Maskerade Read Online Free PDF Page A

herself Perdita plus an initial from the arse of the alphabet, but Nanny had assumed that would soon burn off when she got some serious witchcraft under her rather strained belt.
    She should have paid more attention to the thing about music. Power found its way out by all sorts of routes …
    Music and magic had a lot in common. They were only two letters apart, for one thing. And you couldn’t do both.
    Damn. Nanny had rather been counting on the girl.
    â€˜She used to send off to Ankh-Morpork for music,’ said Mrs Nitt. ‘See?’
    She handed Nanny several piles of papers.
    Nanny leafed through them. Song-sheets were common enough in the Ramtops, and a singsong in the parlour was considered the third best thing to do on long dark evenings. But Nanny could see this wasn’t ordinary music. It was far too crowded for that.
    â€˜ Cosi fan Hita ,’ she read. ‘ Die Meistersinger von Scrote .’
    â€˜That’s foreign ,’ said Mrs Nitt proudly.
    â€˜It certainly is,’ said Nanny.
    Mrs Nitt was looking expectantly at her.
    â€˜What?’ said Nanny, and then, ‘Oh.’
    Mrs Nitt’s eyes flickered to her emptied teacup and back again.
    Nanny Ogg sighed and laid the music aside.Occasionally she saw Granny Weatherwax’s point. Sometimes people expected too little of witches.
    â€˜Yes, indeedy,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘Let us see what destiny in the form of these dried-up bits of leaf has in store for us, eh?’
    She set her features in a suitable occult expression and looked down into the cup.
    Which, a second later, smashed into fragments when it hit the floor.
    It was a small room. In fact it was half a small room, since a thin wall had been built across it. Junior members of the chorus ranked rather lower than apprentice scene-shifters in the opera.
    There was room for a bed, a wardrobe, a dressing-table and, quite out of place, a huge mirror, as big as the door.
    â€˜Impressive, isn’t it?!’ said Christine. ‘They tried to take it out but it’s built into the wall, apparently!! I’m sure it will be very useful!!’
    Agnes said nothing. Her own half-room, the other half of this one, didn’t have a mirror. She was glad of that. She did not regard mirrors as naturally friendly. It wasn’t just the images they showed her. There was something … worrying … about mirrors. She’d always felt that. They seemed to be looking at her. Agnes hated being looked at.
    Christine stepped into the small space in the middle of the floor and twirled. There was something very enjoyable about watching her. It was the sparkle, Agnes thought. Something about Christine suggested sequins.
    â€˜Isn’t this nice?!’ she said.
    Not liking Christine would be like not liking small fluffy animals. And Christine was just like a small fluffy animal. A rabbit, perhaps. It was certainly impossible for her to get a whole idea into her head in one go. She had to nibble it into manageable bits.
    Agnes glanced at the mirror again. Her reflection stared at her. She could have done with some time to herself right now. Everything had happened so quickly. And this place made her uneasy. Everything would feel a lot better if she could just have some time to herself.
    Christine stopped twirling. ‘Are you all right?!’
    Agnes nodded.
    â€˜Do tell me about yourself!!’
    â€˜Er … well …’ Agnes was gratified, despite herself. ‘I’m from somewhere up in the mountains you’ve probably never heard of …’
    She stopped. A light had gone off in Christine’s head, and Agnes realized that the question had been asked not because Christine in any way wanted to know the answer but for something to say. She went on: ‘… and my father is the Emperor of Klatch and my mother is a small tray of raspberry puddings.’
    â€˜That’s interesting!’ said Christine, who was looking