She'd never dared tell anyone that she'd like her full name to be Perdita X Dream. They just wouldn't understand. They'd say things like: if you think that's the right name for you, why have you still got two shelves full of soft toys?

Well, here she could start afresh. She was good. She knew she was good.

Probably no hope for the Dream, though.

She was probably stuck with the Nitt.

Nanny Ogg usually went to bed early. After all, she was an old lady. Sometimes she went to bed as early as 6 a. m.

Her breath puffed in the air as she walked through the woods. Her boots crunched on the leaves. The wind had died away, leaving the sky wide and clear and open for the first frost of the season, a petal­nipping, fruit‑withering little scorcher that showed you why they called Nature a mother...

A third witch.

Three witches could sort of... spread the load.

Maiden, mother and... crone. There.

The trouble was that Granny Weatherwax com­bined all three in one. She was a maiden, as far as Nanny knew, and she was at least in the right age-­bracket for a crone; and, as for the third, well... cross Granny Weatherwax on a bad day and you'd be like a blossom in the frost.

There was bound to be a candidate for the vacancy, though. There were several young girls in Lancre who were just about the right age.

Trouble was, the young men of Lancre knew it too. Nanny wandered the summer hayfields regu­larly, and had a sharp if compassionate eye and damn' good over‑the‑horizon hearing. Violet Frottidge was walking out with young Deviousness Carter, or at least doing something within ninety degrees of walking out. Bonnie Quarney had been gathering nuts in May with William Simple, and it was only because she'd thought ahead and taken a little advice from Nanny that she wouldn't be bearing fruit in February.