"Is it herbal?" she quavered.

"Buggered if I know. It's just brown leaves out of a tin."

Magrat looked uncertainly into a mug which pure tannin was staining brown. But she rallied. One thing you had to do when you were queen, she knew, was Put Commoners at their Ease. She cast around for some easeful question.

"It must be very interesting, being a beekeeper," she said.

"Yes. It is."

"One's often wondered-"

"What?"

"How do you actually milk them?"

The unicorn prowled through the forest. It felt blind, and out of place. This wasn't a proper land. The sky was blue, not flaming with all the colours of the aurora. And time was passing. To a creature not born subject to time, it was a sensation not unakin to falling.

It could feel its mistress inside its head, too. That was worse even than the passing of time.

In short, it was mad.

Magrat sat with her mouth open.

"I thought queens were born," she said.

"Oh, no," said Mr. Brooks. "There ain't no such thing as a queen egg. The bees just decides to feed one of 'em up as a queen. Feeds 'em royal jelly"

"What happens if they don't?"

"Then it just becomes an ordinary worker, your ladyship," said Mr. Brooks, with a suspiciously republican grin.

Lucky for it, Magrat thought.

"So they have a new queen, and then what happens to the old one?"

"Usually the old girl swarms," said Mr. Brooks. "Pushes off and takes some of the colony with her. I must've seen a thousand swarms, me. Never seen a Royal swarm, though."

"What's a Royal swarm?"

"Can't say for sure. It's in some of the old bee books. A swarm of swarms. It's something to see, they say." The old ' beekeeper looked wistful for a moment.

'"Course," he went on, righting himself, "the real fun starts if the weather's bad and the ole queen can't swarm, right?" He moved his hand in a sly circular motion. "What happens then is, the two queens – that's the old queen, right? And the new queen – the two queens start astalkin' one another among the combs, with the rain adrummin' on the roof of the hive, and the business of the hive agoin' on all around them," Mr. Brooks moved his hands graphically, and Magrat leaned forward, "all among the combs, the drones all hummin', and all the time they can sense one another, 'cos they can tell, see, and then they spots one another and-"

"Yes? Yes?" said Magrat, leaning forward.

"Slash! Stab!"

Magrat hit her head on the wall of the hut.

"Can't have more'n one queen in a hive," said Mr. Brooks calmly.

Magrat looked out at the hives. She'd always liked the look of beehives, up until now.

"Many's the time I've found a dead queen in front of the hive after a spell of wet weather," said Mr. Brooks, happily. "Can't abide another queen around the place, you know. And it's a right old battle, too. The old queen's more cunnin'. But the new queen, she's really got everything to fight for."

"Sorry?"

"If she wants to be mated."

"Oh."

"But it gets really interestin' in the autumn," said Mr. Brooks. "Hive don't need any dead weight in the winter, see, and there's all these drones hangin' around not doing anything, so the workers drag all the drones down to the hive entrance, see, and they bite their-"

"Stop! This is horrible!" said Magrat. "I thought beekeeping was, well, nice."

"Of course, that's around the time of year when the bees wear out," said Mr. Brooks. "What happens is, see, your basic bee, why, it works 'til it can't work no more, and you'll see a lot of old workers acrawlin' around in front of the hive 'cos-"

"Stop it! Honestly, this is too much. I'm queen, you know. Almost."

"Sorry, miss," said Mr. Brooks. "I thought you wanted to know a bit about beekeeping."

"Yes, but note this!"

Magrat swept out.

"Oh, I dunno," said Mr. Brooks. "Does you good to get close to Nature."

He shook his head cheerfully as she disappeared among the hedges.

"Can't have more than one queen in a hive," he said. "Slash! Stab! Hehheh!" From somewhere in the distance came the scream of Hodgesaargh as nature got close to him.

Crop circles opened everywhere.

Now the universes swung into line. They ceased their boiling spaghetti dance and, to pass through this chicane of history, charged forward neck and neck in their race across the rubber sheet of incontinent Time.

At such time, as Ponder Stibbons dimly perceived, they had an effect on one another – shafts of reality crackled back and forward as the universes jostled for position.

If you were someone who had trained their mind to be the finest of receivers, and were running it at the moment with the gain turned up until the knob broke, you might pick up some very strange signals indeed . . .

The clock ticked.

Granny Weatherwax sat in front of the open box, reading. Occasionally she stopped and closed her eyes and pinched her nose.

Not knowing the future was bad enough, but at least she understood why. Now she was getting flashes of deja vu. It had been going on all week. But they weren't her deja vus. She was getting them for the first time, as it were – flashes of memory that couldn't have existed. Couldn't have existed. She was Esme Weatherwax, sane as a brick, always had been, she'd never been–

There was a knock at the door.

She blinked, glad to be free of those thoughts. It took her a second or two to focus on the present. Then she folded up the paper, slipped it into its envelope, pushed the envelope back into its bundle, put the bundle into the box, locked the box with a small key which she hung over the fireplace, and walked to the door. She did a last-minute check to make sure she hadn't absentmindedly taken all her clothes off, or something, and opened it.

"Evenin'," said Nanny Ogg, holding out a bowl with a cloth over it, "I've brung you some-"

Granny Weatherwax was looking past her.

"Who're these people?" she said.

The three girls looked embarrassed.

"See, they came round my house and said-" Nanny Ogg began.

"Don't tell me. Let me guess," said Granny. She strode out, and inspected the trio.

"Well, well, well," she said. "My word. My word. Three girls who want to be witches, am I right?" Her voice went falsetto. "'Oh, please, Mrs. Ogg, we has seen the error of our ways, we want to learn proper witchcraft." Yes?"

"Yes. Something like that," said Nanny. "But-"

"This is witchcraft," said Granny Weatherwax. "It's not. . . it's not a game of conkers. Oh, deary, deary me."

She walked along the very short row of trembling girls.

"What's your name, girl?"

"Magenta Frottidge, ma'am."

"I bet that's not what your mum calls you?"

Magenta looked at her feet.

"She calls me Violet, ma'am."

"Well, it's a better colour than magenta," said Granny. "Want to be a bit mysterious, eh? Want to make folks feel you got a grip on the occult? Can you do magic? Your friend taught you anything, did she? Knock my hat off."

"What, ma'am?"

Granny Weatherwax stood back, and turned around.

"Knock it off. I ain't trying to stop you. Go on."

Magenta-shading-to-Violet shaded to pink.

"Er . . . I never got the hang of the psycho-thingy . . ."

"Oh, dear. Well, just let's see what the rest can do . . . Who're you, girl?"

"Amanita, ma'am."

"Such a pretty name. Let's see what you can do."

Amanita looked around nervously.

"I, er, don't think I can while you're watching me-" she began.

"That's a shame. What about you, on the end?"