Wyrd Sisters

examine the mantelpiece for dust. She turned the crown round and round in her hands. Again, it gave the impression of being bigger and heavier than it actually was.

She caught sight of the mirror over the mantelpiece and looked down at the crown. It was tempting. It was practically begging her to try it for size. Well, and why not? She made sure that the others weren't around and then, in one movement, whipped off her hat and placed the crown on her head.

It seemed to fit. Granny drew herself up proudly, and waved a hand imperiously in the general direction of the hearth.

'Jolly well do this,' she said. She beckoned arrogantly at the grandfather clock. 'Chop his head off, what ho,' she commanded. She smiled grimly.

And froze as she heard the screams, and the thunder of horses, and the deadly whisper of arrows and the damp, solid sound of spears in flesh. Charge after charge echoed across her skull. Sword met shield, or sword, or bone -relentlessly. Years streamed across her mind in the space of a second. There were times when she lay among the dead, or hanging from the branch of a tree; but always there were hands that would pick her up again, and place her on a velvet cushion ...

Granny very carefully lifted the crown off her head – it was an effort, it didn't like it much – and laid it on the table.

'So that's being a king for you, is it?' she said softly. 'I wonder why they all want the job?'

'Do you take sugar?' said Magrat, behind her.

'You'd have to be a born fool to be a king,' said Granny.

'Sorry?'

Granny turned. 'Didn't see you come in,' she said. 'What was it you said?'

'Sugar in your tea?'

'Three spoons,' said Granny promptly. It was one of the few sorrows of Granny Weatherwax's life that, despite all her efforts, she'd arrived at the peak of her career with a complexion like a rosy apple and all her teeth. No amount of charms could persuade a wart to take root on her handsome if slightly equine features, and vast intakes of sugar only served to give her boundless energy. A wizard she'd consulted had explained it was on account of her having a metabolism, which at least allowed her to feel vaguely superior to Nanny Ogg, who she suspected had never even seen one.

Magrat dutifully dug out three heaped ones. It would be nice, she thought wistfully, if someone could say 'thank you' occasionally.

She became aware that the crown was staring at her.

'You can feel it, can you?' said Granny. 'I said, didn't I? Crowns call out!'

'It's horrible.'

'No, no. It's just being what it is. It can't help it.'

'But it's magic!'

'It's just being what it is,' Granny repeated.

'It's trying to get me to try it on,' said Magrat, her hand hovering.

'It does that, yes.'

'But I shall be strong,' said Magrat.

'So I should think,' said Granny, her expression suddenly curiously wooden. 'What's Gytha doing?'

'She's giving the baby a wash in the sink,' said Magrat vaguely. 'How can we hide something like this? What'd happen if we buried it really deeply somewhere?'

'A badger'd dig it up,' said Granny wearily. 'Or someone'd go prospecting for gold or something. Or a tree'd tangle its roots around it and then be blown over in a storm, and then someone'd pick it up and put it on—'