"And my brother and Mr. Vittoller's Men can't come because they're touring Klatch, apparently, but Hwel the playsmith has written a special play for the wedding entertainment. Something even rustics can't muck up, he says," said Verence.

"So that's all settled then?" said Verence.

Finally, Magrat's voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.

"Aren't you supposed to ask me?" she demanded.

"What? Urn. No, actually," said Verence. "No. Kings don't ask. I looked it up. I'm the king, you see, and you are, no offence meant, a subject. I don't have to ask."

Magrat's mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.

Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away. And he'll probably come after you.

Very probably.

Urn.

Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice little man with gentle runny eyes but he's also a king and he's been looking things up. But very probably quite probably

But. . .

Do you want to bet the rest of your life? Isn't this what you wanted anyway? Isn't it what you came here hoping for? Really?

Verence was looking at her with some concern.

"Is it the witching?" he said. "You don't have to give that up entirely, of course. I've got a great respect for witches. And you can be a witch queen, although I think that means you have to wear rather revealing clothes and keep cats and give people poisoned apples. I read that somewhere. The witching's a problem, is it?"

"No," Magrat mumbled, "it's not that. . . um . . . did you mention a crown?"

"You've got to have a crown," said Verence. "Queens do. I looked it up."

Her brain cut in again. Queen Magrat, it suggested. It held up the mirror of the imagination . . .

"You're not upset, are you?" said Verence.

"What? Oh. No. Me? No."