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far—”
    “…no…” said Magrat.
    “Anyway, you ain’t senior witch,” said Nanny. “Old Mother Dismass is older’n you.”
    “Shut up. Anyway, she’s non compost mental,” said Granny.
    “…you can’t order me. Witches are non-hierarchical…” said Magrat.
    “That is wanton behavior, Magrat Garlick!”
    “No it’s not,” said Nanny Ogg, trying to keep the peace. “Wanton behavior is where you go around without wearing any—”
    She stopped. Both of the older witches watched a small piece of paper fall out of Magrat’s sleeve and zigzag down to the floor. Granny darted forward and snatched it up.
    “Aha!” she said triumphantly. “Let’s see what Desiderata really said…”
    Her lips moved as she read the note. Magrat tried to wind herself up tighter.
    A couple of muscles flickered on Granny’s face. Then, calmly, she screwed up the note.
    “Just as I thought,” she said, “Desiderata says we are to give Magrat all the help we can, what with her being young and everything. Didn’t she, Magrat?”
    Magrat looked up into Granny’s face.
    You could call her out, she thought. The note was very clear…well, the bit about the older witches was, anyway…and you could make her read it aloud. It’s as plain as day. Do you want to be third witch forever? And then the flame of rebellion, burning in a very unfamiliar hearth, died.
    “Yes,” she muttered hopelessly, “something like that.”
    “It says it’s very important we go to some place somewhere to help someone marry a prince,” said Granny.
    “It’s Genua,” said Magrat. “I looked it up in Desiderata’s books. And we’ve got to make sure she doesn’t marry a prince.”
    “A fairy godmother stopping a girl from marryin’ a prince?” said Nanny. “Sounds a bit…contrary.”
    “Should be an easy enough wish to grant, anyway,” said Granny. “Millions of girls don’t marry a prince.”
    Magrat made an effort.
    “Genua really is a long way away,” she said.
    “I should ’ope so,” said Granny Weatherwax. “The last thing we want is foreign parts up close.”
    “I mean, there’ll be a lot of traveling,” said Magrat wretchedly. “And you’re…not as young as you were.”
    There was a long, crowded silence.
    “We start tomorrow,” said Granny Weatherwax firmly.
    “Look,” said Magrat desperately, “why don’t I go by myself?”
    “’Cos you ain’t experienced at fairy godmothering,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    This was too much even for Magrat’s generous soul.
    “Well, nor are you,” she said.
    “That’s true,” Granny conceded. “But the point is…the point is…the point is we’ve not been experienced for a lot longer than you.”
    “We’ve got a lot of experience of not having any experience,” said Nanny Ogg happily.
    “That’s what counts every time,” said Granny.
    There was only one small, speckled mirror in Granny’s house. When she got home, she buried it at the bottom of the garden.
    “There,” she said. “ Now trying spyin’ on me.”

    It never seemed possible to people that Jason Ogg, master blacksmith and farrier, was Nanny Ogg’s son. He didn’t look as if he could possibly have been born, but as if he must have been constructed. In a shipyard. To his essentially slow and gentle nature genetics had seen fit to add muscles that should have gone to a couple of bullocks, arms like treetrunks, and legs like four beer barrels stacked in twos.
    To his glowing forge were brought the stud stallions, the red-eyed and foam-flecked kings of the horse nation, the soup-plate-hoofed beasts that had kicked lesser men through walls. But Jason Ogg knew the secret of the mystic Horseman’s Word, and he would go alone into the forge, politely shut the door, and lead the creature out again after half an hour, newly shod and strangely docile. *
    Behind his huge brooding shape clustered the rest of Nanny Ogg’s endless family and a lot of other townsfolk who, seeing some interesting