In response to the prompt: [this will be added by the staff apparently, sorry!]
By: [to be added by staff, my bad]
Prologue: Not Long For This World: Hannah Long
Dawn arrives on the Discworld with all the subtlety of a particularly lazy houseguest who insists on pouring themselves an extra cup of tea before getting started. As the small star rises, its amber light spills over the vast, improbable surface of the Disc, illuminating each crack, cranny, and crevice. The Disc itself, supported on the backs of four impossibly large elephants who, in turn, stand on the great shell of Great A'Tuin, drifts serenely through the universe with the kind of purpose only an enormous celestial turtle can muster. No one has asked Great A'Tuin about this purpose, of course, but if they did, it would likely have blinked slowly and muttered something profound in turtle, which translates roughly as,
"Keep moving forward."
Far below, the light pools into the ancient, sprawling, utterly unreasonable city of Ankh-Morpork, known to its inhabitants as the most alive place on the Disc, though not necessarily in the way that was meant to be flattering. The sun's rays weave their way through the stubborn haze of coal smoke, chimney soot, and what the alchemists diplomatically refer to as "urban miasma," casting long fingers into the crooked streets and alleys.
The Merchant's Guild once described Ankh-Morpork as the "City of a Thousand Surprises," a title widely regarded as optimistic. After all, most of those surprises were unpleasant, ranging from sudden potholes in cobblestones to unexpected interactions with pickpockets or, on a particularly unlucky day, the Watch. "Ankh-Morpork," the Guild's promotional pamphlet enthused, "where every street is a tapestry of life"—which, while technically true, often meant dodging what life left behind after a heavy meal.
In the district of Elm Street, nestled among leaning houses that seemed to defy gravity—or perhaps conspired with it to keep upright—stood Mrs. Cake's boarding house. Mrs. Cake, as anyone would tell you, was a force of nature in a city where nature had long since thrown in the towel. She rented rooms to individuals best described as "peculiar" by polite society and "weird" by those who were less charitable. Zombies, werewolves, and the occasional Igor called it home, though none quite as noteworthy as an eight-year-old girl named Hannah Long.
Hannah Long lies awake as dawn finally filters into her little room, though she's not sure if it's morning that's woken her or the cold spot on her chest where a small, three-legged cat used to curl up. Threepaws has not come back, and Hannah knows what that means. Mrs. Cake had gently told her as much with a tactful absence of words the evening before. At eight years old, Hannah is not foolish, and besides, she has had more reason to understand the limits of life than most adults ever will.
The room itself is modest, furnished with just enough to keep a child's world in orbit: a creaky bed, a small wooden wardrobe, and a desk cluttered with pencils and drawings. But this morning, the drawings seem duller, their lines less playful. Hannah swings her legs out of bed, her small frame leaning heavily on her crutches. The disease has made her limbs frail, but her spirit, or so Mrs. Cake says, is stronger than iron. This morning, though, even iron feels brittle.
The stairs creak under her careful steps as she makes her way down to breakfast. She pauses halfway to catch her breath, not because she wants to but because she has to. At the bottom, the boarding house is already alive with the sounds of its peculiar residents. Red Shoe, the zombie, waves cheerfully as he sips his morning coffee—an act that still unnerves visitors unaccustomed to watching liquid disappear through gaps in anatomy. Mrs. Cake bustles about, pouring tea and engaging in lively conversations with what everyone assumes must be the voices in her head.
"Good morning, Miss Cake," Hannah says brightly, because that's what she always says. But today, the cheer is practiced, not genuine. Her words float like a thin layer of mist over the real weight in her chest. Mrs. Cake, who can see everything—and, rather inconveniently for others, much that hasn't happened yet—doesn't press. Instead, she hands Hannah a small parcel wrapped in wax paper.
"Your lunch, dear. Don't let those boys bother you too much today," she says with a knowing nod.
Hannah nods in return and steps out into the streets, crutches clicking against the uneven cobbles. The city's bustle has begun in earnest. Vendors shout over one another, urging potential customers to examine their suspiciously fresh fish or questionably enchanted jewelry. Smoke rises from the bakeries, mixing with the ever-present stench of the River Ankh, which one hopeful guidebook described as having "a character all its own."
As Hannah walks, a small pack of boys from her school appears. They're loud and boisterous, full of the unearned confidence that only youth and a lack of self-awareness can provide.
"Ain't Got Long Hannah Long!" one of them jeers, and the others laugh.
Usually, Hannah would smile and say something kind, something that would deflate their teasing. But not today. Today, she lowers her head and keeps walking, their laughter ringing behind her. It's not worth it. Not today.
By the time she reaches school, her arms ache from the strain of the crutches, but she doesn't let it show. The classroom is warm, and the chatter of children fills the air. The teacher claps her hands for attention and announces, "Now, children, Hogswatch is just around the corner, and you know what that means. It's time to write your letters to the Hogfather."
