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'Do give us your forthright views,' said Salzella. Definitely that kind of owner, he thought. Self-made man proud of his handiwork. Confuses bluffness and honesty with merely being rude. I wouldn't mind betting a dollar that he thinks he can tell a man's character by testing the firmness of his handshake and looking deeply into his eyes. 'I've been through the mill, I have,' Bucket began, 'and I made myself what I am today-' Self-raising flour? thought Salzella. '-but I have to, er, declare a bit of a financial interest. Her dad did, er, in fact, er, lend me a fair whack of money to help me buy this place, and he made a heartfelt fatherly request in regard to his daughter. If I bring it to mind correctly, his exact words, er, were: “Don't make me have to break your legs.” I don't expect you artistes to understand. It's a business thing. The gods help those who help themselves, that's my motto.' Salzella stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, leaned back and started to whistle softly. 'I see,' said Undershaft. 'Well, it's not the first time it's happened. Normally it's a ballerina, of course.'
'Oh, it's nothing like that,' said Bucket hurriedly. 'It's just that with the money comes this girl Christine. And you have to admit, she does look good.'
'Oh, very well,' said Salzella. 'It's your Opera House, I'm sure. And now. . . Perdita. . .?' They smiled at one another.
'Perdita!' said Bucket, relieved to get the Christine business over so that he could go back to being bluff and honest again. 'Perdita X,' Salzella corrected him. 'What will these girls think of next?'
'I think she will prove an asset,' said Undershaft. 'Yes, if we ever do that opera with the elephants.'
'But the range. . . what a range she's got. . .'
'Quite. I saw you staring.'
'I meant her voice, Salzella. She will add body to the chorus.'
'She is a chorus. We could sack everyone else. Ye gods, she can even sing in harmony with herself. But can you see her in a major role?'
quite unlike the oil lamps of home. Beyond the light, the auditorium waited like the mouth of a very big and extremely hungry animal. From somewhere on the far side of the lights a voice said, 'When you're ready, miss.' It wasn't a particularly unfriendly voice. It just wanted her to get on with it, sing her piece, and go. 'I've, er, got this song, it's a-'
'You've given your music to Miss Proudlet?'
'Er, there isn't an accompaniment actually, it-'
'Oh, it's a folk song, is it?' There was a whispering in the darkness, and someone laughed quietly. 'Off you go then. . . Perdita, right?' Agnes launched into the Hedgehog Song, and knew by about word seven that it had been the wrong choice. You needed a tavern, with people leering and thumping their mugs on the table. This big brilliant emptiness just sucked at it and made her voice hesitant and shrill. She stopped at the end of verse three. She could feel the blush starting somewhere around her knees. It'd take some time to get to her face, because it had a lot of skin to cover, but by then it'd be strawberry pink. She could hear whispering. Words like 'timbre' emerged from the susurration and then, she wasn't surprised to hear, came 'impressive build'. She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She didn't have to feel good about it. The voice spoke up. 'You haven't had much training, have you, dear?'
'No.' Which was true. Lancre's only other singer of note was Nanny Ogg, whose attitude to songs was purely ballistic. You just pointed your voice at the end of the verse and went for it. Whisper, whisper. 'Sing us a few scales, dear.' The blush was at chest-height now, thundering across the rolling acres. . . 'Scales?' Whisper. Muffled laugh. 'Do-Re-Mi? You know, dear? Starting low? La-la-lah?'
'Oh. Yes.' As the armies of embarrassment stormed her neckline, Agnes pitched her voice as low as she could and went for it. She concentrated on the notes, working her way stolidly upwards from sea- level to mountaintop, and took no notice at the start when a chair vibrated across the stage or, at the end, when a glass broke somewhere and several bats fell out of the roof. There was silence from the big emptiness, except for the thud of another bat and, far above, a gentle tinkle of glass. 'Is. . . is that your full range, lass?' People were clustering in the wings and staring at her. 'No.'
'No.'
'If I go any higher people faint,' said Agnes. 'And if I go lower everyone says it makes them feel uncomfortable.' Whisper, whisper. Whisper, whisper, whisper. 'And, er, any other-?'
'I can sing with myself in thirds. Nanny Ogg says not everyone can do that.'
'Sorry?'
'Up here?
'Like. . . Do-Mi. At the same time.' Whisper, whisper. 'Show us, lass.'
'Laaaaaa' The people at the side of the stage were talking excitedly. Whisper, whisper. The voice from the darkness said: 'Now, your voice projection-'
'Oh, I can do that,' snapped Agnes. She was getting rather fed up. 'Where would you like it projected?'
'I'm sorry? We're talking about-' Agnes ground her teeth. She was good. And she'd show them. . . 'To here?'
'Or there?'
'Or here?' It wasn't that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the travelling showmen did, but you couldn't pitch it far away and still manage to fool a whole audience. Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out people turning around in their seats, bewildered. 'What's your name again, dear?' The voice, which had at one point shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten-up sound. 'Ag- Per. . . Perdita,' said Agnes. 'Perdita Nitt. Perdita X. . . Nitt.'
'We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear.' Granny Weatherwax's door opened by itself. Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she were a witch. Peopled told him this sort of thing happened. He didn't like it. But he didn't like his back, either, especially when his back didn't like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you. He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks. The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door. Jarge hesitated. 'Come on in, Jarge Weaver,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'and let me give you something for that back of yours.' The shock made him try to stand upright, and this made something white- hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt. Granny Weatherwax rolled her eyes, and sighed. 'Can you sit down?' she said. 'No, miss. I can fall over on a chair, though.' Granny produced a small black bottle from an apron pocket and shook it vigorously. Jarge's eyes widened. 'You got that all ready for me?' he said. 'Yes,' said Granny truthfully. She'd long ago been resigned to the fact that people expected a bottle of something funny-coloured and sticky. It wasn't the medicine that did the trick, though. It was, in a way, the spoon. 'This is a mixture of rare herbs and suchlike,' she said. 'Including suckrose and akwa.'
'My word,' said Jarge, impressed. 'Take a swig now.' He obeyed. It tasted faintly of liquorice. 'You got to take another swig last thing at night,' Granny went on. 'An' then walk three times round a chestnut tree.'
'. . .three times round a chestnut tree. . .'
'An'. . .an' put a pine board under your mattress. Got to be pine from a twenty-year-old tree, mind.'
