Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [66]
“Fifty dollars? You could buy a shop for—”
“Gytha!”
“Oh, all right. ’Scuse me, I’m just going to the bank.”
She turned away demurely, raised the hem of her skirt—
—twangtwingtwongtwang—
—and turned back with a handful of coins.
“There you go, my good wo…sir,” she said sourly.
There was a coach waiting outside. It was the best Granny had been able to hire with Nanny’s money. A footman held open the door as Nanny helped her friend aboard.
“We’ll go straight to Mrs. Palm’s so’s I can change,” said Granny as they pulled away. “And then to the Opera House. We ain’t got much time.”
“Are you all right?”
“Never felt better.” Granny patted her hair. “Gytha Ogg, you wouldn’t be a witch if you couldn’t jump to conclusions, right?”
Nanny nodded. “Oh, yes.” There was no shame in it. Sometimes there wasn’t time to do anything else but take a flying leap. Sometimes you had to trust to experience and intuition and general awareness and take a running jump. Nanny herself could clear quite a tall conclusion from a standing start.
“So I’ve no doubt at all that there’s some kind of idea floating around in your mind about this Ghost…”
“Well…sort of an idea, yes…”
“A name, perhaps?”
Nanny shifted uncomfortably, and not only because of the money bags under her skirt.
“I got to admit something crossed my mind. A kind of…feeling. I mean, you never can tell…”
Granny nodded. “Yes. It’s all neat, isn’t it? It’s a lie.”
“You said last night you saw the whole thing!”
“It’s still a lie. Like the lie about masks.”
“What lie about masks?”
“The way people say they hide faces.”
“They do hide faces,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Only the one on the outside.”
No one took much notice of Agnes. The stage was being set for the new performance tonight. The orchestra was rehearsing. The ballerinas had been herded into their practice room. In various other rooms people were singing at cross-purposes. But no one seemed to want her to do anything.
I’m just a wandering voice, she thought.
She climbed the stairs to her room and sat on the bed. The curtains were still drawn and, in the gloom, the strange roses glowed. She had rescued them from the bin because they were beautiful, but, in a way, she’d have been happier if they weren’t there. Then she could have believed she’d imagined the whole thing.
There was no sound from Christine’s room. Telling herself that it was really her room anyway, and Christine had just been allowed to borrow it, Agnes went in.
It was a mess. Christine had got up, got dressed—either that or a thorough but overenthusiastic burglar had gone through every drawer in the place—and gone. The bouquets that Agnes had put into whatever receptacles she could find last night were where she had left them. The others were where she had left them, too, and they were already dying.
She caught herself wondering where she could find some jars and pots for them, and hated herself for it. It was as bad as saying “poot!” You might as well paint WELCOME on yourself and lie down on the doorstep of the universe. It was no fun at all, having a wonderful personality. Oh…and good hair.
And then she went and found pots for them anyway.
The mirror dominated the room. It seemed to grow a little larger each time she looked at it.
All right. She had to know, didn’t she?
Heart pounding, she felt around the edges of it. There was a little raised area that might have looked like part of the frame, but as her fingers moved across it there was a “click” and the mirror swung inward a fraction of an inch. When she pushed at it, it moved.
She breathed out. And stepped in.
“It’s disgusting!” said Salzella. “It’s pandering to the most depraved taste!”
Mr. Bucket shrugged. “It’s not as though we’re putting ‘Good Chance of Seeing Someone Throttled on Stage’ on the posters,” he said. “But news has got around. People like…drama.”
“You mean the Watch didn’t want us to shut down?”
“No. They just said we should mount guards like last night and they