A ripple of excitement moves through the room, but Hannah's mind is elsewhere. As the other children chatter about toys and sweets, she picks up her pencil. She knows exactly what she's going to write. She doesn't want dolls or cakes or even new crutches. She wants Threepaws back. Because if the Hogfather can grant any wish, surely he can bring back a small, three-legged cat.
Her pencil hovers over the paper, and for the first time in her young life, Hannah feels the fragile flicker of hope. It's small, but it's there. She begins to write.
Dear Hogfather,
My name is Hannah Long. I am eight years old, and I live in Ankh-Morpork with Mrs. Cake and her very nice friends. I don't know if you've ever been to Ankh-Morpork, but it's a very busy place. It smells funny most of the time, and the streets are never really clean, but there's always something happening, and I think you'd like it if you came here. Maybe not the River Ankh, though. No one likes the River Ankh.
I've been told I have something called Morbus Insidiosus. The doctors said it's very rare, but I don't think it's rare enough because I still got it. Mrs. Cake says it's a "wasting disease," which I think is an accurate name because it wastes all my muscles, and I don't think that's very fair. The doctors told me I might live to twelve, maybe fifteen, but I'm halfway to sixteen now, so I suppose I'm middle-aged. Even so, I've lived a happy, content life and I think I'm very lucky that way.
Anyway, I'm writing to you because I've heard you can make wishes come true, and I've got a very important one. You see, I had a cat named Threepaws. He wasn't just any cat. I found him when I was very little, even littler than I am now, and he was hurt so badly that he was missing one of his legs. He was very tiny and very scared, but I gave him milk and kept him warm, and he got better. Well, mostly. He's always been missing that leg, but it never seemed to bother him. We've been best friends ever since.
Threepaws died last week. Mrs. Cake says it was his time, but I don't think that's fair either. He's always been there for me, even when I felt so tired I couldn't get out of bed. He'd curl up next to me and purr, and it made everything feel just a little bit better. Now he's gone, and I feel like I'm all alone, even though I know I'm not really. It just feels that way.
I don't want anything for Hogswatch. I don't need sweets or dolls or even new crutches. I just want Threepaws back. I know it's asking a lot, but if anyone can do it, I think it's you. If you could bring him back, even just for as long as I've got left, it would mean everything to me. I don't have a lot of time, but I think I'd be okay with that if I had him with me.
Thank you for listening, even if you can't do it. I hope you have a very nice Hogswatch.
Yours truly, Hannah Long
The scene pulls back just now, as if the universe itself were stepping back to admire the improbable Rube Goldberg machine of events it had just set into motion.
Hannah's letter, written with the careful hope only a child could muster, did indeed make it to the post office. This, in itself, was something of a miracle. The Ankh-Morpork post office had a reputation so dire that even the most optimistic citizens used the phrase "posting it" as a synonym for "giving up hope entirely."
Yet, despite the towering stacks of undelivered mail, the ill-tempered pigeons, and a sorting system that could best be described as "creative," the letter was actually processed and sent out for delivery. This was either a stroke of sheer luck or perhaps the meddling of one of the gods. The God of Chance might have nudged the letter on its way, though it's worth noting that he usually bets against himself for the thrill of it. Fate, on the other hand, doesn't meddle. He arranges, and while he might have intervened, it's hard to imagine him stooping to something as mundane as postal logistics. More likely, he placed the odds on "impossible" and let the universe sort itself out.
What made the delivery of this letter truly remarkable, however, was where it ended up. The envelope, addressed with the shaky but determined hand of a child, somehow bypassed every logical destination, skipped all the appropriate channels, and arrived at a cottage that did not appear on any map. A cottage with no address, no mailbox, and no discernible reason to receive mail at all. In fact, it had never received mail before.
That it should land in the hands of Esmerelda Weatherwax—Granny Weatherwax to most, Mistress Weatherwax to the very brave—was either fate, chance, or the universe deciding it owed someone a laugh. Though, as Granny would undoubtedly put it later, it was clearly "meant to be." And Granny Weatherwax was not someone you argued with. Not if you wanted to remain on speaking terms with your own common sense.
- Morbus Insidiosus is one of those diseases that medical professionals would much rather give a name to than actually cure. The name itself is derived from morbus, meaning "disease," and insidiosus, meaning "sneaky git." It is a condition known for creeping up on its victims with all the subtlety of a pickpocket in a crowded street and sticking around like an unwanted houseguest who's just discovered the biscuit tin.
Symptoms of Morbus Insidiosus include general weakness, fatigue, and a tendency for doctors to sigh deeply and shake their heads a lot while muttering phrases like, "Best make the most of things." It's considered one of the rarer afflictions, mostly because most people who get it don't have the strength to go around advertising. The disease is entirely incurable, though plenty of quacks have tried, including one notable physician who prescribed a diet of only boiled cabbage and long walks. He lived to regret the decision when his patient beat him over the head with a crutch.
