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  glare quite unlike the oil lamps of home. Beyond the light, the auditorium waited like the mouth of a very big and extremely hungry animal. From somewhere on the far side of the lights a voice said, When youre ready, miss. It wasnt a particularly unfriendly voice. It just wanted her to get on with it, sing her piece, and go. Ive, er, got this song, its a-

  Youve given your music to Miss Proudlet?

  Er, there isnt an accompaniment actually, it-

  Oh, its a folk song, is it? There was a whispering in the darkness, and someone laughed quietly. Off you go then. . . Perdita, right? Agnes launched into the Hedgehog Song, and knew by about word seven that it had been the wrong choice. You needed a tavern, with people leering and thumping their mugs on the table. This big brilliant emptiness just sucked at it and made her voice hesitant and shrill. She stopped at the end of verse three. She could feel the blush starting somewhere around her knees. Itd take some time to get to her face, because it had a lot of skin to cover, but by then itd be strawberry pink. She could hear whispering. Words like timbre emerged from the susurration and then, she wasnt surprised to hear, came impressive build. She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She didnt have to feel good about it. The voice spoke up. You havent had much training, have you, dear?

  No. Which was true. Lancres only other singer of note was Nanny Ogg, whose attitude to songs was purely ballistic. You just pointed your voice at the end of the verse and went for it. Whisper, whisper. Sing us a few scales, dear. The blush was at chest-height now, thundering across the rolling acres. . . Scales? Whisper. Muffled laugh. Do-Re-Mi? You know, dear? Starting low? La-la-lah?

  Oh. Yes. As the armies of embarrassment stormed her neckline, Agnes pitched her voice as low as she could and went for it. She concentrated on the notes, working her way stolidly upwards from sea- level to mountaintop, and took no notice at the start when a chair vibrated across the stage or, at the end, when a glass broke somewhere and several bats fell out of the roof. There was silence from the big emptiness, except for the thud of another bat and, far above, a gentle tinkle of glass. Is. . . is that your full range, lass? People were clustering in the wings and staring at her. No.

  No.

  If I go any higher people faint, said Agnes. And if I go lower everyone says it makes them feel uncomfortable. Whisper, whisper. Whisper, whisper, whisper. And, er, any other-?

  I can sing with myself in thirds. Nanny Ogg says not everyone can do that.

  Sorry?

  Up here?

  Like. . . Do-Mi. At the same time. Whisper, whisper. Show us, lass.

  Laaaaaa The people at the side of the stage were talking excitedly. Whisper, whisper. The voice from the darkness said: Now, your voice projection-

  Oh, I can do that, snapped Agnes. She was getting rather fed up. Where would you like it projected?

  Im sorry? Were talking about- Agnes ground her teeth. She was good. And shed show them. . . To here?

  Or there?

  Or here? It wasnt that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the travelling showmen did, but you couldnt pitch it far away and still manage to fool a whole audience. Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out people turning around in their seats, bewildered. Whats your name again, dear? The voice, which had at one point shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten-up sound. Ag- Per. . . Perdita, said Agnes. Perdita Nitt. Perdita X. . . Nitt.

  We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear. Granny Weatherwaxs door opened by itself. Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she were a witch. Peopled told him this sort of thing happened. He didnt like it. But he didnt like his back, either, especially when his back didnt like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you. He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks. The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door. Jarge hesitated. Come on in, Jarge Weaver, said Granny Weatherwax, and let me give you something for that back of yours. The shock made him try to stand upright, and this made something white- hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt. Granny Weatherwax rolled her eyes, and sighed. Can you sit down? she said. No, miss. I can fall over on a chair, though. Granny produced a small black bottle from an apron pocket and shook it vigorously. Jarges eyes widened. You got that all ready for me? he said. Yes, said Granny truthfully. Shed long ago been resigned to the fact that people expected a bottle of something funny-coloured and sticky. It wasnt the medicine that did the trick, though. It was, in a way, the spoon. This is a mixture of rare herbs and suchlike, she said. Including suckrose and akwa.

  My word, said Jarge, impressed. Take a swig now. He obeyed. It tasted faintly of liquorice. You got to take another swig last thing at night, Granny went on. An then walk three times round a chestnut tree.

  . . . three times round a chestnut tree. . .

  An. . . an put a pine board under your mattress. Got to be pine from a twenty-year-old tree, mind.

  . . . twenty-year-old tree. . . said Jarge. He felt he should make a contribution. Sos the knots in me back end up in the pine? he hazarded. Granny was impressed. It was an outrageously ingenious bit of folk hokum worth remembering for another occasion. You got it exactly right, she said. And thats it?

  You wanted more?

  I. . . thought there were dancin and chantin and stuff.

  Did that before you got here, said Granny. My word. Yes. Er. . . about payin. . .

  Oh, I dont want payin, said Granny.

  S bad luck, taking money.

