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'That must be very useful when you're looking for the black notes.'
'Don't be sarcastic. I just don't want there to be any more trouble. You'll find that you start looking around when-'
'Goodnight, André.'
'Goodnight, then.' She hurried up the rest of the flights and ducked into her bedroom. No one followed her.
When she'd calmed down, which took some time, she undressed in the voluminous tent of her red flannel nightdress and got into bed, resisting any temptation to pull the covers over her head. She stared at the dark ceiling. 'That's stupid,' she thought, eventually. 'He was on the stage this morning. No one could move that fast. . .' She never knew whether she actually got some sleep or whether it happened just as she was dozing off, but there was a very faint knock at the door. 'Perdita!?' Only one person she knew could exclaim a whisper. Agnes got up and padded over to the door. She opened the door a fraction, just to check, and Christine half-fell into the room. 'What's the matter?'
'I'm frightened!!'
'What of?'
'The mirror!! It's talking to me!! Can I sleep in your room?!' Agnes looked around. It was crowded enough with the two of them standing up in it. 'The mirror's talking?'
'Yes!!'
'Are you sure?' Christine dived into Agnes's bed and pulled the covers over her. 'Yes!!' she said, indistinctly. Agnes stood alone in the darkness. People always tended to assume that she could cope, as if capability went with mass, like gravity. And merely saying briskly, 'Nonsense, mirrors don't talk', would probably not be any help, especially with one half of the dialogue buried beneath the bedclothes. She felt her way into the next room, stubbing her foot on the bed in the darkness. There must be a candle in here, somewhere. She felt for the tiny bedside table, hoping to start the reassuring rattle of a matchbox. A faint glimmer from the midnight city filtered through the window. The mirror seemed to glow. She sat down on the bed, which creaked ominously under her. Oh well. . . one bed was as good as another. . . She was about to lie back when something in the darkness went:. . . ting. It was a tuning fork. And a voice said: 'Christine. . . please attend.' She sat upright, staring at the darkness. And then realization dawned. No men, they'd said. They'd been very strict about that, as if opera were some kind of religion. It was not a problem in Agnes's case, at least in the way they meant, but for someone like Christine. . . They said love always found a way and, of course, so did a number of associated activities. Oh, good grief. She felt the blush start. In darkness! What kind of a reaction was that? Agnes's life unrolled in front of her. It didn't look as though it were going to have many high points. But it did hold years and years of being capable and having a lovely personality. It almost certainly held chocolate rather than sex and, while Agnes was not in a position to make a direct comparison, and regardless of the fact that a bar of chocolate could be made to last all day, it did not seem a very fair exchange. She felt the same feeling she'd felt back home. Sometimes life reaches that desperate point where the wrong thing to do has to be the right thing to do. It doesn't matter what direction you go. Sometimes you just have to go.
She gripped the bedclothes and replayed in her mind the way her friend spoke. You had to have that little gulp, that breathless tinkle in the tone that people got whose minds played with the fairies half the time. She tried it out in her head, and then delivered it to her vocal cords. 'Yes?! Who's there?!'
'A friend.' Agnes pulled the bedclothes up higher. 'In the middle of the night?!'
'Night is nothing to me. I belong to the night. And I can help you.' It was a pleasant voice. It seemed to be coming from the mirror. 'Help me to do what?!'
'Don't you want to be the best singer in the opera?'
'Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!' There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: 'But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her.' Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam. 'Tomorrow you will sing the part of Iodine. But I will teach you how to sing it perfectly. . .' Next morning the witches had the interior of the coach almost to themselves. News like Greebo gets around. But Henry Slugg was there, if that was indeed his name, sitting next to a very well-dressed, thin little man. 'Well, here we are again, then,' said Nanny Ogg. Henry smiled nervously. 'That was some good singing last night,' Nanny went on. Henry's face set in a good-natured grimace. In his eyes, terror waved a white flag. 'I am afraid Senor Basilica doesn't speak Morporkian, ma'am,' said the thin man. 'But I will translate for you, if you like.'
'What?' said Nanny. 'Then how come- Ow!'
'Sorry,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'My elbow must have slipped.' Nanny Ogg rubbed her side. 'I was saying,' she said, 'that he was- Ow!'
'Dear me, I seem to have done it again,' said Granny. 'This gentleman was telling us that his friend doesn't speak our language, Gytha.'
'Eh? But-What? Oh. But- Ah. Really? Oh. All right,' said Nanny. 'Oh, yes. Eats our pies, though, when- Ow!'
'Excuse my friend, it's her time of life. She gets confused,' said Granny. 'We did enjoy his singing. Heard him through the wall.'
'You were very fortunate,' said the thin man primly. 'Sometimes people have to wait years to hear Senor Basilica-'
'-probably waiting for him to finish his dinner-' a voice muttered. '-in fact, at La Scalda in Genua last month his singing made ten thousand people shed tears.'
'-hah, I can do that, I don't see there's anything special about that-' Granny's eyes hadn't left Henry 'Senor Basilica' Slugg's face. He had the expression of a man whose profound relief was horribly tempered by a dread that it wouldn't last very long. 'Senor Basilica's fame has spread far and wide,' said the manager primly. '-just like Senior Basilica,' muttered Nanny. 'On other people's pies, I expect. Oh, yes, too posh for us now, just because he's the only man you could find on an atlas-Ow!'
'Well, well,' said Granny, smiling in a way that everyone except Nanny Ogg would think of as innocent. 'It's nice and warm in Genua. I expect Senor Basilica really misses his home. And what do you do, young sir?'
'I am his manager and translator. Er. You have the advantage of me, ma'am.'
'Yes, indeed.' Granny nodded.
'We have some good singers where we come from too,' said Nanny Ogg, rebelliously. 'Really?' said the manager. 'And where do you ladies come from?'
'Lancre.' The man politely endeavoured to position Lancre on his mental map of great centres of music. 'Do you have a conservatory there?'
'Yes, indeed,' said Nanny Ogg stoutly, and then, just to make sure, she added, 'You should see the size of my tomatoes.' Granny rolled her eyes. 'Gytha, you haven't got a conservatory. It's just a big windowsill.'
'Yes, but it catches the sun nearly all day - Ow. . .'
