Lords And Ladies

'I wasn't feeling well.'

Other people would probably say: I wasn't myself. But Granny Weatherwax didn't have anyone else to be.

The two witches hurried on through the gale.

From the shelter of a thorn thicket, the unicorn watched them go.

Diamanda Tockley did indeed wear a floppy black velvet hat. It had a veil, too.

Perdita Nitt, who had once been merely Agnes Nitt before she got witchcraft, wore a black hat with a veil too, because Diamanda did. Both of them were seventeen. And she wished she was naturally skinny, like Diamanda, but if you can't be skinny you can at least look unhealthy. So she wore so much thick white make-up in order to conceal her naturally rosy complexion that if she turned around suddenly her face would probably end up on the back of her head.

They'd done the Raising of the Cone of Power, and some candle magic, and some scrying. Now Diamanda was showing them how to do the cards.

She said they contained the distilled wisdom of the Ancients. Perdita had found herself treacherously wondering who these Ancients were — they clearly weren't the same as old people, who were stupid, Diamanda said, but she wasn't quite clear why they were wiser than, say, modem people.

Also, she didn't understand what the Feminine Principle was. And she wasn't too clear about this Inner Self business. She was coming to suspect that she didn't have one.

And she wished she could do her eyes like Diamanda did.

And she wished she could wear heels like Diamanda did.

Amanita DeVice had told her that Diamanda slept in a real coffin.

She wished she had the nerve to have a dagger-and-skull tattoo on her arm like Amanita did, even if it was only in ordinary ink and she had to wash it off every night in case her mother saw it.

A tiny, nasty voice from Perdita's inner self suggested that Amanita wasn't a good choice of name.

Or Perdita, for that matter.

And it said that maybe Perdita shouldn't meddle with things she didn't understand.

The trouble was, she knew, that this meant nearly everything.

She wished she could wear black lace like Diamanda did.

Diamanda got results.

Perdita wouldn't have believed it. She'd always known about witches, of course. They were old women who dressed like crows, except for Magrat Garlick, who was frankly mental and always looked as if she was going to burst into tears. Perdita remembered Magrat bringing a guitar to a Hogswatchnight party once and singing wobbly folk songs with her eyes shut in a way that suggested that she really believed in them. She hadn't been able to play, but this was all right because she couldn't sing, either. People had applauded because, well, what else could you do?

But Diamanda had read books. She knew about stuff. Raising power at the stones, for one thing. It really worked.

Currently she was showing them the cards.

The wind had got up again tonight. It rattled the shutters and made soot fall down the chimney. It seemed to Perdita that it had blown all the shadows into the comers of the room—

'Are you paying attention, sister?' said Diamanda coldly.

That was another thing. You had to call one another 'sister,' out of fraternity.

'Yes, Diamanda,' she said, meekly.

'This is the Moon,' Diamanda repeated, 'for those who weren't paying attention.' She held up the card. 'And what do we see here — you, Muscara?'

'Um . . . it's got a picture of the moon on it?' said Muscara (nee Susan) in a hopeful voice.

'Of course it's not the moon. It's a nonmimetic convention, not tied to a conventional referencing system, actually,' said Diamanda.

'Ah.'

A gust rocked the cottage. The door burst open and slammed back against the wall, giving a glimpse of cloud-wracked sky in which a non-mimetic convention was showing a crescent.

Diamanda waved a hand. There was a brief flash of octarine light. The door jerked shut. Diamanda smiled in what Perdita thought of as her cool, knowing way.

She placed the card on the black velvet cloth in front of her.

Perdita looked at it gloomily It was all very pretty, the cards were coloured like little pasteboard jewels, and they had interesting names. But that little traitor voice whispered: how the hell can they know what the future holds? Cardboard isn't very bright.

On the other hand, the coven was helping people . . . more or less. Raising power and all that sort of thing. Oh dear, supposing she asks me?

Perdita realized that she was feeling worried. Something was wrong. It had just gone wrong. She didn't know what it was, but it had gone wrong now. She looked up.

'Blessings be upon this house,' said Granny Weatherwax.

In much the same tone of voice have people said, 'Eat hot lead, Kincaid,' and, 'I expect you're wondering after all that excitement whether I've got any balloons and lampshades left.'

Diamanda's mouth dropped open.

' 'Ere, you're doing that wrong. You don't want to muck about with a hand like that,' said Nanny Ogg helpfully, looking over her shoulder. 'You've got a Double Onion there.'

'Who are you?

Suddenly they were there. Perdita thought: one minute there's shadows, the next minute they were there, solid as anything.

'What's all the chalk on the floor, then?' said Nanny Ogg. 'You've got all chalk on the floor. And heathen writing. Not that I've got anything against heathens,' she added. She appeared to think about it. 'I'm practic'ly one,' she added further, 'but I don't write on the floor. What'd you want to write all on the floor for?' She nudged Perdita. 'You'll never get the chalk out,' she said, 'it gets right into the grain.'

'Um, it's a magic circle,' said Perdita. 'Um, hello, Mrs. Ogg. Um. It's to keep bad influences away . . .'

Granny Weatherwax leaned forward slightly.

'Tell me, my dear,' she said to Diamanda, 'do you think it's working?'

She leaned forward further.

Diamanda leaned backward.

And then slowly leaned forward again.

They ended up nose to nose.

'Who's this?' said Diamanda, out of the comer of her mouth.

'Um, it's Granny Weatherwax,' said Perdita. 'Um. She's a witch, um. . .'

'What level?' said Diamanda.

Nanny Ogg looked around for something to hide behind. Granny Weatherwax's eyebrow twitched.

'Levels, eh?' she said. 'Well, I suppose I'm level one.'

'Just starting?' said Diamanda.

'Oh dear. Tell you what,' said Nanny Ogg quietly to Perdita, 'if we was to turn the table over, we could probably hide behind it, no problem.'

But to herself she was thinking: Esme can never resist a challenge. None of us can. You ain't a witch if you ain't got self-confidence. But we're not getting any younger. It's like being a hired swordfighter, being a top witch. You think you're good, but you know there's got to be someone younger, practicing every day, polishing up their craft, and one day you're walkin' down the road and you hears this voice behind you sayin': go for your toad, or similar.

Even for Esme. Sooner or later, she'll come up against someone faster on the craftiness than she is.

'Oh, yes,' said Granny, quietly 'Just starting. Every day, just starting.'