  Oh. Right. Jarge brightened up. But maybe. . . if your wifes got any old clothes, praps, Im a size 12, black for preference, or bakes the odd cake, no plums, they gives me wind, or got a bit of old mead put by, could be, or praps youll be killing a hog about now, best backs my favourite, maybe some ham, a few pig knuckles. . . anything you can spare, really. No obligation. I wouldnt go around puttin anyone under obligation, just cos Im a witch. Everyone all right in your house, are they? Blessed with good health, I hope? She watched this sink in. And now let me help you out of the door, she added. Weaver was never quite certain about what happened next. Granny, usually so sure on her feet, seemed to trip over one of his sticks as she went through the door, and fell backward, holding his shoulders, and somehow her knee came up and hit a spot on his backbone as she twisted sideways, and there was a click- Aargh!

  Sorry!

  Me back! Me back! Still, Jarge reasoned later, she was an old woman. And she might be getting clumsy and shed always been daft, but she made good potions. They worked damn fast, too. He was carrying his sticks by the time he got home. Granny watched him go, shaking her head. People were so blind, she reflected. They preferred to believe in gibberish rather than chiropracty. Of course, it was just as well this was so. Shed much rather they went oo when she seemed to know who was approaching her cottage than work out that it conveniently overlooked a bend in the track, and as for the door-latch and the trick with the length of black thread. . . [2] But what had she done? Shed just tricked a rather dim old man. Shed faced wizards, monsters and elves. . . and now she was feeling pleased with herself because shed fooled Jarge Weaver, a man whod twice failed to become Village Idiot through being overqualified. It was the slippery slope. Next thing itd be cackling and gibbering and luring children into the oven. And it wasnt as if she even liked children. For years Granny Weatherwax had been contented enough with the challenge that village witchcraft could offer. And then shed been forced to go travelling, and shed seen a bit of the world, and it had made her itchy- especially at this time of the year, when the geese were flying overhead and the first frost had mugged innocent leaves in the deeper valleys.

  She looked around at the kitchen. It needed sweeping. The washing-up needed doing. The walls had grown grubby. There seemed to be so much to do that she couldnt bring herself to do any of it. There was a honking far above, and a ragged
V of geese sped over the clearing. They were heading for warmer weather in places Granny Weatherwax had only heard about. It was tempting. The selection committee sat around the table in the office of Mr Seldom Bucket, the Opera Houses new owner. Hed been joined by Salzella, the musical director, and Dr Undershaft, the chorus master. And so, said Mr Bucket, we come to. . . lets see. . . yes, Christine. . . Marvellous stage presence, eh? Good figure, too. He winked at Dr Undershaft. Yes. Very pretty, said Dr Undershaft flatly. Cant sing, though.

  What you artistic types dont realize is this is the Century of the Fruitbat, said Bucket. Opera is a production, not just a lot of songs.

  So you say. But. . .

  The idea that a soprano should be fifteen acres of bosom in a horned helmet belongs to the past, like. Salzella and Undershaft exchanged glances. So he was going to be that kind of owner. . . Unfortunately, said Salzella sourly, the idea that a soprano should have a reasonable singing voice does not belong to the past. She has a good figure, yes. She certainly has a. . . sparkle. But she cant sing.

  You can train her, cant you? said Bucket. A few years in the chorus. . .

  Yes, maybe after a few years, if I persevere, she will be merely very bad, said Undershaft. Er, gentlemen, said Mr Bucket. Ahem. All right. Cards on the table, eh? Im a simple man, me. No beating about the bush, speak as you find, call a spade a spade-

  Do give us your forthright views, said Salzella. Definitely that kind of owner, he thought. Self-made man proud of his handiwork. Confuses bluffness and honesty with merely being rude. I wouldnt mind betting a dollar that he thinks he can tell a mans character by testing the firmness of his handshake and looking deeply into his eyes. Ive been through the mill, I have, Bucket began, and I made myself what I am today- Self-raising flour? thought Salzella. -but I have to, er, declare a bit of a financial interest. Her dad did, er, in fact, er, lend me a fair whack of money to help me buy this place, and he made a heartfelt fatherly request in regard to his daughter. If I bring it to mind correctly, his exact words, er, were: “Dont make me have to break your legs. ” I dont expect you artistes to understand. Its a business thing. The gods help those who help themselves, thats my motto. Salzella stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, leaned back and started to whistle softly. I see, said Undershaft. Well, its not the first time its happened. Normally its a ballerina, of course.

  Oh, its nothing like that, said Bucket hurriedly. Its just that with the money comes this girl Christine. And you have to admit, she does look good.

  Oh, very well, said Salzella. Its your Opera House, Im sure. And now. . . Perdita. . . ? They smiled at one another.

  Perdita! said Bucket, relieved to get the Christine business over so that he could go back to being bluff and honest again. Perdita X, Salzella corrected him. What will these girls think of next?

  I think she will prove an asset, said Undershaft. Yes, if we ever do that opera with the elephants.

  But the range. . . what a range shes got. . .

  Quite. I saw you staring.

  I meant her voice, Salzella. She will add body to the chorus.

  She is a chorus. We could sack everyone else. Ye gods, she can even sing in harmony with herself. But can you see her in a major role?