She licked a thread and held a needle against the moon, squinting.

"Oh, Esme, Esme," she said, as she bent to her sewing, "you do take winning hard."

Lily Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery world.

"Where am I?"

INSIDE THE MIRROR.

"Am I dead?"

THE ANSWER TO THAT, said Death, is SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES.

Lily turned, and a billion figures turned with her. "When can I get out?"

WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT'S REAL.

Lily Weatherwax ran on through the endless reflections.

A good cook is always the first one into the kitchen every morning and the last one to go home at night.

Mrs Pleasant damped down the fires. She did a quick inventory of the silverware and counted the tureens. She -

She was aware of being stared at.

There was a cat in the doorway. It was big and grey. One eye was an evil yellow-green, the other one pearly white. What remained of its ears looked like the edge of a stamp. Nevertheless, it had a certain swagger, and generated an I-can-beat-you-with-one-paw feel that was strangely familiar.

Airs Pleasant stared at it for a while. She was a close personal friend of Mrs Gogol and knew that shape is merely a matter of deeply-ingrained personal habit, and if you're a resident of Genua around Samedi Nuit Mort you learn to trust your judgement rather more than you trust your senses.

"Well now," she said, with barely a trace of a tremor in her voice, "I expect you'd like some more fish legs, I mean heads, how about that?"

Greebo stretched and arched his back.

"And there's some milk in the coolroom," said Mrs Pleasant.

Greebo yawned happily.

Then he scratched his ear with his back leg. Humanity's a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there.

It was a day later.

"Mrs Gogol's healing ointment really seems to work," said Magrat. She held up a jar that was half-full of something pale green and strangely gritty and had a subtle smell which, you could quite possibly believe, occupied the whole world.

"It's got snakes' heads in it," said Nanny Ogg.

"Don't you try to upset me," said Magrat. "I know the Snake's Head is a kind of flower. A fritillary, I think. It's amazing what you can do with flowers, you know."

Nanny Ogg, who had in fact spent an instructive if gruesome half-hour watching Mrs Gogol make the stuff, hadn't the heart to say so.

"That's right," she said. "Flowers. No getting anything past you, I can see that."

Magrat yawned.

They had been given the run of the palace, although no-one felt like running anywhere. Granny had been installed in the next room.

"Go and get some sleep," said Nanny. "I'll go and take over from Mrs Gogol in a moment."

"But Nanny... Gytha..." said Magrat.

"Hmm?"

"All that... stuff... she was saying, when we were travelling. It was so... so cold. Wasn't it? Not wishing for things, not using magic to help people, not being able to do that fire thing - and then she went and did all those things! What am I supposed to make of that?"

"Ah, well," said Nanny. "It's all according to the general and the specific, right?"

"What does that mean?" Magrat lay down on the bed.

"Means when Esme uses words like "Everyone" and "No-one" she doesn't include herself."

"You know... when you think about it... that's terrible."

"That's witchcraft. Up at the sharp end. And now... get some sleep."

Magrat was too tired to object. She stretched out and was soon snoring in a genteel sort of way.

Nanny sat and smoked her pipe for a while, staring at the wall.

Then she got up and pushed open the door.

Mrs Gogol looked up from her stool by the bed.

"You go and get some sleep too," said Nanny. "I'll take over for a spell."

"There's something not right," said Mrs Gogol. "Her hands are fine. She just won't wake up."

"It's all in the mind, with Esme," said Nanny.

"I could make some new gods and get everyone to believe in ‘em real good. How about that?" said Mrs Gogol. Nanny shook her head.

"I shouldn't think Esme'd want that. She's not keen on gods. She thinks they're a waste of space."

"I could cook up some gumbo, then. People'll come a long way to taste that."

"It might be worth a try," Nanny conceded. "Every little helps, I always say. Why not see to it? Leave the rum here."

After the voodoo lady had gone Nanny smoked her pipe some more and drank a little rum in a thoughtful sort of way, looking at the figure on the bed.

Then she bent down close to Granny Weatherwax's ear, and whispered:

"You ain't going to lose, are you?"

Granny Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery world.

"Where am I?"

INSIDE THE MIRROR.

"Am I dead?"

THE ANSWER TO THAT, said Death, is SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES.

Esme turned, and a billion figures turned with her.

"When can I get out?"

WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT'S REAL.

"Is this a trick question?"

NO.

Granny looked down at herself.

"This one," she said.

And stories just want happy endings. They don't give a damn who they're for.

Dear Jason eksetra,

Well so much for Genua but I leanred about Mrs Gogol's zombie medicin and she gave me the Hityi Hidtfrt told me how to make banananana dakry and gave me a thing call a banjo youll be amazed and all in all is a decent soul I reckon if you keeps her where you can see her. It looks like we got Esme back but I don't know shes actin funny and quiet not like herself normally so Im keepin an Eye on her just in case Lily puled a farst one in the mirror. But I think shes geting better because when she woke up she arsked Magra tfor a look at the wand and then she kind of twidled and twisted them rings on it and turned the po into a bunch of flowers and Magrat said she could never make the wand do that and Esme said no because, she wasted time wishing for thinges instead of working out how to make them happen. What I say is, what a good job Esme never got a wand when she was young, Lily would have bin a Picnic by comparisen. Enclosed is a picture of the cemtry here you can see folks are buried in boxes above ground the soil being so wet because you dont want to be dead and drownded at the same time, they say travelin brordens the mind, I reckon I could pull mine out my ears now and knot it under my chin, all the best, MUM.

In the swamp Mrs Gogol the voodoo witch draped the tail coat over its crude stand, stuck the hat on the top of the pole and fastened the cane to one end of the crosspiece with a bit of twine.

She stood back.

There was a fluttering of wings. Legba dropped out of the sky and perched on the hat. Then he crowed. Usually he only crowed at nightfall, because he was a bird of power, but for once he was inclined to acknowledge the new day.

It was said afterwards that, every year on Samedi Nuit Moit, when the carnival was at its height and the drums were loudest and the rum was nearly all gone, a man in a tail coat and a top hat and with the energy of a demon would appear out of nowhere and lead the dance.

After all, even stories have to start somewhere.

There was a splash, and then the waters of the river closed again. Magrat walked away.

The wand settled into the rich mud, where it was touched only by the feet of the occasional passing crawfish, who don't have fairy godmothers and aren't allowed to wish for anything. It sank down over the months and passed, as most things do, out of history. Which was all anyone could wish for.

The three broomsticks rose over Genua, with the mists that curled towards the dawn.

The witches looked down at the green swamps around the city. Genua dozed. The days after Fat Lunchtirne were always quiet, as people slept it off. Currently they included Greebo, curled up in his place among the bristles. Leaving Mrs Pleasant had been a real wrench.