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yes.”
    “No wonder you ran away!”
    “What? Oh…no…it’s not like that. I mean, they’re not bad . It’s much…worse than that.”
    “Worse than bad?!”
    “They think they know what’s best for everybody.”
    Christine’s forehead wrinkled, as it tended to when she was contemplating a problem more complex than “What is your name?”
    “That doesn’t sound very ba—”
    “They…mess people around. They think that just because they’re right that’s the same as good! It’s not even as though they do any real magic. It’s all fooling people and being clever! They think they can do what they like!”
    The force of the words knocked even Christine back. “Oh, dear!! Did they want you to do something?!”
    “They want me to be something. But I’m not going to!”
    Christine stared at her. And then, automatically, forgot everything she’d just heard.
    “Come on,” she said, “let’s have a look around!!”

    Nanny Ogg balanced on a chair and took down an oblong wrapped in paper.
    Granny watched sternly with her arms folded.
    “Thing is,” Nanny babbled, under the laser glare, “my late husband, I remember him once sayin’ to me, after dinner, he said, ‘You know, mother, it’d be a real shame if all the stuff you know just passed away when you did. Why don’t you write some of it down?’ So I scribbled the odd one, when I had a moment, and then I thought it’d be nice to have it all properly done so I sent it off to the Almanac people in Ankh-Morpork and they hardly charged me anything and a little while ago they sent me this, I think it’s a very good job, it’s amazing how they get all the letters so neat—”
    “You done a book ,” said Granny.
    “Only cookery,” said Nanny Ogg meekly, as one might plead a first offense.
    “What do you know about it? You hardly ever do any cooking,” said Granny.
    “I do specialities,” said Nanny.
    Granny looked at the offending volume.
    “ The Joye of Snacks ,” she read out loud. “‘Bye A Lancre Witch.’ Hah! Why dint you put your own name on it, eh? Books’ve got to have a name on ’em so’s everyone knows who’s guilty.”
    “It’s my gnome de plum ,” said Nanny. “Mr. Goatberger the Almanac man said it’d make it sound more mysterious.”
    Granny cast her gimlet gaze to the bottom of the crowded cover, where it said, in very small lettering, “CXXviith Printyng. More Than Twenty Thoufand Solde! One half dollar.”
    “You sent them some money to get it all printed?” she said.
    “Only a couple of dollars,” said Nanny. “Damn good job they made of it, too. And then they sent the money back afterward, only they got it wrong and sent three dollars extra.”
    Granny Weatherwax was grudgingly literate but keenly numerate. She assumed that anything written down was probably a lie, and that applied to numbers, too. Numbers were used only by people who wanted to put one over on you.
    Her lips moved silently as she thought about numbers.
    “Oh,” she said, quietly. “And that was it, was it? You never wrote to him again?”
    “Not on your life. Three dollars, mind. I dint want him saying he wanted ’em back.”
    “I can see that,” said Granny, still dwelling in the world of numbers. She wondered how much it cost to do a book. It couldn’t be a lot: they had sort of printing mills to do the actual work.
    “After all, there’s a lot you can do with three dollars,” said Nanny.
    “Right enough,” said Granny. “You ain’t got a pencil about you, have you? You being a literary type and all?”
    “I got a slate,” said Nanny.
    “Pass it over, then.”
    “I bin keeping it by me in case I wake up in the night and I get an idea for a recipe, see,” said Nanny.
    “Good,” said Granny vaguely. The slate pencil squeaked across the gray tablet. The paper must cost something. And you’d probably have to tip someone a couple of pennies to sell it… Angular figures danced from column to column.
    “I’ll make