her washing was done by the daughters-in-law, a tribe of grey-faced, subdued women whose names she never bothered to remember. It had become, therefore, a storage place for dried-up old bulbs, burnt-out cauldrons and fermenting jars of wasp jam. No fire had been lit under the copper for ten years. Its bricks were crumbling, and rare ferns grew around the firebox. The water under the lid was inky black and, according to rumour, bottomless; the Ogg grandchildren were encouraged to believe that monsters from the dawn of time dwelt in its depths, since Nannybelieved that a bit of thrilling and pointless terror was an essential ingredient of the magic of childhood.
In summer she used it as a beer cooler.
âItâll have to do. I think perhaps we should join hands,â she said. âAnd you, Magrat, make sure the doorâs shut.â
âWhat are you going to try?â said Granny. Since they were on Nannyâs territory, the choice was entirely up to her.
âI always say you canât go wrong with a good Invocation,â said Nanny. âHavenât done one for years.â
Granny Weatherwax frowned. Magrat said, âOh, but you canât. Not here. You need a cauldron, and a magic sword. And an octogram. And spices, and all sorts of stuff.â
Granny and Nanny exchanged glances.
âItâs not her fault,â said Granny. âItâs all them grimmers she was bought.â She turned to Magrat.
âYou donât need none of that,â she said. âYou need headology.â She looked around the ancient washroom.
âYou just use whatever youâve got,â she said.
She picked up the bleached copper stick, and weighed it thoughtfully in her hand.
â
We conjure and abjure thee by means of this
ââ Granny hardly paused â âsharp and terrible copper stick.â
The waters in the boiler rippled gently.
â
See how we scatter
ââ Magrat sighed â ârather old washing soda and some extremely hard soap flakes in thy honour. Really, Nanny, I donât thinkââ
âSilence! Now you, Gytha.â
â
And I invoke and bind thee
with the baldingscrubbing brush of Art and the washboard of Protection,â said Nanny, waving it. The wringer attachment fell off.
âHonesty is all very well,â whispered Magrat, wretchedly, âbut somehow it isnât the same.â
âYou listen to me, my girl,â said Granny. âDemons donât care about the outward shape of things. Itâs what
you
think that matters. Get on with it.â
Magrat tried to imagine that the bleached and ancient bar of lye soap was the rarest of scented whatever, ungulants or whatever they were, from distant Klatch. It was an effort. The gods alone knew what kind of demon would respond to a summoning like this.
Granny was also a little uneasy. She didnât much care for demons in any case, and all this business with incantations and implements whiffed of wizardry. It was pandering to the things, making them feel important. Demons ought to come when they were called.
But protocol dictated that the host witch had the choice, and Nanny quite liked demons, who were male, or apparently so.
At this point Granny was alternately cajoling and threatening the nether world with two feet of bleached wood. She was impressed at her own daring.
The waters seethed a little, became very still and then, with a sudden movement and a little popping noise, mounded up into a head. Magrat dropped her soap.
It was a good-looking head, maybe a little cruel around the eyes and beaky about the nose, but nevertheless handsome in a hard kind of way. There was nothing surprising about this; since the demon wasonly extending an image of itself into this reality, it might as well make a good job of it. It turned slowly, a gleaming black statue in the fitful moonlight.
â
Well?
â it said.
âWhoâre you?â said Granny,
Kate Serine
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Sherrilyn Kenyon
MJ Carnal
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James Morton
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Susan Wittig Albert