"Hah! No-one grants a fairy godmother's wishes." Desiderata had that inward look again, her voice talking to herself. "See? I got to get the three of them to Genua. Got to get ‘em there because I've seen ‘em there. Got to be all three. And that ain't easy, with people like them. Got to use headology. Got to make ‘em send ‘emselves. Tell Esme Weatherwax she's got to go somewhere and she won't go out of contrariness, so tell her she's not to go and she'll run there over broken glass. That's the thing about the Weatherwaxes, see. They don't know how to be beaten."

Something seemed to strike her as funny.

"But one of ‘em's going to have to learn."

Death said nothing. From where he sat, Desiderata reflected, losing was something that everyone learned.

She drained her tea. Then she stood up, put on her pointy hat with a certain amount of ceremony, and hobbled out of the back door.

There was a deep trench dug under the trees a little way from the house, down into which someone had thoughtfully put a short ladder. She climbed in and, with some difficulty, heaved the ladder on to the leaves. Then she lay down. She sat up.

"Mr Chert the troll down at the sawmill does a very good deal on coffins, if you don't mind pine."

I SHALL DEFINITELY BEAR IT IN MIND.

"I got Hurker the poacher to dig the hole out for me," she said conversationally, "and he's goin' to come along and fill it in on his way home. I believe in being neat. Take it away, maestro."

WHAT? OH. A FIGURE OF SPEECH.

He raised his scythe.

Desiderata Hollow went to her rest.

"Well," she said, "that was easy. What happens now?"

And this is Genua. The magical kingdom. The diamond city. The fortunate country.

In the centre of the city a woman stood between two mirrors, watching herself reflected all the way to infinity.