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that her husband lived forever, and was convinced that this happy state of affairs could be achieved by feeding him bowel-scouring nuts and grains and yogurt, which to Vimes’s mind was a type of cheese that wasn’t trying hard enough. Then there was the sad adulteration of his mid-morning bacon, lettuce and tomato snack. It was amazing but true that in this matter the watchmen were prepared to obey the boss’s wife to the letter and, if the boss yelled and stamped, which was perfectly understandable, nay forgivable, when a man was forbidden his mid-morning lump of charred pig, would refer him to the instructions given to them by his wife, in the certain knowledge that all threats of sacking were hollow and if carried out would be immediately rescinded.
    Now Sybil appeared among the pillows and said, “You’re on holiday, dear.” What you could eat on holiday also included two fried eggs, just as he liked them, and a sausage—but not, unfortunately, the fried slice, which even on holiday was apparently still a sin. The coffee, however, was thick, black and sweet.
    â€œYou slept very well,” said Sybil, as Vimes stared at the unexpected largesse.
    He said, “No, I didn’t, dear, not a wink, I assure you.”
    â€œSam, you were snoring all night. I heard you!”
    Vimes’s grasp of successful husbandry prevented him from making any further comment except, “Really? Was I, dear? Oh, I am sorry.”
    Sybil leafed through a small pile of pastel envelopes that had been inserted into her breakfast tray. “Well, the news has got around,” she said. “The Duchess of Keepsake has invited us to a ball, Sir Henry and Lady Withering have invited us to a ball, and Lord and Lady Hangfinger have invited us to, yes, a ball!”
    â€œWell,” said Vimes, “that’s a lot of—”
    â€œDon’t you dare, Sam!” his wife warned and Vimes finished lamely, “…invitations? You know I don’t dance, dear, I just shuffle about and tread on your feet.”
    â€œWell, it’s mainly for the young people, you see? People come for the therapeutic baths at Ham-on-Rye, just down the road. Really, it’s all about getting the daughters married to suitable gentlemen, and that means balls, almost continuous balls.”
    â€œI can manage a waltz,” said Vimes, “that’s just a matter of counting, but you know I can’t stand all those jumping-about ones like Strip the Widow and the Gay Gordon.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Sam. Most of the older men find a place to sit and smoke or take snuff. The mothers do the work of finding the eligible bachelors for their daughters. I just hope that my friend Ariadne will find suitable husbands for her girls. She had sextuplets, very rare, you know. Of course, young Mavis is very devout, and there is invariably a young clergyman looking for a wife and, above all, a dowry. And Emily is petite, blonde, an excellent cook but rather conscious of her enormous bosom.”
    Vimes stared at the ceiling. “I suspect that not only will she find a husband,” he forecast, “a husband will find her. Call it a man’s intuition.”
    â€œAnd then there’s Fleur,” said Lady Sybil, not rising to the bait. “She makes quite nice little bonnets, so I understand.” She thought for a moment and added, “oh, and then there’s Jane. And, er, Amanda, I think. Apparently quite interested in frogs, although I fear I may have misheard her mother. Rather a strange girl, according to her mother, who doesn’t seem to know what to make of her.”
    Vimes’s lack of interest in other people’s children was limitless, but he could count. “And the last one?”
    â€œOh, Hermione, she may be difficult as she has rather scandalized the family, at least in their opinion.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œShe’s a lumberjack.”
    Vimes thought for a