wrowwwwl!'
Nanny Ogg's boot hit Greebo on the back of his head.
'Oh no you don't, my lad,' she said.
