Whisper, whisper.

The voice from the darkness said: 'Now, your voice projection–'

'Oh, I can do that,' snapped Agnes. She was getting rather fed up. 'Where would you like it projected?'

'I'm sorry? We're talking about–'

Agnes ground her teeth. She was good. And she'd show them...

'To here?'

'Or there?'

'Or here?'

It wasn't that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the travelling showmen did, but you couldn't pitch it far away and still manage to fool a whole audience.

Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out people turning around in their seats, bewildered.

'What's your name again, dear?' The voice, which had at one point shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten‑up sound.

'Ag‑ Per... Perdita,' said Agnes. 'Perdita Nitt. Perdita X... Nitt.'

'We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear.'

Granny Weatherwax's door opened by itself.

Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she were a witch. Peopled told him this sort of thing happened.

He didn't like it. But he didn't like his back, either, especially when his back didn't like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you.

He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks.

The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door.

Jarge hesitated.

'Come on in, Jarge Weaver,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'and let me give you something for that back of yours.'

The shock made him try to stand upright, and this made something white‑hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt.

Granny Weatherwax rolled her eyes, and sighed. 'Can you sit down?' she said.