He blew his nose on the handkerchief, carefully folded it up, and produced another one from his pocket.

"I don't mind the pasta and the squid," he said. "Well, not much...But you can't get a decent pint for love nor money and they put olive oil on everything and tomatoes give me a rash and there isn't what I'd call a good hard cheese in the whole country."

He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief.

"And people are so kind," he said. "I thought I'd get a few beefsteaks when I traveled but, wherever wherever I go, they do pasta especially for me. In tomato sauce! Sometimes they fry it! And what they do to the squid..." He shuddered. "Then they all grin and watch me eat it. They think I enjoy it! What I'd give for a plate of nice roast mutton with clootie dumplings..." I go, they do pasta especially for me. In tomato sauce! Sometimes they fry it! And what they do to the squid..." He shuddered. "Then they all grin and watch me eat it. They think I enjoy it! What I'd give for a plate of nice roast mutton with clootie dumplings..."

"Why don't you say?" said Nanny.

He shrugged. "Enrico Basilica eats pasta," he said. "There's not much I can do about it now."

He sat back. "You're interested in music, Mrs. Ogg?"

Nanny nodded proudly. "I can get a tune out of just about anything if you give me five minutes to study it," she said. "And our Jason can play the violin and our Kev can blow the trombone and all my kids can sing and our Shawn can fart any melody you care to name."

"A very talented family, indeed," said Enrico. He fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and took out two oblongs of cardboard. "So please, ladies, accept these as a small token of grat.i.tude from someone who eats other people's pies. Our little secret, eh?" He winked desperately at Nanny. "They're open tickets for the opera."

"Well, that's amazin'," said Nanny, "because we're going to-Ow!"

"Why, thank you very much," said Granny Weatherwax, taking the tickets. "How very gracious of you. We shall be sure to go."

"And if you'll excuse me," said Enrico, "I must catch up on my sleep."

"Don't worry, I shouldn't think it's had time to get far away," said Nanny.

The singer leaned back, pulled the handkerchief over his face and, after a few minutes, began to snore the happy snore of someone who had done his duty and now with any luck wouldn't have to meet these rather disconcerting old women ever again.

"He's well away," said Nanny, after a while. She glanced at the tickets in Granny's hand. "You want to visit the opera?" she said.

Granny stared into s.p.a.ce.

"I said said, do you want to visit the opera?"

Granny looked at the tickets. "What I want don't signify, I suspect," she said.

Nanny Ogg nodded.

Granny Weatherwax was firmly against fiction. Life was hard enough without lies floating around and changing the way people thought. And because the theater was fiction made flesh, she hated the theater most of all. But that was it-hate was exactly the right word. Hate is a force of attraction. Hate is just love with its back turned. was exactly the right word. Hate is a force of attraction. Hate is just love with its back turned.

She didn't loathe loathe the theater, because, had she done so, she would have avoided it completely. Granny now took every opportunity to visit the traveling theater that came to Lancre, and sat bolt upright in the front row of every performance, staring fiercely. Even honest Punch and Judy men found her sitting among the children, snapping things like "'Tain't so!" and "Is that any way to behave?" As a result, Lancre was becoming known throughout the Sto Plains as a really tough gig. the theater, because, had she done so, she would have avoided it completely. Granny now took every opportunity to visit the traveling theater that came to Lancre, and sat bolt upright in the front row of every performance, staring fiercely. Even honest Punch and Judy men found her sitting among the children, snapping things like "'Tain't so!" and "Is that any way to behave?" As a result, Lancre was becoming known throughout the Sto Plains as a really tough gig.

But what she wanted wanted wasn't important. Like it or not, witches are drawn to the edge of things, where two states collide. They feel the pull of doors, circ.u.mferences, boundaries, gates, mirrors, masks... wasn't important. Like it or not, witches are drawn to the edge of things, where two states collide. They feel the pull of doors, circ.u.mferences, boundaries, gates, mirrors, masks...

...and stages.

Breakfast was served in the Opera House's refectory at half-past nine. Actors were not known for their habit of early rising.

Agnes started to fall forward into her eggs and bacon, and stopped herself just in time.

"Good morning!!"

Christine sat down with a tray on which was, Agnes was not surprised to see, a plate holding one stick of celery, one raisin and about a spoonful of milk. She leaned toward Agnes and her face very briefly expressed some concern. "Are you all right?! You look a little peaky!!"

Agnes caught herself in mid-snore.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just a bit tired..."

"Oh, good!!" This exchange having exhausted her higher mental processes, Christine went back to operating on automatic. "Do you like my new dress?!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it fetching fetching?!"

Agnes looked at it. "Yes," she said. "Very...white. Very lacy. Very figure-hugging."

"And do you know what?!"

"No. What?"

"I already have a secret admirer!! Isn't that thrilling thrilling?! All the great singers have them, you know!!"

"A secret admirer..."

"Yes!! This dress!! It arrived at the stage door just now!! Isn't that exciting?!"

"Amazing," said Agnes, glumly. "And it's not as if you've even sung. Er. Who's it from?"

"He didn't say, of course!! It has to be a secret secret admirer!! He'll probably want to send me flowers and drink champagne out of my shoe!!" admirer!! He'll probably want to send me flowers and drink champagne out of my shoe!!"

