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Honor?”
    “ Weeelll , they starts out as Maids of Honor,” said Nanny, fidgeting with her feet, “but they ends up Tarts.”
    Granny looked at the front cover again. The Joye of Snacks .
    “An’ you actually set out to—”
    “It just sort of turned out that way, really.”
    Granny Weatherwax was not a jouster in the lists of love but, as an intelligent onlooker, she knew how the game was played. No wonder the book had sold like hot cakes. Half the recipes told you how to make them. It was surprising the pages hadn’t singed.
    And it was by “A Lancre Witch.” The world was, Granny Weatherwax modestly admitted, well aware of who the witch of Lancre was; viz , it was her.
    “Gytha Ogg,” she said.
    “Yes, Esme?”
    “Gytha Ogg, you look me in the eye.”
    “Sorry, Esme.”
    “‘A Lancre Witch,’ it says here.”
    “I never thought, Esme.”
    “So you’ll go and see Mr. Goatberger and have this stopped, right? I don’t want people lookin’ at me and thinkin’ about the Bananana Soup Surprise. I don’t even believe the Bananana Soup Surprise. And I ain’t relishin’ going down the street and hearin’ people makin’ cracks about bananas.”
    “Yes, Esme.”
    “And I’ll come with you to make sure you do.”
    “Yes, Esme.”
    “And we’ll talk to the man about your money.”
    “Yes, Esme.”
    “And we might just drop in on young Agnes to make sure she’s all right.”
    “Yes, Esme.”
    “But we’ll do it diplomatic like. We don’t want people thinkin’ we’re pokin’ our noses in.”
    “Yes, Esme.”
    “No one could say I interfere where I’m not wanted. You won’t find anyone callin’ me a busybody.”
    “Yes, Esme.”
    “That was, ‘Yes, Esme, you won’t find anyone callin’ you a busybody,’ was it?”
    “Oh, yes, Esme.”
    “You sure about that?”
    “Yes, Esme.”
    “Good.”
    Granny looked out at the dull gray sky and the dying leaves and felt, amazingly enough, her sap rising. A day ago the future had looked aching and desolate, and now it looked full of surprises and terror and bad things happening to people…
    If she had anything to do with it, anyway.
    In the scullery, Nanny Ogg grinned to herself.

    Agnes had known a little bit about the theater. A traveling company came to Lancre sometimes. Their stage was about twice the size of a door, and “backstage” consisted of a bit of sacking behind which was usually a man trying to change trousers and wigs at the same time and another man, dressed as a king, having a surreptitious smoke.
    The Opera House was almost as big as the Patrician’s palace, and far more palatial. It covered three acres. There was stabling for twenty horses and two elephants in the cellar; Agnes spent some time there, because the elephants were reassuringly larger than her.
    There were rooms behind the stage so big that entire sets were stored there. There was a whole ballet school somewhere in the building. Some of the girls were on stage now, ugly in woolly jumpers, going through a routine.
    The inside of the Opera House—at least, the backstage inside—put Agnes strongly in mind of the clock her brother had taken apart to find the tick. It was hardly a building. It was more like a machine. Sets and curtains and ropes hung in the darkness like dreadful things in a forgotten cellar. The stage was only a small part of the place, a little rectangle of light in a huge, complicated darkness full of significant machinery…
    A piece of dust floated down from the blackness high above. She brushed it off.
    “I thought I heard someone up there,” she said.
    “It’s probably the Ghost!!” said Christine. “We’ve got one, you know! Oh, I said we !! Isn’t this exciting?!”
    “A man with his face covered by a white mask,” said Agnes.
    “Oh?! You’ve heard about him, then?!”
    “What? Who?”
    “The Ghost!!”
    Blast, thought Agnes. It was always ready to catch her out. Just when she thought she’d put all that behind her.