While many diseases come with a sense of urgency, Morbus Insidiosus prefers to take its time, much like a cat deciding whether it really wants to sit in your lap or just claw your arm for the fun of it. This slow inevitability has made it infamous among scholars of the Unseen University, who use it as a metaphor for the passing of time, entropy, and the inevitable realization that you've left the kettle on again.
It is also worth noting that Morbus Insidiosus doesn't discriminate—it's an equal-opportunity ruiner of lives. But, as many dying from it have desperately said, "That don't mean it's going to have the last word." It always has.
Chapter 1: A Most Unlikely Delivery
Granny Weatherwax's cottage perches in the Ramtops like a spider at the center of its web. Not a web of silk, mind, but one of sheer authority over everything that skitters, crawls, or foolishly crosses its path. The air here is sharp and clean, the kind of air that might slap you in the face and tell you to stop being daft. The forest around the cottage hums with its own business: the low buzz of Granny's beehives, the whisper of leaves in the wind, and the occasional snap of a twig under something four-legged that wisely keeps its distance.
Granny herself is not a woman given to idleness. There's always something that needs doing, whether it's brewing up a tincture, clipping herbs, or glaring at the weather until it stops misbehaving. But this morning, her routine is interrupted by an event so peculiar that it immediately sets her teeth on edge: the post has arrived.
The post does not arrive at Granny Weatherwax's cottage. It never has, for the very good reason that nobody dares to send her anything. Letters are for ordinary people, and Esmerelda Weatherwax is no ordinary person. And yet here it is, a single envelope, sitting squarely on her kitchen table where the crow that delivered it now sits preening, clearly pleased with itself and not only for having survived the journey.
- In most parts of the Discworld, mail delivery relies on the ingenuity and determination of birds. The very poor might employ pigeons, who flap their way through the skies with the enthusiasm of a creature that doesn't realize it's carrying anything important. The slightly better off might spring for crows, which have the added benefit of glaring menacingly at anyone who dares approach their intended recipient. For the truly discerning (and those who live in areas where the difference between a crow and a raven is a matter of a pinion not opinion), ravens are the bird of choice. They possess an air of gothic professionalism and, if asked nicely, might even recite a bit of poetry to go along with your bills.
Mail in the Ramtops, however, faces a unique challenge: the eagle. To your average Ramtops eagle, a letter tied to a bird is less a form of communication and more a convenient delivery service for dinner. It's the culinary equivalent of a Happy Meal—complete with a toy attached to the drumstick.
This tendency for eagles to intercept post has made mail delivery in the region something of a gamble. The local postmasters have learned to take a philosophical approach, marking undelivered letters as "eaten in transit" and issuing warnings that "contents may have been pre-digested." Recipients, in turn, have learned to temper their expectations and count themselves lucky if even half a postcard survives the journey.
Of course, it's said that one enterprising wizard once tried to enchant an eagle-proof letter by disguising it as a rock. The spell worked perfectly, though the recipient was unable to read the letter having been hit in the head with the enchanted stony correspondence at terminal velocity.
Granny picks it up and turns it over, her expression narrowing to a frown sharp enough to cut glass. The handwriting on the front is shaky but determined, the sort of handwriting that says,
I mean business, but I'm still learning my letters. And then there's the postmark: Ankh-Morpork.
Granny sniffs. She's seen the name in her atlas—an ancient tome so outdated that its maps depict parts of the Disc as "
Here Be Dragons," and not in the metaphorical sense. Ankh-Morpork. A city beyond the mountains, possibly just over the next hill. She's never had much cause to think about it before. Cities are full of people, and Granny has never seen the appeal of a place where folk insist on living elbow to elbow when there's plenty of perfectly good space elsewhere.
Still, a letter is a letter, and Granny Weatherwax doesn't believe in coincidence. Carefully, and with the air of someone expecting the envelope to explode, she slides a nail under the flap and unfolds the contents.
Dear Hogfather, it begins.
Granny reads the letter once, frowning. She reads it a second time, the frown deepening. By the third read, the frown is so pronounced it's threatening to become permanent.
The letter is from a child. A little girl named Hannah Long. It explains, in that unflinchingly earnest way children have, about a cat called Threepaws, a life shortened by something called "a wasting disease," and a request—a wish, really—for one small, impossible thing: to bring the cat back to life.
Granny puts the letter down and leans back in her chair. Outside, the bees continue their steady hum, oblivious to the sudden weight of the room. Wishes, Granny thinks, are tricky things. They're not magic, not exactly, but they have power. The sort of power that falls under a witch's purview, whether she likes it or not.
She picks the letter up again and studies the wobbly handwriting. "Hogfather," indeed. It's absurd. But even as she scoffs, there's a tightness in her chest that she refuses to call sympathy. What kind of witch would she be if she ignored a letter like this? After all, headology is about understanding what people need, and if this child thinks she needs her cat back, then someone ought to see to it.
"Well, Esme," she mutters to herself, "looks like it's up to you. As usual."
And with that, Granny Weatherwax begins to plan. Because wishes might not be magic, but granting them—properly, mind you—is the closest thing to it.
