'I borrowed it. You can have it back if you like-'
'Well, what about them?'
'They're wrong.'
'What do you mean, they're wrong? They're predictions!'
'I don't see there being a rain of curry in Klatch next May. You don't get curry that early.'
'You know about the predictions business?' said Goatberger. 'You? I've been printing predictions for years. 'I don't do clever stuff for years ahead, like you do,' Granny admitted. 'But I'm pretty accurate if you want a thirty-second one.'
'Indeed? What's going to happen in thirty seconds?' Granny told him. Goatberger roared with laughter. 'Oh, yes, that's a good one, you should be writing them for us!' he said. 'Oh, my word. Nothing like being ambitious; eh? That's better than the spontaneous combustion of the Bishop of Quirm, and that didn't even happen! In thirty seconds, eh?'
'No.'
'No?'
'Twenty-one seconds now,' said Granny. Mr Bucket had arrived at the Opera House early to see if anyone had died so far today. He made it as far as his office without a single body dropping out of the shadows. He really hadn't expected it to be like this. He'd liked opera. It had all seemed so artistic. He'd watched hundreds of operas and practically no one had died, except once during the ballet scene in La Triviata when a ballerina had rather over-enthusiastically been flung into the lap of an elderly gentleman in the front row of the Stalls. She hadn't been hurt, but the old man had died in one incredibly happy instant. Someone knocked at the door. Mr Bucket opened it about a quarter of an inch. 'Who's dead?' he said. 'N-no one Mr Bucket! I've got your letters!'
'Oh, it's you, Walter. Thank you.' He took the bundle and shut the door. There were bills. There were always bills. The Opera House practically runs itself, they'd told him. Well, yes, but it practically ran on money. He rummaged through the let- There was an envelope with the Opera House crest on it. He looked at it like a man looks at a very fierce dog on a very thin leash. It did nothing except lie there and look as gummed as an envelope can be. Finally he disembowelled it with the, paperknife and then flung it down on the desk again, as if it would bite. When it did not do so he reached out hesitantly and withdrew the folded letter. It read as follows: My Dear Bucket, I should be most grateful if Christine sings the role of Laura tonight. I assure you she is more than capable.
The second violinist is a little slow, I feel, and the second act last night was frankly extremely wooden. This really is not good enough. My I extend my own welcome to Senor Basilica. I congratulate you on his arrival. Wishing you the very best, The Opera Ghost 'Mr Salzella!' Salzella was eventually located. He read the note. 'You do not intend to accede to this?' he said. 'She does sing superbly, Salzella.'
'You mean the Nitt girl?'
'Well. . . yes. . . you know what I mean.'
'But this is nothing less than blackmail!'
'Is it? He's not actually threatening anything.'
'You let her. . . I mean them, of course. . . you let them sing last night, and much good it did poor Dr Undershaft.'
'What do you advise, then?' There was another series of disjointed knocks on the door. 'Come in, Walter,' said Bucket and Salzella together. Walter jerked in, holding the coalscuttle. 'I've been to see Commander Vimes of the city Watch,' said Salzella. 'He said he'll have some of his best men here tonight. Undercover.'
'I thought you said they were all incompetent.' Salzella shrugged. 'We've got to do this properly. Did you know Dr Undershaft was strangled before he was hung?'
'Hanged,' said Bucket, without thinking. 'Men are hanged. It's dead meat that's hung.'
'Indeed?' said Salzella. 'I appreciate the information. Well, poor old Undershaft was strangled, apparently. And then he was hung.'
'Really, Salzella, you do have a misplaced sense-'
'I've finished now Mr Bucket!'
'Yes, thank you, Walter. You may go.'
'Yes Mr Bucket!' Walter closed the door behind him, very conscientiously. 'I'm afraid it's working here,' said Salzella. 'If you don't find some way of dealing with. . . are you all right, Mr Bucket?'
'What?' Bucket, who'd been staring at the closed door, shook his head. 'Oh. Yes. Er. Walter. . .'
'What about him?'
'He's. . . all right, is he?'
'Oh, he's got his. . . funny little ways. He's harmless enough, if that's what you mean. Some of the stage-hands and musicians are a bit cruel to him. . . you know, sending him out for a tin of invisible paint or a bag of nail-holes and so on. He believes what he's told. Why?'
'Oh. . . I just wondered. Silly, really.'
'I suppose he is, technically.'
'No, I meant- Oh, it doesn't matter. . .' Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg left Goatberger's office and walked demurely down the street. At least, Granny walked demurely. Nanny leaned somewhat. Every thirty seconds she'd say, 'How much was that again?'
'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence,' said Granny. She was looking thoughtful. 'I thought it was nice of him to look in all the ashtrays for all the odd coppers he could round up,' said Nanny. 'Those he could reach, anyway. How much was that again?'
'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence.'
'I've never had seventy dollars before,' said Nanny. 'I didn't say just seventy dollars, I said-'
'Yes, I know. But I'm working my way up to it gradual. I'll say this about money. It really chafes.'
'I don't know why you have to keep your purse in your knicker leg,' said Granny. 'It's the last place anybody would look.' Nanny sighed. 'How much did you say it was?'
'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence.'
'I'm going to need a bigger tin.'
'You're going to need a bigger chimney.'
'I could certainly do with a bigger knicker leg.' She nudged Granny. 'You're going to have to be polite to me now I'm rich,' she said. 'Yes, indeed,' said Granny, with a faraway look in her eyes. 'Don't think I'm not considering that.' She stopped. Nanny walked into her, with a tinkle of lingerie. The frontage of the Opera House loomed over them. 'We've got to get back in there,' Granny said. 'And into Box Eight.'
