“Good morning, Miss Weatherwax,” said Letice Earwig loudly.

Granny Weatherwax stiffened, and then lowered the chair very carefully and turned around.

“It’s Mistress,” she said.

“Whatever,” said Letice brightly.”I trust you are keeping well?”

“Up till now,” said Granny. She nodded almost imperceptibly at the other three witches.

There was a thrumming silence, which appalled Nanny Ogg.

They should have been invited in for a cup of something. That was how the ritual went. It was gross bad manners to keep people standing around. Nearly, but not quite, as bad as calling an elderly unmarried witch “Miss”.

“You’ve come about the Trials,” said Granny. Letice almost fainted.

“Er, how did—”

“Cos you look like a committee. It don’t take much reasoning,” said Granny, pulling off her gloves. “We didn’t used to need a committee. The news just got around and we all turned up. Now suddenly there’s folk arrangin’ things.” For a moment Granny looked as though she was fighting some serious internal battle, and then she added in throwaway tones: “Kettle’s on. You’d better come in.”

Nanny relaxed. Maybe there were some customs even Granny Weatherwax wouldn’t defy, after all. Even if someone was your worst enemy, you invited them in and gave them tea and biscuits. In fact, the worser your enemy, the better the crockery you got out and the higher the quality of the biscuits. You might wish black hell on ’em later, but while they were under your roof you’d feed ’em till they choked.

Her dark little eyes noted that the kitchen table gleamed and was still damp from scrubbing.

After cups had been poured and pleasantries exchanged, or at least offered by Letice and received in silence by Granny, the self-elected chairwoman wriggled in her seat and said:

“There’s such a lot of interest in the Trials this year, Miss ... Mistress Weatherwax.”

“Good.”

“It does look as though witchcraft in the Ramtops is going through something of a renaissance, in fact.”

“A renaissance, eh? There’s a thing.”

“It’s such a good route to empowerment for young women, don’t you think?”

Many people could say things in a cutting way, Nanny knew. But Granny Weathervax could listen in a cutting way. She could make something sound stupid just by hearing it.

“That’s a good hat you’ve got there,” said Granny. “Velvet, is it? Not made local, I expect.”

Letice touched the brim and gave a little laugh.

“It’s from Boggi’s in Ankh-Morpork,” she said.

“Oh? Shop-bought?”

Nanny Ogg glanced at the corner of the room, where a battered wooden cone stood on a stand. Pinned to it were lengths of black calico and strips of willow wood, the foundations for Granny’s spring hat.

“Tailor-made,” said Letice.

“And those hatpins you’ve got,” Granny went on. “All them crescent moons and cat shapes —”

“You’ve got a brooch that’s crescent-shaped, too, ain’t that so, Esme?” said Nanny Ogg, deciding it was time for a warning shot. Granny occasionally had a lot to say about jewellery on witches when she was feeling in an acid mood.

“This is true, Gytha. I have a brooch what is shaped like a crescent. That’s just the truth of the shape it happens to be. Very practical shape for holding a cloak, is a crescent. But I don’t mean nothing by it. Anyway, you interrupted just as I was about to remark to Mrs Earwig how fetchin’ her hatpins are. Very witchy.”

Nanny, swivelling like a spectator at a tennis match, glanced at Letice to see if this deadly bolt had gone home. But the woman was actually smiling. Some people just couldn’t spot the obvious on the end of a ten-pound hammer.

“On the subject of witchcraft,” said Letice, with the born chairwoman’s touch for the enforced segue, “I thought I might raise with you the question of your participation in the Trials.”

“Yes?”

“Do you ... ah ... don’t you think it is unfair to other people that you win every year?”

Granny Weatherwax looked down at the floor and then up at the ceiling.

“No,” she said, eventually. “I’m better’n them.”

“You don’t think it is a little dispiriting for the other contestants?”

Once again, the floor to ceiling search.

“No,” said Granny.

“But they start off knowing they’re not going to win.”

“So do I.”

“Oh, no, you surely —”

“I meant that I start off knowing they’re not goin’ to win, too,” said Granny witheringly. “And they ought to start off knowing I’m not going to win. No wonder they lose, if they ain’t getting their minds right.”

“It does rather dash their enthusiasm.”

Granny looked genuinely puzzled. “What’s wrong with ’em striving to come second?” she said.

Letice plunged on.

“What we were hoping to persuade you to do, Esme, is to accept an emeritus position. You would perhaps make a nice little speech of encouragement, present the award, and ... and possibly even be, er, one of the judges ...”

“There’s going to be judges?” said Granny. “We’ve never had judges. Everyone just used to know who’d won.”

“That’s true,” said Nanny. She remembered the scenes at the end of one or two trials. When Granny Weatherwax won, everyone knew. “Oh, that’s very true.”

“It would be a very nice gesture,” Letice went on.

“Who decided there would be judges?” said Granny.

“Er ... the committee ... which is ... that is ... a few of us got together. Only to steer things ...”

“Oh. I see,” said Granny. “Flags?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you going to have them lines of little flags? And maybe someone selling apples on a stick, that kind of thing?”

“Some bunting would certainly be —”

“Right. Don’t forget the bonfire.”

“So long as it’s nice and safe.”

“Oh. Right. Things should be nice. And safe,” said Granny.

Mrs Earwig perceptibly sighed with relief. “Well, that’s sorted out nicely,” she said.

“Is it?” said Granny.

“I thought we’d agreed that —”

“Had we? Really?” She picked up the poker from the hearth and prodded fiercely at the fire. “I’ll give matters my consideration.”

“I wonder if I may be frank for a moment, Mistress Weatherwax?” said Letice. The poker paused in mid-prod.

“Yes?”

“Times are changing, you know. Now, I think I know why you feel it necessary to be so overbearing and unpleasant to everyone, but believe me when I tell you, as a friend, that you’d find it so much easier if you just relaxed a little bit and tried being nicer, like our sister Gytha here.”

Nanny Ogg’s smile had fossilized into a mask. Letice didn’t seem to notice.

“You seem to have all the witches in awe of you for fifty miles around,” she went on. “Now, I daresay you have some valuable skills, but witchcraft isn’t about being an old grump and frightening people any more. I’m telling you this as a friend —”

“Call again whenever you’re passing,” said Granny.

This was a signal. Nanny Ogg stood up hurriedly.

“I thought we could discuss —” Letice protested.

“I’ll walk with you all down to the main track,” said Nanny, hauling the other witches out of their seats.

“Gytha!” said Granny sharply, as the group reached the door.

“Yes, Esme?”

“You’ll come back here afterwards, I expect.”

“Yes, Esme.”

Nanny ran to catch up with the trio on the path. Letice had what Nanny thought of as a deliberate walk It had been wrong to judge her by the floppy jowls and the over-fussy hair and the silly way she waggled her hands as she talked. She was a witch, after all. Scratch any witch and ... well, you’d be facing a witch you’d just scratched.

“She is not a nice person,” Letice trilled. But it was the trill of some large hunting bird.

“You’re right there,” said Nanny. “But —”

“It’s high time she was taken down a peg or two!”