“She made cakes?” said Nanny. “But she can’t cook!”

The committee shuffled aside. A lot of the ladies contributed to the food for the Trials. It was a tradition and an informal competition in its own right. At the centre of the spread of covered plates was a large platter piled high with ... things, of indefinite colour and shape. It looked as though a herd of small cows had eaten a lot of raisins and then been ill. They were Ur-cakes, prehistoric cakes, cakes of great weight and presence that had no place among the iced dainties.

“She’s never had the knack of it,” said Nanny weakly. “Has anyone tried one?”

“Hahaha,” said Gammer solemnly.

“Tough, are they?”

“You could beat a troll to death.”

“But she was so ... sort of ... proud of them,” said Letice. “And then there’s ... the jam.”

It was a large pot. It seemed to be filled with solidified purple lava.

“Nice ... colour,” said Nanny. “Anyone tasted it?”

“We couldn’t get the spoon out,” said Gammer.

“Oh, I’m sure —”

“We only got it in with a hammer.”

“What’s she planning, Mrs Ogg? She’s got a weak and vengeful nature,” said Letice. “You’re her friend,” she added, her tone suggesting that this was as much an accusation as a statement.

“I don’t know what she’s thinking, Mrs Earwig.”

“I thought she was staying away.”

“She said she was going to take an interest and encourage the young ’uns.”

“She is planning something,” said Letice, darkly. “Those cakes are a plot to undermine my authority.”

“No, that’s how she always cooks,” said Nanny. “She just hasn’t got the knack.” Your authority, eh?

“She’s nearly finished the flags,” Gammer reported. “Now she’s going to try to make herself useful again.”

“Well ... I suppose we could ask her to do the Lucky Dip.”

Nanny looked blank. “You mean where kids fish around in a big tub full of bran to see what they can pull out?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to let Granny Weatherwax do that?”

“Yes.”

“Only she’s got a funny sense of humour, if you know what I mean.”

“Good morning to you all!”

It was Granny Weatherwax’s voice. Nanny Ogg had known it for most of her life. But it had that strange edge to it again. It sounded nice.

“We was wondering if you could supervise the bran tub, Miss Weatherwax.”

Nanny flinched. But Granny merely said: “Happy to, Mrs Earwig. I can’t wait to see the expressions on their little faces as they pull out the goodies.”

Nor can I, Nanny thought.

When the others had scurried off she sidled up to her friend.

“Why’re you doing this?” she said.

“I really don’t know what you mean, Gytha.”

“I seen you face down terrible creatures, Esme. I once seen you catch a unicorn, for goodness’ sake. What’re you plannin’?”

“I still don’t know what you mean, Gytha.”

“Are you angry ’cos they won’t let you enter, and now you’re plannin’ horrible revenge?”

For a moment they both looked at the field. It was beginning to fill up. People were bowling for pigs and fighting on the greasy pole. The Lancre Volunteer Band was trying to play a medley of popular tunes, and it was only a pity that each musician was playing a different one. Small children were fighting. It was going to be a scorcher of a day, probably the last one of the year.

Their eyes were drawn to the roped-off square in the centre of the field.

“Are you going to enter the Trials, Gytha?” said Granny.

“You never answered my question!”

“What question was that?”

Nanny decided not to hammer on a locked door. “Yes, I am going to have a go, as it happens,” she said.

“I certainly hope you win, then. I’d cheer you on, only that wouldn’t be fair to the others. I shall merge into the background and be as quiet as a little mouse.”

Nanny tried guile. Her face spread into a wide pink grin, and she nudged her friend.

“Right, right,” she said. “Only ... you can tell me, right? I wouldn’t like to miss it when it happens. So If you could just give me a little signal when you’re going to do it, eh?”

“What’s it you’re referring to, Gytha?”

“Esme Weatherwax, sometimes I could really give you a bloody good slap!”

“Oh dear.”

Nanny Ogg didn’t often swear, or at least use words beyond the boundaries of what the Lancrastrians thought of as “colourful language”. She looked as if she habitually used bad words, and had just thought up a good one, but mostly witches are quite careful about what they say. You can never be sure what the words are going to do when they’re out of earshot. But now she swore under her breath and caused small brief fires to start in the dry grass.

This put her in just about the right frame of mind for the Cursing.

It was said that once upon a time this had been done on a living, breathing subject, at least at the start of the event, but that wasn’t right for a family day out and for several hundred years the Curses had been directed at Unlucky Charlie who was, however you looked at it, nothing more than a scarecrow. And since curses are generally directed at the mind of the cursed, this presented a major problem, because even “May your straw go mouldy and your carrot fall off” didn’t make much impression on a pumpkin. But points were given for general style and inventiveness.

There wasn’t much pressure for those in any case. Everyone knew what event counted, and it wasn’t Unlucky Charlie.

One year Granny Weatherwax had made the pumpkin explode. No one had ever worked out how she’d done it.

Someone would walk away at the end of today and everyone would know they were the winner, whatever the points said. You could win the Witch With The Pointiest Hat prize and the broomstick dressage, but that was just for the audience. What counted was the Trick you’d been working on all summer.

Nanny had drawn last place, at number nineteen. A lot of witches had turned up this year. News of Granny Weatherwax’s withdrawal had got around, and nothing moves faster than news in the occult community since it doesn’t just have to travel at ground level. Many pointy hats moved and nodded among the crowds.

Witches are among themselves generally as sociable as cats but, as also with cats, there are locations and times and neutral grounds where they meet at something like peace. And what was going on was a sort of slow, complicated dance ...

The witches walked around saying hello to one another, and rushing to meet newcomers, and innocent bystanders might have believed that here was a meeting of old friends. Which, at one level, it probably was. But Nanny watched through a witch’s eyes, and saw the subtle positioning, the careful weighing-up, the little changes of stance, the eye-contact finely tuned by intensity and length.

And when a witch was in the arena, especially if she was comparatively unknown, all the others found some excuse to keep an eye on her, preferably without appearing to do so.

It was like watching cats. Cats spend a lot of time carefully eyeing one another. When they have to fight, that’s merely to rubber-stamp something that’s already been decided in their heads.

Nanny knew all this. And she also knew most of the witches to be kind (on the whole), gentle (to the meek), generous (to the deserving; the undeserving got more than they bargained for), and by and large quite dedicated to a life that really offered more kicks than kisses. Not one of them lived in a house made of confectionery, although some of the conscientious younger ones had experimented with various crisp-breads. Even children who deserved it were not slammed into their ovens. Generally they did what they’d always done — smooth the passage of their neighbours into and out of the world, and help them over some of the nastier hurdles in between.

You needed to be a special kind of person to do that. You needed a special kind of ear, because you saw people in circumstances where they were inclined to tell you things, like where the money is buried or who the father was or how come they’d a black eye again. And you needed a special kind of mouth, the sort that stayed shut. Keeping secrets made you powerful. Being powerful earned you respect. Respect was hard currency.