"Really?" Agnes made a face. "Do people do do that?" that?"

"It's traditional!!"

Christine, boiling over with cheerfulness, had some to share...

"You do look very very tired!" she said. Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh!! We swapped rooms, didn't we!! I was tired!" she said. Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh!! We swapped rooms, didn't we!! I was so so silly!! And, d'you know," she added with that look of half-empty cunning that was the nearest she came to guile, "I could have silly!! And, d'you know," she added with that look of half-empty cunning that was the nearest she came to guile, "I could have sworn sworn I heard singing in the night...someone trying scales and things?!" I heard singing in the night...someone trying scales and things?!"

Agnes had been brought up to tell the truth. She knew she should say: "I'm sorry, I appear to have got your life by mistake. There seems to have been a bit of a confusion..."

But, she decided, she'd also been brought up to do what she was told, not to put herself first, to be respectful to her elders and to use no swearword stronger than "poot."

She could borrow a more interesting future. Just for a night or two. She could give it up any time she liked.

"You know, that's funny," she said, "because I'm right next door to you and I I didn't." didn't."

"Oh?! Well, that's all right, then!!"

Agnes stared at the tiny meal on Christine's tray. "Is that all all you're having for breakfast?" you're having for breakfast?"

"Oh, yes! I can just blow up like a balloon, dear!! It's lucky for you, you you can eat anything!! Don't forget it's practice in half an hour!" can eat anything!! Don't forget it's practice in half an hour!"

And she skipped off.

She's got a head full of air, Agnes thought. I'm sure she doesn't mean to say anything hurtful.

But, deep inside her, Perdita X Dream thought a rude word.

Mrs. Plinge took her broom out of the cleaning cupboard, and turned.

"Walter!"

Her voice echoed around the empty stage.

"Walter?"

She tapped the broom-handle warily. Walter had a routine. It had taken her years to train him into it. It wasn't like him not to be in the right place at the right time.

She shook her head, and started work. She could see it'd be a mop job later. It would probably be ages before they got rid of the smell of turpentine.

Someone came walking across the stage. They were whistling.

Mrs. Plinge was shocked.

"Mr. Pounder!"

The Opera House's professional rat catcher stopped, and lowered his struggling sack. Mr. Pounder wore an old opera hat to show that he was a cut above your normal rodent operative, and its brim was thick with wax and the old candle ends he used to light his way through the darker cellars.

He'd worked among the rats so long that there was something ratlike about him now. His face seemed to be merely a rearward extension of his nose. His mustache was bristly. His front teeth were prominent. People found themselves looking for his tail.

"What's that, Mrs. Plinge?"

"You know you mustn't whistle onstage! That's terrible bad luck!"

"Ah, well, it's 'cos of good good luck, Mrs. Plinge. Oh, yes! If you did know what I d'know, you'd be a happy man, too. O' course, in your case you'd be a happy woman, on account of you being a woman. Ah! Some of the things I've seen, Mrs. Plinge!" luck, Mrs. Plinge. Oh, yes! If you did know what I d'know, you'd be a happy man, too. O' course, in your case you'd be a happy woman, on account of you being a woman. Ah! Some of the things I've seen, Mrs. Plinge!"

"Found gold down there, Mr. Pounder?"

Mrs. Plinge knelt down carefully to sc.r.a.pe away a spot of paint.

Mr. Pounder picked up his sack and continued on his way.

"Could be gold, Mrs. Plinge. Ah. Could very well well be gold-" be gold-"

It took a moment for Mrs. Plinge to coax her arthritic knees into letting her stand up and shuffle around.

"Pardon, Mr. Pounder?" she said.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a soft thump as a bundle of sandbags landed gently on the boards.

The stage was big and bare and empty, except for a sack which was scuttling determinedly for freedom.

Mrs. Plinge looked both ways very carefully.

"Mr. Pounder? Are you there?"

It suddenly seemed to her that the stage was even bigger and even more distinctly empty than before.

"Mr. Pounder? Cooo-eee?"

She craned around.

"h.e.l.lo? Mr. Pounder?"

Something floated down from above and landed beside her.

It was a grubby black hat, with candle ends around the brim.

She looked up.

"Mr. Pounder?" she said.

Mr. Pounder was used to darkness. It held no fears for him. And he'd always prided himself on his night vision. If there was any light at all, any speck, any glimmer of phosph.o.r.escent rot, he could make use of it. His candled hat was as much for show as anything else.

His candled hat...he'd thought he'd lost it but, it was strange, here it was, still on his head. Yes, indeed. He rubbed his throat thoughtfully. There was something important he couldn't quite remember...

It was very very dark. dark.

SQUEAK?.

He looked up.

Standing in the air, at eye-level, was a robed figure about six inches high. A bony nose, with bent gray whiskers, protruded from the hood. Tiny skeletal fingers gripped a very small scythe.

Mr. Pounder nodded thoughtfully to himself. You didn't rise to membership of the Inner Circle of the Guild of Rat Catchers without hearing a few whispered rumors. Rats had their own Death, they said, as well as their own kings, parliaments and nations. No human had ever seen it, though.

Up until now.

He felt honored. He'd won the Golden Mallet for most rats caught every year for the past five years, but he respected them, as a soldier might respect a cunning and valiant enemy.

"Er...I'm dead, aren't I...?"