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'You've gone all pale. Never seen you go all pale like that before.'
Granny slowly removed a fragment of glass from her hat.
'Well... bit of a turn, the glass breaking like that. . .' she mumbled.
Nanny looked at Granny Weatherwax's hand. It was bleeding. Then she looked at Granny Weatherwax's face, and decided that she'd never admit that she'd looked at Granny Weatherwax's hand.
'Could be a sign,' she said, randomly selecting a safe topic. 'Once someone dies, you get that sort of thing. Pictures fallin' off walls, clocks stopping . . . great big wardrobes falling down the stairs . . . that sort of thing.'
'I've never believed in that stuff, it's . . . what do you mean, wardrobes falling down the stairs?' said Granny. She was breathing deeply. If it wasn't well known that Granny Weatherwax was tough, anyone might have thought she had just had the shock of her life and was practically desperate to take part in a bit of ordinary everyday bickering.
'That's what happened after my Great-Aunt Sophie died,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Three days and four hours and six minutes to the very minute after she died, her wardrobe fell down the stairs. Our Darren and our Jason were trying to get it round the bend and it sort of slipped, just like that. Uncanny. Weeell, I wasn't going to leave it there for her Agatha, was I, only ever visited her mum on Hogswatchday, and it was me that nursed Sophie all the way through to the end - '
Granny let the familiar, soothing litany of Nanny Ogg's family feud wash over her as she groped for the teacups.
The Oggs were what is known as an extended family - in fact not only extended but elongated, protracted and persistent. No normal sheet of paper could possibly trace their family tree, which in any case was more like a mangrove thicket. And every single branch had a low-key, chronic vendetta against every other branch, based on such well-established causes celebres as What Their Kevin Said About Our Stan At Cousin Di's Wedding and Who Got The Silver Cutlery That Auntie Em Promised Our Doreen Was To Have After She Died, I'd Like To Know, Thank You Very Much, #You Don't Mind.
Nanny Ogg, as undisputed matriarch, encouraged all sides indiscriminately. It was the nearest thing she had to a hobby.
The Oggs contained, in just one family, enough feuds to keep an entire Ozark of normal hillbillies going for a century.
And sometimes this encouraged a foolish outsider to join in and perhaps make an uncomplimentary remark about one Ogg to another Ogg. Whereupon every single Ogg would turn on him, every part of the family closing up together like the parts of a well-oiled, blue-steeled engine to deal instant merciless destruction to the interloper.
Ramtop people believed that the Ogg feud was a blessing. The thought of them turning their immense energy on the world in general was a terrible one. Fortunately, there was no-one an Ogg would rather fight than another Ogg. It was family.
Odd things, families, when you came to think of it...
'Esme? You all right?'
'What?'
'You've got them cups rattling like nobody's business! And tea all over the tray.'
Granny looked down blankly at the mess, and rallied as best she could.
'Not my damn fault if the damn cups are too small,' she muttered.
The door opened.
'Morning, Magrat,' she added, without looking around. 'What're you doing here?'
It was something about the way the hinges creaked. Magrat could even open a door apologetically.
The younger witch sidled speechlessly into the room, face beetroot red, arms held behind her back.
'We'd just popped in to sort out Desiderata's things, as our duty to a sister witch,' said Granny loudly.
'And not to look for her magic wand,' said Nanny.
'Gytha Ogg!'
Nanny Ogg looked momentarily guilty, and then hung her head.
'Sorry, Esme.'
Magrat brought her arms around in front of her.
'Er,' she said, and blushed further.
