She knew as soon as she said it that it was stupid, but anger drove her on.

Granny Weatherwax's eyes narrowed.

"Hmm," she said. "We will, will we?"

"Yes, and if you don't," said Magrat, "you can get thrown in prison."

"My word," said Granny. "Deary deary me. I wouldn't like that. I wouldn't like that at all."

All three of them knew that the castle dungeons, which in any case had never been its most notable feature, were now totally unused. Verence II was the most amiable monarch in the history of Lancre. His subjects regarded him with the sort of good-natured contempt that is the fate of all those who work quietly and conscientiously for the public good. Besides, Verence would rather cut his own leg off than put a witch in prison, since it'd save trouble in the long run and probably be less painful.

"Queen Magrat, eh?" said Nanny Ogg, trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit. "Cor. Well, the old castle could do with a bit of lightening up-"

"Oh, it'll lighten up all right," said Granny.

"Well, anyway, I don't have to bother with this sort of thing," said Magrat. "Whatever it is. It's your business. I just shan't have time, I'm sure."

"I'm sure you can please yourself, your going-to-be-majesty," said Granny Weatherwax.

"Hah!" said Magrat. "I can! You can jol – you can damn well find another witch for Lancre! All right? Another soppy girl to do all the dreary work and never be told anything and be talked over the head of the whole time. I've got better things to do!"

"Better things than being a witch?" said Granny

Magrat walked into it. "Yes!"

"Oh, dear," murmured Nanny

"Oh. Well, then I expect you'll be wanting to be off," said Granny, her voice like knives. "Back to your palace, I'll be bound."

"Yes!"

Magrat picked up her broomstick.

Granny's arm shot out very fast and grabbed the handle.