‘This coven business is ridiculous. It attracts entirely the wrong sort of people.’ ‘I’m very glad we had this little talk,’ hissed Nanny Ogg. ‘Cleared the air.’ She looked down. ‘And you’re in my territory, madam.’ ‘Madam!’ Thunder rolled in the distance. The permanent Lancre storm, after a trip through the foothills, had drifted back towards the mountains for a one-night stand. The last rays of sunset shone livid through the clouds, and fat drops of water began to thud on the witches’ pointed hats. ‘I really don’t have time for all this,’ snapped Granny, trembling. ‘I have far more important things to do.’ ‘And me,’ said Nanny. ‘Good night to you.’ ‘And you.’ They turned their backs on one another and strode away into the downpour. The midnight rain drummed on Magrat’s curtained windows as she thumbed her way purposefully through Goodie Whemper’s books of what, for want of any better word, could be called natural magic.
