Maskerade

Her breath puffed in the air as she walked through the woods. Her boots crunched on the leaves. The wind had died away, leaving the sky wide and clear and open for the first frost of the season, a petal­nipping, fruit‑withering little scorcher that showed you why they called Nature a mother...

A third witch.

Three witches could sort of... spread the load.

Maiden, mother and... crone. There.

The trouble was that Gra

There was bound to be a candidate for the vacancy, though. There were several young girls in Lancre who were just about the right age.

Trouble was, the young men of Lancre knew it too. Na

And then a name rose out of the throng. Oh, yes. Her. Why hadn't she thought of her? But you didn't, of course. Whenever you thought about the young girls of Lancre, you didn't remember her. And then you said, 'Oh, yes, her too, of course. O' course, she's got a wonderful personality. And good hair, of course.'

She was bright, and talented. In many ways. Her voice, for one thing. That was her power, finding its way out. And of course she also had a wonderful personality, so there'd be not much chance of her being... disqualified...

Well, that was settled, then. Another witch to bully and impress would set Gra

Na

She opened the door of her cottage and climbed the stairs to bed.

Her cat, the tom Greebo, was spread out on the eiderdown like a puddle of grey fur. He didn't even awake as Na

Just to keep bad dreams at bay, she took a swig out of a bottle that smelled of apples and happy braindeath. Then she pummelled her pillow, thought 'Her... yes,' and drifted off to sleep.

Presently Greebo awoke, stretched, yawned and hopped silently to the floor. Then the most vicious and cu

A few minutes later, the cockerel in the garden next door stuck up his head to greet the bright new day and died instantly mid–'doodle‑doo'.

There was a huge darkness in front of Agnes while, at the same time, she was half‑blinded by the light. Just below the edge of the stage, giant flat candles floated in a long trough of water, producing a strong yellow glare quite unlike the oil lamps of home. Beyond the light, the auditorium waited like the mouth of a very big and extremely hungry animal.

From somewhere on the far side of the lights a voice said, 'When you're ready, miss.'

It wasn't a particularly unfriendly voice. It just wanted her to get on with it, sing her piece, and go.

'I've, er, got this song, it's a–'

'You've given your music to Miss Proudlet?'

'Er, there isn't an accompaniment actually, it–'

'Oh, it's a folk song, is it?'

There was a whispering in the darkness, and someone laughed quietly.

'Off you go then... Perdita, right?'

Agnes launched into the Hedgehog Song, and knew by about word seven that it had been the wrong choice. You needed a tavern, with people leering and thumping their mugs on the table. This big brilliant emptiness just sucked at it and made her voice hesitant and shrill.

She stopped at the end of verse three. She could feel the blush starting somewhere around her knees. It'd take some time to get to her face, because it had a lot of skin to cover, but by then it'd be strawberry pink.

She could hear whispering. Words like 'timbre' emerged from the susurration and then, she wasn't surprised to hear, came 'impressive build'. She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She didn't have to feel good about it.

The voice spoke up.

'You haven't had much training, have you, dear?'

'No.' Which was true. Lancre's only other singer of note was Na

Whisper, whisper.

'Sing us a few scales, dear.'

The blush was at chest‑height now, thundering across the rolling acres...

'Scales?'

Whisper. Muffled laugh.

'Do‑Re‑Mi? You know, dear? Starting low? La‑la‑lah?'

'Oh. Yes.'

As the armies of embarrassment stormed her neckline, Agnes pitched her voice as low as she could and went for it.

She concentrated on the notes, working her way stolidly upwards from sea‑level to mountaintop, and took no notice at the start when a chair vibrated across the stage or, at the end, when a glass broke somewhere and several bats fell out of the roof.

There was silence from the big emptiness, except for the thud of another bat and, far above, a gentle tinkle of glass.

'Is... is that your full range, lass?'

People were clustering in the wings and staring at her.

'No.'

'No.'

'If I go any higher people faint,' said Agnes. 'And if I go lower everyone says it makes them feel uncomfortable.'

Whisper, whisper. Whisper, whisper, whisper.

'And, er, any other–?'

'I can sing with myself in thirds. Na

'Sorry?' 'Up here?

'Like... Do‑Mi. At the same time.'

Whisper, whisper.

'Show us, lass.'

' ¯ Laaaaaa ¯ '

The people at the side of the stage were talking excitedly.

Whisper, whisper.

The voice from the darkness said: 'Now, your voice projection–'

'Oh, I can do that,' snapped Agnes. She was getting rather fed up. 'Where would you like it projected?'

'I'm sorry? We're talking about–'

Agnes ground her teeth. She was good. And she'd show them...

'To here?'

'Or there?'

'Or here?'

It wasn't that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the travelling showmen did, but you couldn't pitch it far away and still manage to fool a whole audience.

Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out people turning around in their seats, bewildered.

'What's your name again, dear?' The voice, which had at one point shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten‑up sound.

'Ag‑ Per... Perdita,' said Agnes. 'Perdita Nitt. Perdita X... Nitt.'

'We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear.'