Chapter 2: A Practical Witch's Approach
Dusk settles over the Ramtops, and Granny Weatherwax's cottage glows faintly in the candlelight. Inside, the air is thick with the tang of herbs and the comforting hum of bees that linger in the hives outside. Granny sits at her kitchen table, the letter from Hannah Long lying flat before her. Her expression is sharp, her gaze fixed on a point just beyond the flickering flame of the candle, as though daring the universe to present her with a problem she can't solve.
The problem, she has decided, isn't the cat itself. It's the legs. Specifically, the absence of one.
Black cats, as every self-respecting witch knows, are plentiful. They arrive unbidden, sometimes in threes, as if the universe has some sort of cosmic surplus. But a three-legged black cat? That's as rare as hens' teeth. She crosses her arms, and considers the practical options.
Granny leans back, chair creaking under her weight, and eyes her atlas which rests beneath the wobbly table leg. She's considered the obvious solution: simply replacing the cat. Hannah is a child, after all. Children are known for many things—sticky fingers, being underfoot, and, most crucially, being easily fooled. Surely, a new black cat would do just as well, especially if Granny had a long and stern word with it about its responsibilities.
But even as the thought settles, Granny frowns. It's not the right sort of thinking. It might be enough for someone else, but Granny Weatherwax isn't someone else. She's a witch. And being a witch means doing things properly, not avoiding the harder truths of life. Anything less would sit wrong, and Granny doesn't like being uncomfortable with herself.
She taps the table thoughtfully. Perhaps she could mail a request to the head witching office. Witches and black cats go together like pointy hats and warts. Surely someone, somewhere, must have one going spare, even one with three legs. But even as the idea forms, it dissolves. Hogswatch Eve is only four weeks away, and letters—especially those sent near eagles—have a way of disappearing into the mountains, only to be found months later by an inquisitive goat.
The most direct method, Granny decides, is to make one. A perfectly good black cat could easily become a three-legged black cat with the application of a sharp knife and some determination.
The thought lingers in the air for precisely one second before Granny grimaces and shakes her head. "Stupid idea," she mutters. She may not suffer fools gladly, but she won't harm an innocent creature. There's a line, and that's it. Besides, the bloody child didn't mention which leg said black cat was missing.
The candlelight flickers as her gaze drops to the letter. Hannah's words linger in her mind, particularly the ones about how much time she has left. Life and death, time and the lack of it—they're problems witches deal with regularly. But what about after? What about the souls that have already slipped through the cracks?
Rumor has it Death is fond of cats.
She's heard stories. Whispers of feline souls treated with unusual care, of hourglasses turned just a little slower for creatures with whiskers and claws. If anyone could return Threepaws, it would be Death. The only trouble is that Death doesn't make house calls. At least, not for people who are still upright and breathing and Granny has no intention of dying just to have a chat.
Granny taps her nails against the wood of the table, the sound sharp in the stillness. She'd need to meet Death in person. The only way to do that, of course, would be to die. Temporarily, of course. Permanently would be inconvenient. But that's a tricky business and is quickly filed under,
plans of last resort.
That's when the idea strikes her, as sharp and certain as one of her bees' stingers.
She knows about the Assassin's Guild in Ankh-Morpork. Everyone does, even if they've never set foot within a hundred miles of the city. It's where people die regularly, and presumably, on schedule. If she could get close enough to an assassination—to what the guild calls an "inhumation"—she might just manage to be there when Death arrives to collect the soul.
Granny leans back in her chair, a rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It's a bold plan, certainly. And she likes bold plans, provided they're her own.
"Well," she says to the empty room, "if I'm going to meet Death, I'll do it properly. None of this mucking about with summoning nonsense. Wizards do that. And we all know how that ends."
Her gaze shifts to the atlas propping up the wobbly table leg. Ankh-Morpork. It's just beyond the mountains, isn't it? Possibly a bit further, but she's confident she'll manage. She might even walk, if the mood strikes her. After all, how far could it possibly be?
Standing, she straightens her hat and begins gathering the things she'll need for the journey. It's time to set things in motion, and once Granny Weatherwax decides to do something, the world generally finds it simpler to step aside and let her get on with it.
Her bees hum softly in their hives as the candle burns low, and the forest around the cottage seems to lean in, waiting to see how it will all unfold. Granny takes a deep breath, picks up the letter, and tucks it into her pocket.
"Let's see what this Assassin's Guild is all about, then," she mutters. And with that, she begins to plan her trip to Ankh-Morpork, where Death, one way or another, is bound to make an appearance.
- It should be noted at this point that the Assassin's Guild was responsible for less than 1% of all deaths in Ank Morpork with nearly the entire 99% being death by suicide. Assassination was in fact a fairly uncommon event in Ankh-Morpork, but there were a lot of suicides. Walking in the night-time alleyways of The Shades was suicide. Asking for a short in a dwarf bar was suicide. Saying 'Got rocks in your head?' to a troll was suicide. You could commit suicide very easily, if you weren't careful.
