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'We've got to get down there!' said Nanny. 'We've got to stop it! I mean, you know me, I'm no prude, but . . . yuk . . .'
'I say! Old woman!'
They turned. A small fat woman in a red dress and a towering white wig was peering haughtily at them from behind a fox mask.
'Yes?' snapped Granny.
'Yes, my lady,' said the fat woman. 'Where are your manners? I demand that you direct me to the powder room this instant! And what do you think you're doing?'
This was to Nanny Ogg, who was walking around her and staring critically at her dress.
'You're a 20, maybe a 22?' said Nanny.
'What? What is this impertinence?'
Nanny Ogg rubbed her chin thoughtfully. 'Well, I dunno,' she said, 'red in a dress has never been me. You haven't got anything in blue, have you?'
The choleric woman turned to strike Nanny with her fan, but a skinny hand tapped her on the shoulder.
She looked up into Granny Weatherwax's face.
As she passed out dreamily she was aware of a voice, a long way off, saying, 'Well, that's me fitted. But she's never a size 20. And if I had a face like that I'd never wear red . . .'
Lady Volentia D'Arrangement relaxed in the inner sanctum of the ladies' rest room. She removed her mask and fished an errant beauty spot from the depths of her decolletage. Then she reached around and down to try and adjust her bustle, an exercise guaranteed to produce the most ridiculous female gymnastics on every world except those where the panty girdle had been invented.
Apart from being as well-adapted a parasite as the oak bracket fungus Lady Volentia D'Arrangement was, by and large, a blameless sort of person. She always attended events for the better class of charity, and made a point of knowing the first names of nearly all her servants - the cleaner ones, at least. And she was, on the whole, kind to animals and even to children if they had been washed and didn't make too much noise. All in all, she didn't deserve what was about to happen to her, which was the fate Mother Nature had in store for any woman in this room on this night who happened to have approximately the same measurements as Granny Weatherwax.
She was aware of someone coming up beside her.
'S'cuse me, missus.'
It turned out to be a small, repulsive lower-class woman with a big ingratiating smile.
'What do you want, old woman?' said Lady Volentia.
'S'cuse me,' said Nanny Ogg. 'My friend over there would like a word with you.'
Lady Volentia looked around haughtily into . . .
. . . icy, blue-eyed, hypnotic oblivion.
'What's this thing like an extra bu . . . hobo?'
'It's a bustle, Esme.'
'It's damn uncomfortable is what it is. I keep on feeling someone's following me around.'
'The white suits you, anyway.'
'No it don't. Black's the only colour for a proper witch. And this wig is too hot. Who wants a foot of hair on their heads?'
Granny donned her mask. It was an eagle's face in white feathers stuck with sequins.
Nanny adjusted some unmentionable underpinning somewhere beneath her crinoline and straightened up.
'Cor, look at us,' she said. 'Them feathers in your hair really look good.'
'I've never been vain,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'You know that, Gytha. No-one could ever call me vain.'