'Crowbar,' said Nanny, firmly. 'A No. 3 claw end should do it.'
'We're not your Nev,' said Granny. 'Anyway, breaking in wouldn't be the same thing. We've got to have a right to be there.'
'Cleaners,' said Nanny. 'We could be cleaners, and. . . no, 's not right me being a cleaner now, in my position.'
'No, we can't have that, with you in your position.' Granny glanced down at Nanny as a coach pulled up outside the Opera House. 'O' course,' she said, artfulness dripping off her voice like toffee, 'we could always buy Box Eight.'
'Wouldn't work,' said Nanny. People were hurrying down the steps with the cuff-adjusting, sticky looks of welcoming committees everywhere. 'They're scared of selling it.'
'Why not?' said Granny. 'There's people dying and the opera goes on. That means someone's prepared to sell his own grandmother if he'd make enough money.'
'It'd cost a fortune, anyway,' said Nanny. She looked at Granny's triumphant expression and groaned. 'Oh, Esme! I was going to save that money for me old age!' She thought for a moment. 'Anyway, it still wouldn't work. I mean, look at us, we don't look like the right kind of people. . .' Enrico Basilica got out of the coach. 'But we know the right kind of people,' said Granny. 'Oh, Esme!' The shop bell tinkled in a refined tone,, as if it were embarrassed to do something as vulgar as ring. It would have much preferred to give a polite cough. This was Ankh-Morpork's most prestigious dress shop, and one way of telling was the apparent absence of anything so crass as merchandise. The occasional carefully placed piece of expensive material merely hinted at the possibilities available. This was not a shop where things were bought. This was an emporium where you had a cup of coffee and a chat. Possibly, as a result of that muted conversation, four or five yards of exquisite fabric would change ownership in some ethereal way, and yet nothing so crass as trade would have taken place. 'Shop!' yelled Nanny. A lady appeared from behind a curtain and observed the visitors, quite possibly with her nose.
'Have you come to the right entrance?' she said. Madame Dawning had been brought up to be polite to servants and trades people, even when they were as scruffy as these two old crows. 'My friend here wants a new dress,' said the dumpier of the two. 'One of the nobby ones with a train and a padded bum.'
'In black,' said the thin one. 'And we wants all the trimmings,' said the dumpy one. 'Little handbag onna string, pair of glasses onna stick, the whole thing.'
'I think perhaps that might be a leetle more than you're thinking of spending,' said Madame Dawning. 'How much is a leetle?' said the dumpy one. 'I mean that this is rather a select dress shop.'
'That's why we're here. We don't want rubbish. My name's Nanny Ogg and this here is. . . Lady Esmerelda Weatherwax.' Madame Dawning regarded Lady Esmerelda quizzically. There was no doubt that the woman had a certain bearing. And she stared like a duchess. 'From Lancre,' said Nanny Ogg. 'And she could have a conservatory if she liked, but she doesn't want one.'
'Er. . .'Madame Dawning decided to play along for a while. 'What style were you considering?'
'Something nobby,' said Nanny Ogg. 'I perhaps would like a leetle more guidance than that-'
'Perhaps you could show us some things,' said Lady Esmerelda, sitting down. 'It's for the opera.'
'Oh, you patronize the opera?'
'Lady Esmerelda patronizes everything,' said Nanny Ogg stoutly. Madame Dawning had a manner peculiar to her class and upbringing. She'd been raised to see the world in a certain way. When it didn't act in that certain way she wobbled a bit but, like a gyroscope, eventually recovered and went on spinning just as if it had. If civilization were to collapse totally and the survivors were reduced to eating cockroaches, Madame Dawning would still use a napkin and look down on people who ate their cockroaches the wrong way round. 'I will, er, show you, some examples,' she said. 'Excuse me one moment.' She scuttled into the long workrooms behind the shop, where there was considerably less gilt, and leaned against the wall and summoned her chief seamstress. 'Mildred, there are two very strange-' She stopped. They'd followed her! They were wandering down the aisle between the rows of dressmakers, nodding at people and inspecting some of the dresses on the dummies. She hurried back. 'I'm sure you'd prefer-'
'How much is this one?' said Lady Esmerelda, fingering a creation intended for the Dowager Duchess of Quirm. 'I am afraid that one is not for sale-'
'How much would it be if it was for sale?'
'Three hundred dollars, I believe,' said Madame Dawning. 'Five hundred seems about right,' said Lady Esmerelda. 'Does it?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Oh, it does, does it?' The dress was black. At least, in theory it was black. It was black in the same. way that a starling's wing is black. It was black silk, with jet beads and sequins. It was black on holiday. 'It looks about my size. We'll take it. Pay the woman, Gytha.' Madame's gyroscope precessed rapidly. 'Take it? Now? Five hundred dollars? Pay? Pay now? Cash?'
'See to it, Gytha.'
'Oh, all right.'
Nanny Ogg turned away modestly and raised her skirt. There was a series of rustlings and elasticated twangings, and then she turned around, holding a bag. She counted out fifty rather warm ten-dollar pieces into Madame Dawning's unprotesting hand. 'And now we'll go back into the shop and have a poke around for the other stuff,' said Lady Esmerelda. 'I fancy ostrich feathers myself. And one of those big cloaks the ladies wear. And one of those fans edged with lace.'