'He's really dead?' said Bucket.

'Seems to be,' said Granny. 'One of the best operatic deaths ever, I wouldn't mind betting.'

'That's terrible!!' Bucket grabbed the former Salzella by the collar and hauled him upright. 'Where's my money? Come on, out with it, tell me what you've done with my money!!! I don't hear you!!!! He's not saying anything!!!'

'That's on account of being dead,' said Granny. 'Not talkative, the deceased. As a rule.'

'Well, you're a witch!!! Can't you do that thing with the cards and the glasses?'

'Well, yes... we could have a poker game,' said Nanny. 'Good idea.'

'The money is in the cellars,' said Granny. 'Walter'll show you.'

Walter Plinge clicked his heels. 'Certainly,' he said. 'I would be glad to.'

Bucket stared. It was Walter Plinge's voice and it was coming out of Walter Plinge's face, but both face and voice were different. Subtly different. The voice had lost the uncertain, frightened edge. The lopsided look had gone from the face.

'Good grief,' Bucket murmured, and let go of Salzella's coat. There was a thump.

'And since you're going to be needing a new director of music,' said Granny, 'you could do worse than look to Walter here.'

'Walter?'

'He knows everything there is to know about opera,' said Granny. 'And everything about the Opera House, too.'

'You should see the music he's written–' said Nanny.

'Walter? Musical director?' said Bucket.

'‑stuff you can really hum–'

'Yes, I think you might be surprised,' said Granny.

'‑there's one with lots of sailors dancin' around singin' about how there's no women–'

'This is Walter, isn't it?'

'‑and then some bloke called Les who's miserable all the time–'

'Oh, this is Walter,' said Granny. 'The same person.

'‑and there's one, hah, with all cats all leapin' around all singin', that was fun,' Nanny burbled. 'Can't imagine how he thought up that one–'

Bucket scratched his chin. He was feeling lightheaded enough as it was.

'And he's trustworthy,' said Granny. 'And he's honest. And he knows all about the Opera House, as I said. And... where everything is...'

That was enough for Mr Bucket. 'Want to be director of music, Walter?' he said.

'Thank you, Mr Bucket,' said Walter Plinge. 'I should like that very much. But what about cleaning the privies?'

'Sorry?'

'I won't have to stop doing them, will I? I've just got them working right.'

'Oh? Right. Really?' Mr Bucket's eyes crossed for a moment. 'Well, fine. You can sing while you're doing it, if you like,' he added generously. 'And I won't even cut your pay! I'll... I'll raise it! Six... no, seven shiny dollars!'

Walter rubbed his face thoughtfully. 'Mr Bucket...'

'Yes, Walter?'

'I think... you paid Mr Salzella forty shiny dollars...'

Bucket turned to Granny. 'Is he some kind of monster?'

'You just listen to the stuff he's been writin',' said Nanny. 'Amazin' songs, not even in foreign. Will you just look at this stuff...'scuse me...'

She turned her back on the audience–

–twingtwangtwong–

–and twirled round again with a wad of music paper in her hands.

'I know good music when I sees it,' she said, handing it to Bucket and pointing excitedly at extracts. 'It's got blobs and curly bits all over it, see?'

'You have been writing this music?' said Bucket to Walter. 'Which is unaccountably warm?'

'Indeed, Mr Bucket.'

'In my time?'

'There's a lovely song here,' said Nanny, ' "Don't cry for me, Genua". It's very sad. That reminds me, I'd better go and see if Mrs Plinge has come rou... has woken up. I may have overdone it a bit on the stumble.' She ambled off, twitching at bits of her costume, and nudged a fascinated ballerina. 'This balleting doesn't half make you sweat, don't you find?'

'Excuse me, there's something I didn't quite believe,' said André. He took Salzella's sword and tested the blade carefully.

'Ow!' he shouted.

'Sharp, is it?' said Agnes.

'Yes!' André sucked his thumb. 'She caught it in her hand.'

'She's a witch,' said Agnes.

'But it was steel! I thought no one could magic steel! Everyone knows that.'

'I wouldn't be too impressed if I was you,' said Agnes sourly. 'It was probably just some kind of trick...'

André turned to Granny. 'Your hand isn't even scratched! How did... you...'

Her stare held him in its sapphire vice for a moment. When he turned away he looked vaguely puzzled, like a man who can't remember where he's just put something down.

'I hope he didn't hurt Christine,' he mumbled. 'Why isn't anyone seeing to her?'

'Probably because she makes sure she screams and faints before anything happens,' said Perdita, through Agnes.

André set off across the stage. Agnes trailed after him. A couple of dancers were kneeling down next to Christine.

'It'd be terrible if anything happened to her,' said André.

'Oh... yes.'

'Everyone says she's showing such promise...'

Walter stepped up beside him. 'Yes. We should get her somewhere,' he said. His voice was clipped and precise.

Agnes felt the bottom start to drop out of her world. 'Yes, but... you know it was me doing the singing.'

'Oh, yes... yes, of course...' said André, awkwardly. 'But...well... this is opera... you know...'

Walter took her hand.

'But it was me youtaught!' she said desperately.

'Then you were very good,' said Walter. 'I suspect she will never be quite that good, even with many months of my tuition. But, Perdita, have you ever heard of the words "star quality"?'

'Is it the same as talent?' snapped Agnes.

'It is rarer.'

She stared at him. His face, however it was controlled now, was quite handsome in the glare of the footlights.

She pulled her hand free. 'I liked you better when you were Walter Plinge,' she said.

Agnes turned away, and felt Granny Weatherwax's gaze on her. She was sure it was a mocking gaze.

'Er... we ought to get Christine into Mr Bucket's office,' André said.

This seemed to break some sort of spell.

'Yes, indeed!!!' said Bucket. 'And we can't leave Mr Salzella corpsing on stage, either. You two, you'd better take him backstage. The rest of you... well, it was nearly over anyway... er... that's it. The... opera is over...'

'Walter Plinge!'

Nanny Ogg entered, supporting Mrs Plinge. Walter's mother fixed him with a beady gaze. 'Have you been a bad boy?'

Mr Bucket walked over to her and patted her hand. 'I think you'd better come along to my office, too,' he said. He handed the sheaf of music to André, who opened it at random.

André gave it a glance, and then stared. 'Hey... this is good,' he said.

'Is it?'

André looked at another page. 'Good heavens!'

'What? What?' said Bucket.

'I've just never... I mean, even I can see... tum‑ti TUM tum‑tum...yes... Mr Bucket, you do know this isn't opera? There's music and... yes... dancing and singing all right, but it's not opera. Not opera at all. A long way from opera.'

'How far? You don't mean...' Bucket hesitated, savouring the idea, 'you don't mean that it's just possible that you put music in and you get money out?'

André hummed a few bars. 'This could very well be the case, Mr Bucket.'

Bucket beamed. He put one arm around André and the other around Walter. 'Good!!!!!' he said. 'This calls for a very lar... for a medium‑sized mm drink .....

One by one, or in groups, the singers and dancers left the stage. And the witches and Agnes were left alone.

'Is that it?' said Agnes.

'Not quite yet,' said Granny.

Someone staggered on to the stage. A kindly hand had bandaged Enrico Basilica's head, and presumably another kindly hand had given him the plate of spaghetti he was holding. Mild concussion still seemed to have him in its grip. He blinked at the witches and then spoke like a man who'd lost his hold on immediate events and so was clinging hard to more ancient considerations.