Chapter 3: The Long Road to Ankh-Morpork
Granny Weatherwax sets out from her cottage at dawn, her boots laced tight and her hat casting a long shadow down the narrow mountain path. The crisp air of the Ramtops bites at her cheeks, but she doesn't mind. Walking, after all, is good for the constitution. She's certain Ankh-Morpork can't be more than a few days away—just a bit further along the river here, perhaps, or past that spot where the snow only falls half the year, can't be much further out than that. Maps, she reasons, are made by men and men tend to exaggerate lengths, most especially very short ones.
The first village she passes through greets her with the cautious enthusiasm reserved for someone wearing a pointy hat. Within moments, she's drawn into assisting with what the villagers describe as "a minor emergency" but which turns out to involve delivering twins in the back room of the tavern. Granny handles it with her usual efficiency, muttering about how people ought to plan their emergencies better. The grateful parents name one of the babies after her, despite Granny's pointed remark that Esmerelda is a dreadful name for a boy.
By the time she's crossed into the next valley, word of her approach has somehow traveled ahead of her. She's stopped by a nervous young man who begs her to help with his wife, who has gone into labor early. By the third village, she doesn't even need to ask what the emergency is. She simply rolls up her sleeves and gets on with it.
- Witches deliver babies because someone has to, and while wizards could theoretically manage it, the baby would likely arrive wearing a hat and demanding tuition fees. On the Disc, witches are the default option for anything that needs doing but isn't important enough to bother the gods—or interesting enough to attract wizards— and the method of payment is dubious at best, often involving chickens, goats, or—more commonly—respectful thanks.
The logic is simple: witches are practical. They know where life begins (usually messily) and where it ends (inevitably), and they're quite good at keeping the former from rushing prematurely into the latter. A good witch can glare a baby into being born and then scowl it into behaving.
Besides, if witches didn't handle births, people might have to figure it out themselves. And nobody wants that. Least of all the baby.
The road winds through forests and fields, where Granny occasionally stops to gather herbs or glare at the weather until it improves. It's on one of these quiet stretches that a group of bandits leaps from the underbrush, waving knives and demanding her valuables. Granny, who has very few valuables and even fewer reasons to tolerate interruptions, glares at them.
The bandits freeze. They look at the hat. They look at each other. Then, in what can only be described as a coordinated display of politeness, they lower their weapons, apologize profusely for the inconvenience, and offer to share their lunch. One of them even insists on giving her directions, complete with landmarks and advice on which streams have the best water.
This happens several more times, leading Granny to conclude that the roads are not, in fact, ridden with bandits but with an unusually high number of kind, rough young men who take their duties as roadside helpers very seriously.
A day's walk turns into a week's trek, then a two week slog, then three…
By the time she reaches the first proper town, she's tired but in good spirits. The town boasts a small inn, a modest marketplace, and, crucially, a map hanging on the wall of the general store. Granny squints at it, tracing her progress with a finger. It's here that she makes a disconcerting discovery: Ankh-Morpork is much, much farther than she thought.
Her finger drags across the map, past rivers and forests and mountains, until it finally lands on the distant smudge marked Ankh-Morpork. A helpful shopkeeper informs her it's a journey of "at least a few hundred miles, missus," and Granny thanks him curtly before stepping outside to consider her options.
The thought of turning back doesn't even cross her mind. The thought of not arriving in time, however, gnaws at her. Hogswatch is only days away now, and if she keeps walking, she'll still be on the road when the first snows fall—and probably, when they melt too.
This is how she finds herself standing in an empty field, broom in hand, glaring at it as though the object itself is to blame.
"Not ladylike," she mutters, echoing the words of her late mother, who had strong opinions about proper behavior and none whatsoever about practicality. "But needs must."
With a reluctant sigh, Granny mounts the broom.
The broom wobbles slightly as it lifts off the ground, creaking in a way that suggests it isn't entirely pleased about being put to work after so long. Granny grips it tightly, muttering a few choice words under her breath that would make even the boldest hedgerow blush.
The ground tilts away beneath her, and the air grows colder as she rises. She adjusts her hat, her face set in an expression that would churn butter at a hundred yards. There's nothing romantic or whimsical about flight—just cold wind, aching joints, and a broomstick that occasionally shudders as if it might suddenly remember how to fall.
Granny scowls at the horizon. Somewhere out there, past far too many meddlesome towns, none of which she remembers being there the last time she came this way, is Ankh-Morpork. It's not going to wait for her, and it certainly won't make things easy. But then again, neither will she.
"Blasted Hogswatch," she growls to herself as the broom sputters forward, "nothing ladylike about it anyway." The words are swallowed by the wind as she disappears into the growing dark, leaving the faint smell of beeswax and determination hanging in the air.
