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'I know,' said Magrat, overwhelmed with relief, 'I'm a wet hen.'
Granny looked back towards the Hub, and the high mountains. Somewhere back there was an old cottage with the key hanging in the privy. All sorts of things were probably going on. The whole kingdom was probably going to rack and ruin without her around to keep people on the right track. It was her job. There was no telling what stupidities people would get up to if she wasn't there . . .
Nanny kicked her red boots together idly.
'Well, I suppose there's no place like home,' she said.
'No,' said Granny Weatherwax, still looking thoughtful. 'No. There's a billion places like home. But only one of 'em's where you live.'
'So we're going back?' said Magrat.
'Yes.'
But they went the long way, and saw the elephant.
THE END
all, even stories have to start somewhere.
There was a splash, and then the waters of the river closed again. Magrat walked away.
The wand settled into the rich mud, where it was touched only by the feet of the occasional passing crawfish, who don't have fairy godmothers and aren't allowed to wish for anything. It sank down over the months and passed, as most things do, out of history. Which was all anyone could wish for.
The three broomsticks rose over Genua, with the mists that curled towards the dawn.
The witches looked down at the green swamps around the city. Genua dozed. The days after Fat Lunchtirne were always quiet, as people slept it off. Currently they included Greebo, curled up in his place among the bristles. Leaving Mrs Pleasant had been a real wrench.
'Well, so much for la douche vita,' said Nanny philosophically.
'We never said goodbye to Mrs Gogol,' said Magrat.
'I reckon she knows we're going right enough,' said Nanny. 'Very knowin' woman, Mrs Gogol.'
'But can we trust her to keep her word?' said Magrat.
'Yes,' said Granny Weatherwax.
'She's very honest, in her way,' said Nanny Ogg.
'Well, there's that,' Granny conceded. 'Also, I said I might come back.'
Magrat looked across at Granny's broomstick. A large round box was among the baggage strapped to the bristles.
'You never tried on that hat she gave you,' she said.
'I had a look at it,' said Granny coldly. 'It don't fit.'
'I reckon Mrs Gogol wouldn't give anyone a hat that didn't fit,' said Nanny. 'Let's have a look, eh?'
Granny sniffed, and undid the lid of the box. Balls of tissue paper tumbled down towards the mists as she lifted the hat out.
Magrat and Nanny Ogg stared at it.
They were of course used to the concept of fruit on a hat - Nanny Ogg herself had a black straw hat with wax cherries on for special family feuding occasions. But this one had rather more than just cherries. About the only fruit not on it somewhere was a melon.
'It's definitely very . . .foreign,' said Magrat.
'Go on,' said Nanny. 'Try it on.'
