She slapped his face, hurting her fingers on the mail.

"You're gabbling, Shawn!"

"They're out there, miss! I heard the drawbridge go down! They're out there and we're in here and they don't kill you, they keep you alive-"

"Stand to attention, soldier!"

It was all she could think of. It seemed to work. Shawn pulled himself together.

"Look," said Magrat, "everyone knows there really aren't any elves any mo . . . " Her voice faded. Her eyes narrowed. "Everyone but Magrat Garlick knows different, yes?"

Shawn shook. Magrat grabbed his shoulders.

"Me mum and Mistress Weatherwax said you wasn't to know!" Shawn wailed. "They said it was witch business!"

"And where are they now, when they've got some witch business to mind?" said Magrat. "I don't see them, do you? Are they behind the door? No! Are they under the bed? How strange, they're not . . . there's just me, Shawn Ogg. And if you don't tell me everything you know right now I'll make you regret the day I was born."

Shawn's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he considered this. Then he shook himself free of Magrat's grasp and listened at the door.

The singing had stopped. For a moment Magrat thought she heard footsteps outside the door, hurrying away.

"Well, Miss Queen, our mum and Mistress Weatherwax was up at the Dancers-"

Magrat listened.

Finally she said, "And where's everyone now?"

"Dunno, miss. All gone to the Entertainment . . . but they ought to've been back by now."

"Where's the Entertainment?"

"Dunno, miss. Miss?"

"Yes?"

"Why've you got your wedding dress on?"

"Never you mind."

"It's unlucky for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding," said Shawn, taking refuge in run-of-the-mill idiocies to relieve his terror.

"It will be for him if I see him first," snarled Magrat.

"Miss?"

"Yes?"

"I'm feared about what's happened to everyone. Our Jason said they'd be back in an hour or so, and that was hours ago."

"But there's almost a hundred guests and everyone from the town, practically. Elves couldn't do anything to them."

"They wouldn't have to, miss." Shawn went to the unglazed window. "Look, miss. I can drop down on to the granary in the stable yard from here. It's thatch, I'll be all right. Then I can sneak around the kitchens and out by the little gate by the hubward tower with military precision."

"What for?"

"To get help, miss."

"But you don't know if there's any help to get."

"Can you think of anything else, miss?"

She couldn't.

"It's very . . . brave of you, Shawn," said Magrat.

"You stay here and you'll be right as rain," said Shawn. "Tell you what. . . How about if I lock the door and take the key with me? Then even if they sing at you they can't get you to open the door."

Magrat nodded.

Shawn tried to smile. "Wish we had another suit of mail," he said. "But it's all in the armoury."

"I'll be fine," said Magrat. "Off you go, then."

Shawn nodded. He waited for a moment on the window ledge, and then dropped into the darkness.

Magrat pushed the bed against the door and sat on it.

It occurred to her that she should have gone as well. But that would mean leaving the castle empty, and that didn't feel right.

Besides, she was scared.

There was one candle in the room, and that was half burned down. When it was gone, there'd be nothing but the moonlight. Magrat had always liked moonlight. Up to now.

It was quiet outside. There should be the noises of the town.

It crept over her that letting Shawn go away with a key to the door was not a wholly sensible thing, because if they caught him they could open–

There was a scream, which went on for a long time.

And then the night rolled back in again.

After a few minutes there was a scrabbling at the lock, such as might be made by someone trying to manipulate a key held in several thicknesses of cloth, so as not to come into contact with the iron.

The door began to open, and wedged up against the bed.

"Will you not step outside, lady?"

The door creaked again.

"Will you not come dance with us, pretty lady?"

The voice had strange harmonics and an echo that buzzed around the inside of the head for several seconds after the last word had been spoken.

The door burst open.

Three figures slid into the room. One looked up the bed, and the others poked into dark comers. Then one of them crossed to the window and looked out.

The crumbling wall stretched down to the thatched roof entirely unoccupied.

The figure nodded to two more shapes in the courtyard, its blond hair glowing in the moonlight.

One of them pointed up, to where a figure, its long white dress billowing in the breeze, was climbing up the wall of the keep.

The elf laughed. This was going to be more enjoyable than it'd suspected.

Magrat pulled herself over the windowsill and collapsed, panting, on the floor. Then she staggered across to the door, which was missing its key. But there were two heavy wooden bars, which she slotted into place.

There was a wooden shutter for the window.

They'd never let her get away with it again. She'd been expecting an arrow but . . . no, something as simple as that wouldn't have been enough fun.

She glared at the darkness. So . . . there was this room. She didn't even know which one it was. She found a candlestick and a bundle of matches and, after some scrabbling, got it lit.

There were some boxes and cases piled by the bed. So . . . a guest room.

The thoughts trickled through the silence of her brain, one after another.

She wondered if they'd sing to her, and if she could stand it again. Maybe if you knew what to expect. . .

There was a gentle tap at the door.

"We have your friends downstairs, lady. Come dance with me."

Magrat stared desperately around the room.

It was as featureless as guest bedrooms everywhere. Jug and basin on a stand, the horrible garderobe alcove inadequately concealed behind a curtain, the bed which had a few bags and bundles tossed on it, a battered chair with all the varnish gone and a small square of carpet made grey with age and ground-in dust.

The door rattled. "Let me in, sweet lady."

The window was no escape this time. There was the bed to hide under, and that'd work for all of two seconds, wouldn't it?

Her eye was drawn by some kind of horrible magic back to the room's garderobe, lurking behind its curtain.

Magrat lifted the lid. The shaft was definitely wide enough to admit a body. Garderobes were notorious in that respect. Several unpopular kings had met their end, as it were, in the garderobe, at the hands of an assassin with good climbing ability, a spear, and a fundamental approach to politics.

Something hit the door hard.

"Lady, shall I sing to you?"

Magrat reached a decision.

It was the hinges that gave way eventually, the rusty bolts finally losing their grip on the stone.

The alcove's half-drawn curtain moved in the breeze.

The elf smiled, strode to the curtain, and pulled it aside.

The oak lid was up.

The elf looked down.

Magrat rose up behind it like a white ghost and hit it hard across the back of the neck with the chair, which shattered.

The elf tried to turn and keep its balance, but there was still enough chair left in Magrat's hands for her to catch it on the desperate upswing. It toppled backward, flailed at the lid, and only succeeded in pulling it shut behind it. Magrat ' heard a thump and a scream of rage as it dropped into the noisome darkness. It'd be too much to hope that the fall would kill it. After all, it'd land in something soft.