Chapter 4: Ankh-Morpork and the Assassin's Guild
Ankh-Morpork hits Granny Weatherwax like a brick through a window—unexpected, loud, and leaving her with a strong urge to tidy up the mess. The city sprawls around her, a chaotic tangle of crooked streets and lurching buildings that lean into each other conspiratorially. The air smells of soot, baking bread, roasting chestnuts, and, unmistakably, the River Ankh, which lies somewhere nearby like a particularly old and sullen relative no one likes to mention and who, in fact, has died and gone to rot—by the smell of it.
Granny steps off the broom in the middle of a square that seems to be shared equally by hawkers, stray dogs, and at least one group of street performers attempting to juggle flaming sausages. She straightens her hat, adjusts her cloak, and sets off with the air of someone who absolutely belongs here despite every shred of evidence to the contrary.
The Assassin's Guild looms at the end of a street that seems to grow quieter and darker the closer one gets. Its gates are tall, black, and foreboding, and they give off the distinct impression that they're watching you back. Granny marches right up to them and raps sharply on the iron with her knuckles.
A moment later, two guards appear, both clad in black uniforms so crisp they might as well have been ironed onto them. Their expressions suggest that they are used to dealing with a certain kind of visitor—namely, the sort that turns around and runs once the gate actually opens.
Granny, of course, is not that sort.
"Good morning," she says briskly, because it is not, and she doesn't intend to waste anyone's time pretending otherwise.
The guards glance at each other. "Do you have an appointment?" one of them asks, his tone dripping with the sort of disdain usually reserved for people holding a map upside-down.
Granny opens her mouth, prepared to deliver one of her usual no-nonsense replies, and then freezes. For the first time in years—possibly decades—she realizes she's completely unprepared. She had walked (flown, grudgingly) halfway across the Disc, delivered a dozen babies, and stared down more bandits than most people saw in a lifetime, but it had not occurred to her to actually plan what she would say to get past the door.
She stands there for a moment, her hand tightening around the hem of her cloak. Time itself seems to pause, almost apologetically, as if it's saying,
Look, I know you're in a tight spot, Esme, so let's just call this one on me.
In the stillness, Granny's sharp eyes take in every detail of the guards: the stiff postures, the bored expressions, and, most importantly, the sheer, overwhelming amount of black they're wearing. This is not practical black, the kind a witch wears for blending into forests or scaring off bandits. No, this is
statement black, the sort of black that says,
I am so rich, I can afford to dress in a color that shows every speck of lint and dust.
One of the guards even has black embroidery on his gloves, a detail so completely unnecessary it nearly distracts Granny from her moment of inspiration. Nearly.
Her lips curl into a thin smile as the plan forms fully in her mind, and Time, sensing its cue, quietly slinks away to resume its usual flow.
"No," Granny replies, her voice sharp enough to slice bread. "But I've got business, which is better." She straightens her cloak with a deliberate tug and fixes the guards with a stare that could stop a galloping horse. "Now, are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to come back with a stronger knock?"
The guards hesitate. Granny's gaze is the sort of thing that can make grown men feel like they've forgotten their homework. Finally, one of them clears his throat and says, "What sort of business?"
Granny tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "The kind that involves knowing a thing or two about black fabrics."
The guards blink. This is not an answer they were expecting.
"You see," Granny continues, stepping forward with the confidence of someone who knows that hesitation is weakness, "you lot pride yourselves on your black, don't you? Very dramatic.
Very professional. But I bet you've never seen a black like
this."
From within her cloak, Granny produces a small scrap of fabric, holding it up with the kind of confidence that implies the object in question is about to win an argument simply by existing. The guards instinctively step back, their professional skepticism faltering as their eyes try, and fail, to make sense of what they're seeing.
At first, it
looks black. But not black in the way of, say, a shadow on a moonless night or the kind of cloak favored by villains who monologue too much. No, this fabric isn't black so much as a
concept of black that other blacks have nightmares about. It's a color—or possibly the idea of a color—that doesn't just absorb light but actively intimidates it into leaving the vicinity entirely.
Light, as a rule, doesn't scare easily. It's been around since the beginning of time and has seen some things, but
this fabric? This fabric made light cross the street, clutch its metaphorical handbag, and decide it wasn't in the mood to travel today. The laws of physics, usually so particular about how things should behave, had taken one look at this fabric and muttered something about having left the kettle on.
"It's…" begins the shorter guard, leaning forward slightly before recoiling like someone who's just realized they've been staring into the business end of an open bear trap. "It's… doing something."
"Yes," Granny says, with the tone of someone who is patiently tolerating a slow-witted relative. "It's not just black, you see. It's
better than black. It's what black wants to be when it grows up. It doesn't reflect light; it doesn't even let light hang around long enough to send a postcard."
The taller guard, whose curiosity seems to be duking it out with his sense of self-preservation, squints at the fabric. "It looks… angry," he ventures.
Granny gives a thin smile. "Oh, it's not angry. It's just
aware. And very good at keeping secrets. Which, I reckon, is something your line of work values highly."
