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The footman, recognizing instantly the boundless bad manners of the well-bred, backed away quickly.
Down by the coach, Nanny Ogg said, 'You don't think you might have overdone it a little bit?'
'I had to,' said Granny. 'You know what she's like.'
'How are we going to get in? We ain't got tickets. And we ain't dressed properly, either.'
'Get the broomsticks down off the rack,' said Granny. 'We're going straight to the top.'
They touched down on the battlements of a tower overlooking the palace grounds. The strains of courtly music drifted up from below, and there was the occasional pop and flare of fireworks from the river.
Granny opened a likely-looking door in the tower and descended the circular stairs, which led to a landing.
'Posh carpet on the floor,' said Nanny. 'Why's it on the walls too ?'
'Them's tapestries,' said Granny.
'Cor,' said Nanny. 'You live and learn. Well, I do anyway.'
Granny stopped with her hand on a doorknob.
'What do you mean by that?' she said.
'Well, I never knew you had a sister.'
'We never talked about her.'
'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.
