'No, Gran‑ny.'

Granny glared at her escort. Even in a bow‑tie, even with his fine moustaches waxed, he was still a cat. You just couldn't trust them to do anything except turn up for meals.

The inside of the Box was rich red plush, picked out with gilt decoration. It was like a soft little private room.

There were a couple of fat pillars on either side, supporting part of the weight of the balcony above. She looked over the edge and noted the drop to the Stalls below. Of course, someone could probably climb in from one of the adjacent Boxes, but that'd be in full view of the audience and would be bound to cause some comment. She peeked under the seats. She stood on a chair and felt around the ceiling, which had gilt stars on it. She inspected the carpet minutely.

She smiled at what she saw. She'd been prepared to bet that she knew how the Ghost got in, and now she was certain.

Greebo spat on his hand and tried ineffectually to groom his hair.

'You sit quiet and eat your fish eggs,' said Granny.

'Ye‑ess, Gran‑ny.'

'And watch the opera, it's good for you.'

'Ye‑ess, Gran‑ny.'

'Evenin', Mrs Phnge!' said Nanny cheerfully. 'Ain't this excitin'? The buzz of the audience, the air of expectation, the blokes in the orchestra findin' somewhere to hide the bottles and tryin' to remember how to play... all the exhilaration an' drama of the operatic experience waitin' to unfold...'

'Oh, hello, Mrs Ogg,' said Mrs Plinge. She was polishing glasses in her tiny bar.

'Certainly very packed,' said Nanny. She looked sidelong at the old woman. 'Every seat sold, I heard.'

This didn't achieve the expected reaction.

'Shall I give you a hand cleaning out Box Eight?' she went on.

'Oh, I cleaned it out last week,' said Mrs Plinge. She held a glass up to the light.

'Yes, but I heard her ladyship is very particular,' said Nanny. 'Very picky about things.'

'What ladyship?'

'Mr Bucket has sold Box Eight, see,' said Nanny.

She heard a faint tinkle of glass. Ah.

Mrs Plinge appeared at the doorway of her nook. 'But he can't do that!'

'It's his Opera House,' said Nanny, watching Mrs Plinge carefully. 'I suppose he thinks he can.'

'It's the Ghost's Box!'

Opera‑goers were appearing along the corridor.

'I shouldn't think he'd mind just for one night,' said Nanny Ogg. 'The show must go on, eh? Are you all right, Mrs Plinge?'

'I think I'd just better go and–' she began, stepping forward.

'No, you have a good sit down and a rest,' said Nanny, pressing her back with gentle but irresistible force.

'But I should go and–'

'And what, Mrs Plinge? said Nanny.

The old woman went pale. Granny Weatherwax could be nasty, but then nastiness was always in the window: you were aware that it might turn up on the menu. Sharpness from Nanny Ogg, though, was like being bitten by a big friendly dog. It was all the worse for being unexpected.

'I daresay you wanted to go and have a word with somebody, did you, Mrs Plinge?' said Nanny softly. 'Someone who might be a little shocked to find his Box full, perhaps? I reckon I could put a name to that someone, Mrs Plinge. Now, if–'

The old woman's hand came up holding a bottle of champagne and then came down hard in an effort to launch the SS Gytha Ogg on to the seas of un­consciousness. The bottle bounced.

Then Mrs Plinge leapt past and scuttled away, her polished little black boots twinkling.

Nanny Ogg caught the doorframe and swayed a little while blue and purple fireworks went off behind her eyes. But there was dwarf in the Ogg ancestry, and that meant a skull you could go mining with.

She stared muzzily at the bottle. 'Year of the Insulted Goat,' she mumbled. ' 'S a good year.'

Then consciousness gained the upper hand.

She grinned as she galloped after the retreating figure. In Mrs Plinge's place she'd have done exactly the same thing, except a good deal harder.

Agnes waited with the others for the curtain to go up. She was one of the crowd of fifty or so townspeople who would hear Enrico Basilica sing of his success as a master of disguise, it being a vital part of the entire process that, while the chorus would listen to expositions of the plot, and even sing along, they would suffer an instant lapse of memory afterwards so that later unmaskings would come as a surprise.

For some reason, without any word being spoken, as many people as possible seemed to have acquired very broad‑brimmed hats. Those who hadn't were taking every opportunity to glance upwards.

Beyond the curtain, Herr Trubelmacher launched the overture.

Enrico, who had been chewing a chicken leg, carefully put the bone on a plate and nodded. The waiting stage‑hand dashed off.

The opera had begun.

Mrs Plinge reached the bottom of the grand staircase and hung on to the banister, panting.

The opera had started. There was no one around. And no sounds of pursuit, either.

She straightened up, and tried to get her breath back.

'Coo‑ee, Mrs Plinge!'

Nanny Ogg, waving the champagne bottle like a club, was already travelling at speed when she hit the first turn in the banister, but she leaned like a professional and kept her balance as she went into the straight, and then tilted again for the next curve...

...which left only the big gilt statue at the bottom. It is the fate of all banisters worth sliding down that there is something nasty waiting at the far end. But Nanny Ogg's response was superb. She swung a leg over as she hurtled downwards and pushed herself off, her nailed boots leaving grooves in the marble as she spun to a halt in front of the old woman.

Mrs Plinge was lifted off her feet and carried into the shadows behind another statue.

'You don't want to try and outrun me, Mrs Plinge,' Nanny whispered, as she clamped a hand firmly over Mrs Plinge's mouth. 'You just want to wait here quietly with me. And don't go thinking I'm nice. I'm only nice compared to Esme, but so is practic'ly everyone...'

'Mmf!'

With one hand tightly around Mrs Plinge's arm and another over her mouth, Nanny peered round the statue. She could hear the singing, far off:

Nothing else happened. After a while, she started to fret. Perhaps he'd taken fright. Perhaps Mrs Plinge had left him some sort of signal. Perhaps he'd decided that the world was currently too dangerous for Ghosts, although Nanny doubted he could ever decide that...

At this rate the first act would be over before–

A door opened somewhere. A lanky figure in a black suit and a ridiculous beret crossed the foyer and went up the stairs. At the top, they saw it turn in the direction of the Boxes and disappear.

'Y'see,' said Nanny, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs, 'the thing about Esme is, she's stupid...'

'Mmf?'

'...so she thinks that the most obvious way, d'y'see, for the Ghost to get in and out of the Box is through the door. If you can't find a secret panel, she reckons, it's because it ain't there. A secret panel that ain't there is the best kind there is, the reason bein', no bugger can find it. That's where you people all think too operatic, see? You're all cooped up in this place, listening to daft plots what don't make sense, and I reckon it does something to your minds. People can't find a trapdoor so they say, oh, deary me, what a hidden trapdoor it must be. Whereas a normal person, e.g., me and Esme, we'd say: Maybe there ain't one, then. And the best way for the Ghost to get around the place without being seen is for him to be seen and not noticed. Especially if he's got keys. People don't notice Walter. They looks the other way.'