The shorter guard inches closer, his hand twitching as though tempted to touch it but not quite brave—or foolish—enough to try. "Is it… eating the light?"
Granny tucks the fabric back into her cloak with a theatrical flourish that somehow suggests the answer is
yes, and it's still hungry. "It doesn't eat anything it doesn't need to," she says, leaving the precise definition of "need" hanging ominously in the air. "Now, if your boss is worth his salt, he'll want to see this. And if he's not, well, I'll know soon enough."
The guards exchange uneasy glances. The taller one mutters something under his breath about not being paid enough for this sort of thing and disappears through the gate with a speed that suggests he has no intention of lingering. The shorter one stays behind, standing stiffly at attention but very clearly avoiding direct eye contact with Granny. Or, more precisely, with her pocket, where the unnervingly
not-black fabric is presumably still lurking, waiting for its next opportunity to unsettle reality.
Moments later, the gates swing open, and the taller guard reappears. "Follow me," he says stiffly.
Granny strides through, her boots clicking sharply against the cobblestones, and the gates close behind her with a low, ominous clang. She doesn't look back.
The guards lead her through the grand halls of the Assassin's Guild, past dark-paneled walls and floors polished to a mirror shine. It's a place that hums with quiet menace, every detail meticulously designed to remind visitors that this is no ordinary guild. Granny, however, doesn't seem the least bit impressed.
At last, they stop before an ornate door. "Lord Downey will see you now," one of the guards says, opening it with a slight bow.
Granny steps inside, her chin held high and her hand resting lightly on the scrap of fabric in her pocket. Lord Downey, seated behind a desk that looks more expensive than the average Ankh-Morpork townhouse, regards her with a raised eyebrow.
"Well," she says, "let's get on with it. I don't have all day."
Lord Downey blinks. This is not, Granny suspects, how most meetings with the head of the Assassin's Guild begin.
- Most meetings with the Lord of Assassins begin with the realization that you've been poisoned, followed by an intense interest in the symptoms of poisoning, and concluding with the slightly disappointing discovery that you've died before getting to the point of the meeting, or more precisely, that your death was the point of the meeting. It's widely considered a power move. The Lord of Assassins himself is rarely present at these meetings—on the grounds that they're much more efficient without him. After all, there's no point in scheduling follow-ups.
Chapter 5: A Matter of Deadlines
Lord Downey regards Granny Weatherwax with the kind of polite disinterest that suggests she is a particularly persistent fly and he is considering reaching for the swatter. His desk is immaculate, his black-gloved fingers steepled before him, and his smile the sort of thing that could slice cheese.
"I must say, Mistress Weatherwax," he begins, his voice as smooth and deadly as an assassin's blade, "your...
better than black thread is most intriguing to me. I–"
Granny waves this away with an impatient flick of her hand. "Oh, never mind that. It's not the thread you should be worryin' about. I'm here for somethin' much more important."
Lord Downey raises an eyebrow, an expression that could mean anything from mild curiosity to preparing to have you quietly removed. "And what, pray tell, might that be?"
"I need to speak to Death," Granny says bluntly, as though she's just requested a cup of tea.
This, to his credit, gives Lord Downey a pause. Not much of one—just enough for the faintest narrowing of his eyes before his practiced composure returns. "That is... highly irregular."
"So am I," Granny says, leaning forward. "Look, I know how it works. You lot deal in 'inhumations'"—she pronounces the word with the particular kind of disdain reserved for words with too many syllables—"and I know Death comes callin' when you're done. I need to be there when he does. Simple as that."
Lord Downey leans back in his chair, his smile sharpening. "I'm afraid the Guild has very strict policies, Mistress Weatherwax. Allowing an... observer to accompany one of our professionals would be quite unprecedented."
Granny narrows her eyes. "Unprecedented don't mean impossible. It just means no one's been stubborn enough to try before."
He clasps his hands together, the black gloves gleaming faintly in the candlelight. "You must understand, we pride ourselves on discretion. Our clients expect their business to be handled with the utmost confidentiality. Allowing a third party to interfere—"
"Oh, spare me," Granny interrupts, her tone as cutting as a scythe. "You think I care what some rich uppity thinks? I'm not here to meddle with your little murder-for-hire racket. I just need to have a chat with Death before Hogswatch Eve. Surely you can understand the urgency."
Lord Downey sighs theatrically, as though burdened by the weight of explaining something obvious to someone who refuses to understand. "It is, as I said, quite irregular. However..." He pauses, just long enough for Granny to catch the glint of calculation in his eyes. "Hogswatch is upon us in a mere four days, and it is, as you may not be aware, our busiest season."
"Busiest season?" Granny repeats, folding her arms.
"Indeed," Lord Downey says smoothly. "Hogswatch is a time of generosity and familial goodwill, which, for many, is simply unbearable. The social pressures alone—finding the perfect gift, avoiding missteps that might accidentally offend a relative, navigating the complex web of propriety—all of it can be... trying."
Granny raises an eyebrow. "And you lot step in to... simplify things?"
