Old Mother Dismass’s clothes had that disarray of someone who, because of a detached retina in her second sight, was living in a variety of times all at once. Mental confusion is bad enough in normal people, but much worse when the mind has an occult twist. You just had to hope it was only her underwear she was wearing on the outside.

It was getting worse, Nanny knew. Sometimes her knock would be heard on the door a few hours before she arrived. Her footprints would turn up several days later.

Nanny’s heart sank at the sight of the third witch, and it wasn’t because Letice Earwig was a bad woman. Quite the reverse, in fact. She was considered to be decent, well-meaning and kind, at least to less-aggressive animals and the cleaner sort of children. And she would always do you a good turn. The trouble was, though, that she would do you a good turn for your own good even if a good turn wasn’t what was good for you. You ended up mentally turned the other way, and that wasn’t good.

And she was married. Nanny had nothing against witches being married. It wasn’t as if there were rules. She herself had had many husbands, and had even been married to three of them. But Mr Earwig was a retired wizard with a suspiciously large amount of gold, and Nanny suspected that Letice did witchcraft as something to keep herself occupied, in much the same way that other women of a certain class might embroider kneelers for the church or visit the poor.

And she had money. Nanny did not have money and therefore was predisposed to dislike those who did. Letice had a black velvet cloak so fine that if looked as if a hole had been cut out of the world. Nanny did not. Nanny did not want a fine velvet cloak and did not aspire to such things. So she didn’t see why other people should have them.

“Evening, Gytha. How are you keeping, in yourself?” said Gammer Beavis.

Nanny took her pipe out of her mouth. “Fit as a fiddle. Come on in.”

“Ain’t this rain dreadful?” said Mother Dismass. Nanny looked at the sky. It was frosty purple. But it was probably raining wherever Mother’s mind was at.

“Come along in and dry off, then,” she said kindly.

“May fortunate stars shine on this our meeting,” said Letice. Nanny nodded understandingly. Letice always sounded as though she’d learned her witchcraft out of a not very imaginative book.

“Yeah, right,” she said.

There was some polite conversation while Nanny prepared tea and scones. Then Gammer Beavis, in a tone that clearly indicated that the official part of the visit was beginning, said,

“We’re here as the Trials committee, Nanny.”

“Oh? Yes?”

“I expect you’ll be entering?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll do my little turn.” Nanny glanced at Letice. There was a smile on that face that she wasn’t entirely happy with.

“There’s a lot of interest this year,” Gammer went on. “More girls are taking it up lately.”

“To get boys, one feels,” said Letice, and sniffed. Nanny didn’t comment. Using witchcraft to get boys seemed a damn good use for it as far as she was concerned. It was, in a way, one of the fundamental uses.

“That’s nice,” she said. “Always looks good, a big turnout. But.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Letice.

“I said "but",” said Nanny, “cos someone’s going to say "but", right? This little chat has got a big "but" coming up. I can tell.”

She knew this was flying in the face of protocol. There should be at least seven more minutes of small talk before anyone got around to the point, but Letice’s presence was getting on her nerves.

“It’s about Esme Weatherwax,” said Gammer Beavis.

“Yes?” said Nanny, without surprise.

“I suppose she’s entering?”

“Never known her stay away.”

Letice sighed.

“I suppose you ... couldn’t persuade her to ... not to enter this year?”

Nanny looked shocked.

“With an axe, you mean?”

In unison, the three witches sat back.

“You see —” Gammer began, a bit shamefaced.

“Frankly, Mrs Ogg,” said Letice, “it is very hard to get other people to enter when they know that Miss Weatherwax is entering. She always wins.”

“Yes,” said Nanny. “It’s a competition.”

“But she always wins!”

“So?”

“In other types of competition,” said Letice, “one is normally only allowed to win for three years in a row and then one takes a back seat for a while.”

“Yeah but this is witching,” said Nanny. “The rules is different.”

“How so?”

“There ain’t none.”

Letice twitched her skirt. “Perhaps it is time there were,” she said.

“Ah,” said Nanny. “And you just going to go up and tell Esme that? You up for this, Gammer?”

Gammer Beavis didn’t meet her gaze. Old Mother Dismass was gazing at last week.

“I understand Miss Weatherwax is a very proud woman,” said Letice.

Nanny Ogg puffed at her pipe again.

“You might as well say the sea is full of water,” she said.

The other witches were silent for a moment.

“I daresay that was a valuable comment,” said Letice, “but I didn’t understand it.”

“If there ain’t no water in the sea, it ain’t the sea,” said Nanny Ogg. “It’s just a damn great hole in the ground. Thing about Esme is ...” Nanny took another noisy pull at the pipe, “she’s all pride, see? She ain’t just a proud person.”

“Then perhaps she should learn to be a bit more humble ...”

“What’s she got to be humble about?” said Nanny sharply.

But Letice, like a lot of people with marshmallow on the outside, had a hard core that was not easily compressed.

“The woman clearly has a natural talent and, really, she should be grateful for ...”

Nanny Ogg stopped listening at this point. The woman, she thought. So that was how it was going.

It was the same in just about every trade. Sooner or later someone decided it needed organizing, and the one thing you could be sure of was that the organizers weren’t going to be the people who, by general acknowledgement, were at the top of their craft. They were working too hard. To be fair, it generally wasn’t done by the worst, neither. They were working hard, too. They had to.

No, it was done by the ones who had just enough time and inclination to scurry and bustle. And, to be fair again, the world needed people who scurried and bustled. You just didn’t have to like them very much.

The lull told her that Letice had finished.

“Really? Now, me,” said Nanny, “I’m the one who’s nat’rally talented. Us Oggs’ve got witchcraft in our blood. I never really had to sweat at it. Esme, now ... she’s got a bit, true enough, but it ain’t a lot. She just makes it work harder’n hell. And you’re going to tell her she’s not to?”

“We were rather hoping you would,” said Letice.

Nanny opened her mouth to deliver one or two swearwords, and then stopped.

“Tell you what,” she said, “you can tell her tomorrow, and I’ll come with you to hold her back.”

Granny Weatherwax was gathering Herbs when they came up the track.

Everyday herbs of sickroom and kitchen are known as simples. Granny’s Herbs weren’t simples. They were complicateds or they were nothing. And there was none of the airy-fairy business with a pretty basket and a pair of dainty snippers. Granny used a knife. And a chair held in front of her. And a leather hat, gloves and apron as secondary lines of defence.

Even she didn’t know where some of the Herbs came from. Roots and seeds were traded all over the world, and maybe further. Some had flowers that turned as you passed by, some fired their thorns at passing birds and several were staked, not so that they wouldn’t fall over, but so they’d still be there next day.

Nanny Ogg, who never bothered to grow any herb you couldn’t smoke or stuff a chicken with, heard her mutter, “Right, you buggers —”