Hogfather

in a nightshirt out here with a poker!’

She saw figures silhouetted in the light and made out the worried face of Mrs Gaiter.

‘Susan? Er… what are you doing?’

Susan looked at the poker and then back at the woman. ‘Twyla said she's afraid of a monster in the cellar, Mrs Gaiter.’

‘And yer going to attack it with a poker, eh?’ said one of the guests. There was a strong atmosphere of brandy and cigars.

‘Yes,’ said Susan simply.

‘Susan's our governess,’ said Mrs Gaiter. ‘Er… I told you about her.’

There was a change in the expression on the faces peering out from the dining room. It became a sort of amused respect.

‘She beats up monsters with a poker?’ said someone.

‘Actually, that's a very clever idea,’ said someone else. ‘Little gel gets it into her head there's a monster in the cellar, you go in with the poker and make a few bashing noises while the child listens, and then everything's all right. Good thinkin', that girl. Ver' sensible. Ver' modern.’

‘Is that what you're doing Susan?’ said Mrs Gaiter anxiously.

‘Yes, Mrs Gaiter,’ said Susan obediently.

‘This I've got to watch, by Io! It's not every day you see monsters beaten up by a gel,’ said the man behind her. There was a swish of silk and a cloud of cigar smoke as the diners poured out into the hall.

Susan sighed again and went down the cellar stairs, while Twyla sat demurely at the top, hugging her knees.

A door opened and shut.

There was a short period of silence and then a terrifying scream. One woman fainted and a man dropped his cigar.

‘You don't have to worry, everything will be all right,’ said Twyla calmly. ‘She always wins. Everything will be all right.’

There were thuds and clangs, and then a whirring noise, and finally a sort of bubbling.

Susan pushed open the door. The poker was bent at right angles. There was nervous applause.

‘Ver' well done,’ said a guest. ‘Ver' persykological. Clever idea, that, bendin' the poker. And I expect you're not afraid any more, eh, little girl?’

‘No,’ said Twyla.

‘Ver' persykological.’

‘Susan says don't get afraid, get angry,’ said Twyla.

‘Er, thank you, Susan,’ said Mrs Gaiter, now a trembling bouquet of nerves. ‘And, er, now, Sir Geoffrey, if you'd all like to come back into the parlour — I mean, the drawing room—’

The party went back up the hall. The last thing Susan heard before the door shut was ‘Dashed convincin', the way she bent the poker like that—’

She waited.

‘Have they all gone, Twyla?’

‘Yes, Susan.’

‘Good.’ Susan went back into the cellar and emerged towing something large and hairy with eight legs. She managed to haul it up the steps and down the other passage to the back yard, where she kicked it out. It would evaporate before dawn.

‘That's what we do to monsters,’ she said.

Twyla watched carefully.

‘And now it's bed for you, my girl,’ said Susan, picking her up.

‘C'n I have the poker in my room for the night?’

‘All right.’

‘It only kills monsters, doesn't it…?’ the child said sleepily, as Susan carried her upstairs.

‘That's right,’ Susan said. ‘All kinds.’

She put the girl to bed next to her brother and leaned the poker against the toy cupboard.

The poker was made of some cheap metal with a brass knob on the end. She would, Susan reflected, give quite a lot to be able to use it on the children's previous governess.

‘G'night.’

‘Goodnight.’

She went back to her own small bedroom and got back into bed, watching the curtains suspiciously.

It would be nice to think she'd imagined it. It would also be stupid to think that, too. But she'd been nearly normal for two years now, making her own way in the real world, never remembering the future at all…

Perhaps she had just dreamed things (but even dreams could be real…).

She tried to ignore the long thread of wax that suggested the candle had, just for a few seconds, streamed in the wind.

As Susan sought sleep, Lord Downey sat in his study catching up on the paperwork.

Lord Downey was an assassin. Or, rather, an Assassin. The capital letter was important. It separated those curs who went around murdering people for money from the gentlemen who were occasionally consulted by other gentlemen who wished to have removed, for a consideration, any inconvenient razorblades from the candyfloss of life.

The members of the Guild of Assassins considered themselves cultured men who enjoyed good music and food and literature. And they knew the value of human life. To a penny, in many cases.

Lord Downey's study was oak-panelled and well carpeted. The furniture was very old and quite worn, but the wear was the wear that comes only when very good furniture is carefully used over several centuries. It was matured furniture.

A log fire burned in the grate. In front of it a couple of dogs were sleeping in the tangled way of large hairy dogs everywhere.

Apart from the occasional doggy snore or the crackle of a shifting log, there were no other sounds but the scratching of Lord Downey's pen and the ticking of the longcase clock by the door… small, private noises which only served to define the silence.

At least, this was the case until someone cleared their throat.

The sound suggested very clearly that the purpose of the exercise was not to erase the presence of a troublesome bit of biscuit, but merely to indicate in the politest possible way the presence of the throat.

Downey stopped writing but did not raise his head.

Then, after what appeared to be some consideration, he said in a businesslike voice, ‘The doors are locked. The windows are barred. The dogs do not appear to have woken up. The squeaky floorboards haven't. Other little arrangements which I will not specify seem to have been bypassed. That severely limits the possibilities. I really doubt that you are a ghost and gods generally do not announce themselves so politely. You could, of course, be Death, but I don't believe he bothers with such niceties and, besides, I am feeling quite well. Hmm!’

Something hovered in the air in front of his desk.

‘My teeth are in fine condition so you are unlikely to be the Tooth Fairy. I've always found that a stiff brandy before bedtime quite does away with the need for the Sandman. And, since I can carry a tune quite well, I suspect I'm not likely to attract the attention of Old Man Trouble. Hmm.’

The figure drifted a little nearer.

‘I suppose a gnome could get through a mousehole, but I have traps down,’ Downey went on. ‘Bogeymen can walk through walls but would be very loath to reveal themselves. Really, you have me at a loss. Hmm?’

And then he looked up.

A grey robe hung in the air. It appeared to be occupied, in that it had a shape, although the occupant was not visible.

The prickly feeling crept over Downey that the occupant wasn't invisible, merely not, in any physical sense, there at all.