Percy’s knees began to tremble, and his wig started to slide off the back of his head to the hoped-for security of the floor.

“I should like to thank you for doing it because it has made her very happy,” Granny went on, in a tone of voice which would have struck one who knew her as curiously monotonous. “She has done a lot of fine work and it’s about time she got her little reward. It was a very nice thought. And so I have brung you this little token —” Hopcroft jumped backwards as Granny’s hand dipped swiftly into her apron and produced a small black bottle “— which is very rare because of the rare herbs in it. What are rare. Extremely rare herbs.”

Eventually it crept over Hopcroft that he was supposed to take the bottle. He gripped the top of it very carefully, as if it might whistle or develop legs.

“Uh ... thank you ver’ much,” he mumbled.

Granny nodded stiffly.

“Blessings be upon this house,” she said, and turned and walked away down the path.

Hopcroft shut the door carefully, and then flung himself against it.

“You start packing right now!” he shouted to his wife, who’d been watching from the kitchen door.

“What? Our whole life’s here! We can’t just run away from it!”

“Better to run than hop, woman! What’s she want from me? What’s she want? She’s never nice!”

Mrs Hopcroft stood firm. She’d just got the cottage looking right and they’d bought a new pump. Some things were hard to leave.

“Let’s just stop and think, then,” she said. “What’s in that bottle?”

Hopcroft held it at arm’s length. “Do you want to find out?”

“Stop shaking, man! She didn’t actually threaten, did she?”

“She said "blessings be upon this house"! Sounds pretty damn threatening to me! That was Granny Weatherwax, that was!”

He put the bottle on the table. They stared at it, standing in the cautious leaning position of people who were ready to run if anything began to happen.

“Says "Haire Reftorer" on the label,” said Mrs Hopcroft.

“I ain’t using it!”

“She’ll ask us about it later. That’s her way.”

“If you think for one moment I’m —”

“We can try it out on the dog.”

“That’s a good cow.”

William Poorchick awoke from his reverie on the milking stool and looked around the meadow, his hands still working the beast’s teats.

There was a black pointy hat rising over the hedge. He gave such a start that he started to milk into his left boot.

“Gives plenty of milk, does she?”

“Yes, Mistress Weatherwax!” William quavered.

“That’s good. Long may she continue to do so, that’s what I say. Good-day to you.”

And the pointy hat continued up the lane.

Poorchick stared after it. Then he grabbed the bucket and, squelching at every other step, hurried into the barn and yelled for his son.

“Rummage! You get down here right now!”

His son appeared at the hayloft, pitchfork still in his hand.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“You take Daphne down to the market right now, understand?”

“What? But she’s our best milker, Dad!”

“Was, son, was! Granny Weatherwax just put a curse on her! Sell her now before her horns drop off!”

“What’d she say, Dad?”

“She said ... she said ... "Long may she continue to give milk" ...” Poorchick hesitated.

“Doesn’t sound awfully like a curse, Dad,” said Rummage. “I mean ... not like your gen’ral curse. Sounds a bit hopeful, really,” said his son.

“Well ... it was the way ... she ... said ... it ...”

“What sort of way, Dad?”

“Well ... like ... cheerfully.”

“You all right, Dad?”

“It was ... the way ...” Poorchick paused. “Well, it’s not right,” he continued. “It’s not right! She’s got no right to go around being cheerful at people! She’s never cheerful! And my boot is full of milk!”

Today Nanny Ogg was taking some time out to tend her secret still in the woods. As a still it was the best-kept secret there could be, since everyone in the kingdom knew exactly where it was, and a secret kept by so many people must he very secret indeed. Even the king knew, and knew enough to pretend he didn’t know, and that meant he didn’t have to ask her for any taxes and she didn’t have to refuse. And every year at Hogswatch he got a barrel of what honey might be if only bees weren’t teetotal. And everyone understood the situation, no one had to pay any money and so, in a small way, the world was a happier place. And no one was cursed until their teeth fell out.

Nanny was dozing. Keeping an eye on a still was a day and night job. But finally the sound of people repeatedly calling her name got too much for her.

No one would come into the clearing, of course. That would mean admitting that they knew where it was. So they were blundering around in the surrounding bushes. She pushed her way through, and was greeted with some looks of feigned surprise that would have done credit to any amateur dramatic company.

“Well, what do you lot want?” she demanded.

“Oh, Mrs Ogg, we thought you might be ... taking a walk in the woods,” said Poorchick, while a scent that could clean glass wafted on the breeze. “You got to do something! It’s Mistress Wetherwax!”

“What’s she done?”

“You tell ’er, Mister Hampicker!”

The man next to Poorchick took off his hat quickly and held it respectfully in front of him in the ai-señor-the-bandidos-have-raided-our-villages position.

“Well, ma’am, my lad and I were digging for a well and then she come past —”

“Granny Weatherwax?”

“Yes’m, and she said —” Hampicker gulped, “You won’t find any water there, my good man. You’d he better off looking in the hollow by the chestnut tree." An’ we dug on down anyway and we never found no water!”

Nanny lit her pipe. She didn’t smoke around the still since that time when a careless spark had sent the barrel she was sitting on a hundred yards into the air. She’d been lucky that a fir tree had broken her fall.

“So ... then you dug in the hollow by the chestnut tree?” she said mildly.

Hampicker looked shocked. “No’m! There’s no telling what she wanted us to find there!”

“And she cursed my cow!” said Poorchick.

“Really? What did she say?”

“She said, may she give a lot of milk!” Poorchick stopped. Once again, now that he came to say it ...

“Well, it was the way she said it,” he added, weakly.

“And what kind of way was that?”

“Nicely!”

“Nicely?”

“Smilin’ and everything! I don’t dare drink the stuff now!”

Nanny was mystified.

“Can’t quite see the problem —”

“You tell that to Mr Hopcroft’s dog.” said Poorchick. “Hopcroft daren’t leave the poor thing on account of her! The whole family’s going mad! There’s him shearing, his wife sharpening the scissors, and the two lads out all the time looking for fresh places to dump the hair!”

Patient questioning on Nanny’s part elucidated the role the Haire Reftorer had played in this.

“And he gave it ...?”

“Half the bottle, Mrs Ogg.”

“Even though Esme writes "A right small spoonful once a week" on the label? And even then you need to wear roomy trousers.”

“He said he was so nervous, Mrs Ogg! I mean, what’s she playing at? Our wives are keepin’ the kids indoors. I mean, s’posin’ she smiled at them?”

“Well?”

“She’s a witch!”

“So’m I, an’ I smiles at ’em,” said Nanny Ogg. “They’re always runnin’ after me for sweets.”

“Yes, but ... you’re ... I mean ... she ... I mean ... you don’t ... I mean. Well —”

“And she’s a good woman,” said Nanny. Common sense prompted her to add, “In her own way. I expect there is water down in the hollow, and Poorchick’s cow’ll give good milk and if Hopcroft won’t read the labels on bottles then he deserves a head you can see your face in, and if you think Esme Weatherwax’d curse kids you’ve got the sense of a earthworm. She’d cuss ’em, yes, all day long. But not curse ’em. She don’t aim that low.”