Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [33]
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.
She didn’t 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.
But what she 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, circumferences, 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?!”
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?! 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 admirer!! He’ll probably want to send me flowers and drink champagne out of my shoe!!”
“Really?” Agnes made a face. “Do people do that?”
“It’s traditional!!”
Christine, boiling over with cheerfulness, had some to share…
“You do look very tired!” she said. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh!! We swapped rooms, didn’t we!! I was 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 sworn 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 didn’t.”
“Oh?! Well, that’s all right, then!!”
Agnes stared at the tiny meal on Christine’s tray. “Is that all you’re having for breakfast?”
“Oh, yes! I can just blow up like a balloon, dear!! It’s lucky for you, you 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