There was a knocking at the door.
The underfootman, being the junior member, got up and opened it.
'It's an old crone,' he said. 'What do you want, old crone?'
'Fancy a drink?' said Nanny Ogg. She held up a jug over which hung a perceptible haze of evaporating alcohol, and blew a paper squeaker.
'What?' said the footman.
'Shame for you lads to be working. It's a holiday! Whoopee!'
'What's going on?' the senior coachman began, and then he entered the cloud of alcohol. 'Gods! What is that stuff?
'Smells like rum, Air Travis.'
The senior coachman hesitated. From the streets came music and laughter as the first of the processions got under way. Fireworks popped across the sky. It wasn't a night to be without just a sip of alcohol.
'What a nice old lady,' he said.
Nanny Ogg waved the jug again. 'Up your eye!' she said. 'Mud in your bottom!'
What might be called the classical witch comes in two basic varieties, the complicated and the simple, or, to put it another way, the ones that have a room full of regalia and the ones that don't. Magrat was by inclination one of the former sort. For example, take magical knives. She had a complete collection of magical knives, all with the appropriate coloured handles and complicated runes all over them.
It had taken many years under the tutelage of Granny Weatherwax for Magrat to learn that the common kitchen breadknife was better than the most ornate of magic knives. It could do all that the magical knife could do, plus you could also use it to cut bread.
Every established kitchen has one ancient knife, its handle worn thin, its blade curved like a banana, and so inexplicably sharp that reaching into the drawer at night is like bobbing for apples in a piranha tank.
Magrat had hers stuck in her belt. Currently she was thirty feet above the ground, one hand holding on to her broomstick, the other on to a drainpipe, both legs dangling. Housebreaking ought to be easy, when you had a broomstick. But this did not appear to be the case.
Finally she got both legs around the pipe and a firm grip on a timely gargoyle. She waggled the knife in between the two halves of the window and lifted the latch. After a certain amount of grunting, she was inside, leaning against the wall and panting. Blue lights flashed in front of her eyes, echoing the fireworks that laced the night outside.
Granny had kept on asking her if she was sure she wanted to do this. And she was amazed to find that she was sure. Even if the snake women were already wandering around the house. Being a witch meant going into places you didn't want to go.
She opened her eyes.
There was the dress, in the middle of the floor, on a dressmaker's dummy.
A Klatchian Candle burst over Genua. Green and red stars exploded in the velvet darkness, and lit up the gems and silks in front of Magrat.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
She crept forward, her mouth dry.
Warm mists rolled through the swamp.
Mrs Gogol stirred the cauldron.
'What are they doing?' said Saturday.
'Stopping the story,' she said. 'Or . . . maybe not. . .'
She stood up.
'One way or another, it's our time now. Let's go to the clearing.'
She looked at Saturday's face.
'Are you frightened?'
'I ... know what will happen afterwards,' said the zombie. 'Even if we win.'
'We both do. But we've had twelve years.'
'Yes. We've had twelve years.'
'And Ella will rule the city.'
'Yes.'
In the coachmen's shed Nanny Ogg and the coachmen were getting along, as she put it, like a maison en flambe.
The underfootman smiled vaguely at the wall, and slumped forward.
'That's youngpipple today,' said the head coachman, trying to fish his wig out of his mug. 'Can't hold their drin . . . their drine . . . stuff. . .'
'Have a hair of the dog, Mr Travis?' said Nanny, filling the mug. 'Or scale of the alligator or whatever you call it in these parts.'
'Reckon,' said the senior footman, 'we should be gettin' the coesshe ready, what say?'
'Reckon you've got time for one more yet,' said Nanny Ogg.
'Ver' generous,' said the coachman. 'Ver' generous. Here's lookin' at you, Mrsrsrs Goo . . .'
Magrat had dreamed of dresses like this. In the pit of her soul, in the small hours of the night, she'd danced with princes. Not shy, hardworking princes like Verence back home, but real ones, with crystal blue eyes and white teeth. And she'd worn dresses like this. And they had fitted.
She stared at the ruched sleeves, the embroidered bodice, the fine white lace. It was all a world away from her. . . well. . . Nanny Ogg kept calling them 'Magrats', but they were trousers, and very practical.
As if being practical mattered at all.
She stared for a long time.
Then, with tears streaking her face and changing colour as they caught the light of the fireworks, she took the knife and began to cut the dress into very small pieces.
The senior coachman's head bounced gently off his sandwiches.
Nanny Ogg stood up, a little unsteadily. She placed the junior footman's wig under his slumbering head, because she was not an unkind woman. Then she stepped out into the night.
A figure moved near the wall.
'Magrat?' hissed Nanny.
'Nanny?'
'Did you see to the dress?'
'Have you seen to the footmen?'
'Right, then,' said Granny Weatherwax, stepping out of the shadows. 'Then there's just the coach.'
She tiptoed theatrically to the coachhouse and opened the door. It grated loudly on the cobbles.
'Shsss!' said Nanny.
There was a stub of candle and some matches on a ledge. Magrat fumbled the candle alight.
The coach lit up like a glitter ball.
It was excessively ornate, as if someone had taken a perfectly ordinary coach and then gone insane with fretwork and gold paint.
Granny Weatherwax walked around it.