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 Nanny Ogg, whose attitude to songs was purely ballistic. You just pointed your voice at the end of the verse and went for it.

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. Nanny Ogg says not everyone can do that.'

'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.