She did her best with the dress and dragged a vengeful brush through her hair.

Then she went up to the castle.

Guard duty at Lancre castle was the province of anyone who didn't have much of anything else to do at the moment. On duty today was Nanny Ogg's youngest son Shawn, in ill-fitting chain-mail. He brought himself to what he probably thought was attention as Magrat pattered past, and then dropped his pike and hurried after her.

"Can you slow down a bit, please, miss?"

He overtook her, ran up the steps to the door, picked up a trumpet that was hanging from a nail by a bit of string, and blew an amateurish fanfare. Then he looked panicky again.

"Wait right there, miss, right there . ., count to five, and then knock," he said, and darted through the door, slamming it behind him.

Magrat waited, and then tried the knocker.

After a few seconds Shawn opened the door. He was red in the face and had a powdered wig on back to front.

"Yeeeuss?" he drawled, and tried to look like a butler.

"You've still got your helmet on under the wig," said Magrat helpfully.

Shawn deflated. His eyes swivelled upward.

"Everyone at the haymaking?" said Magrat.

Shawn raised his wig, removed the helmet, and put the wig back. Then he distractedly put the helmet back on top of the wig.

"Yes, and Mr. Spriggins the butler is in bed with his trouble again," said Shawn. "There's only me, miss. And I've got to get the dinner started before I'm off 'ome because Mrs. Scorbic is poorly."

"You don't have to show me in," said Magrat. "I do know the way."

"No, it's got to be done proper," said Shawn. "You just keep movin' slow and leave it to me."