"Precisely," Lord Downey says with a faint smile. "We trim the family tree as it were. Why endure the ulcer-inducing ordeal of Hogswatch shopping when one can simply arrange for the offending relative to be, shall we say, removed from the equation? It is efficient, economical, and far less stressful for everyone involved. Business, as they say, is booming."
Granny snorts. "So you're telling me half the city's paying you to off their relatives 'cause they're too lazy to go gift shopping?"
"Not lazy," Downey corrects, his tone almost offended. "Practical."
Granny gives him a long, appraising look. "Fine. If you won't let me tag along on one of your... what do you call 'em, inhumations? Then at least point me in the right direction."
Lord Downey taps his gloved fingers together thoughtfully. "There is, perhaps, one opportunity that may suit your needs. A certain cobbler by the name of Jeremy Spangler is scheduled to, ah, receive an unexpected delivery at three o'clock tomorrow. Three days before Hogswatch Eve."
"And you're tellin' me this why?" Granny asks, narrowing her eyes.
"I'm simply suggesting," he says with a faint shrug, "that if you happened to find yourself in his vicinity tomorrow at approximately three o'clock or shortly thereafter, you may... encounter what you're looking for. Of course, I cannot officially condone such an arrangement. But unofficially..." He lets the sentence hang in the air like a noose waiting for a neck.
Granny stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she stands, adjusting her hat with deliberate precision. "Right. If that's all, I'll be off."
But before she can turn to leave, Lord Downey clears his throat. It's a deliberate sound, the kind that implies a man trying very hard to appear as though he's not about to beg. "Mistress Weatherwax," he says, with the calculated politeness of someone attempting to wrangle a particularly stubborn goat, "I believe we have both conducted ourselves in good faith thus far."
Granny raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
"And," Downey continues, his tone as smooth as an oiled snake, "given the unusual nature of our arrangement, it seems only fair that you leave behind the... thread. A small token of mutual respect, you understand."
His composure is masterful, but his eyes betray him. There's a faint glimmer in them, the kind that says he's already imagining how that
impossibly-not-black fabric might look draped across his robes or lining his cloak once he's reverse engineered it.
Granny sighs, more out of boredom than irritation, and reaches into her cloak. With a flick of her wrist, she produces the scrap of fabric and tosses it onto the desk. It lands with all the finality of a gavel striking home, its unsettling absence of color seeming to darken the room just a fraction.
Lord Downey doesn't quite drool, though it's a close thing. He leans forward, his gloved fingers hovering over the fabric as if afraid it might vanish if he blinks too hard.
"There," Granny says, dusting her hands as if ridding herself of an unnecessary trifle. "You've got your little bit of abyss. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got more important things to do."
Lord Downey's gaze flickers from the fabric to Granny, his expression carefully neutral. "Good luck, Mistress Weatherwax," he says, his smile razor-sharp. "Do try not to... interfere too much."
Granny doesn't bother to look back as she strides out, her voice trailing behind her. "Luck's for the unprepared."
- The disappearance of the scrap of fabric from Lord Downey's desk was a matter of much speculation within the Assassin's Guild. The fact that it took the desk with it was inconvenient, but not entirely surprising. The real mystery, however, was the inexplicable vanishing of the color black from everything in the office itself. By the time Granny Weatherwax had made it out of the front gate, Lord Downey's once-immaculate ebony furnishings had gone the color of porridge left too long in the sun.
This was particularly frustrating for Downey, who prided himself on an office so black it could intimidate shadows. Now his black silk curtains were a drab beige, his midnight-hued carpet resembled weak tea, and his prized black velvet cloak had adopted the shade of an elderly mushroom reconsidering its life choices.
Theories abounded. Some whispered that the fabric had been a fragment of some long forgotten dark deity. Lord Downey, for his part, preferred the theory that it was all part of some cunning plot by Granny Weatherwax, although what kind of plot would involve making his office look like the aftermath of a bad laundry day was anyone's guess.
The simple fact of the matter was that black, being a practical sort of color, had simply decided it wasn't going to stick around where it clearly wasn't appreciated and left.
Chapter 6: The Line Not Crossed
The cobbler's shop is the sort of place that smells like hard work—leather, glue, and just a hint of resignation. The walls are lined with shelves stacked high with shoes in various states of completion, and the small workspace at the back is illuminated by the dim glow of a single lamp. Outside, the faint jingling of bells and the occasional burst of off-key Hogswatch carols remind everyone that the holiday is fast approaching, whether they like it or not.
Granny Weatherwax pushes open the door with the confidence of someone who has rarely had to knock on one. A small bell jingles, announcing her arrival, and the cobbler—presumably Jeremy Spangler—looks up from his workbench.
He's a slight man with a perpetually startled expression, the sort of person who looks as though he's just remembered something important then forgotten it again. His hands are calloused, his apron smeared with glue, and his manner is polite to the point of apologetic.
"Morning," Granny says briskly, stepping inside and scanning the shop with the air of someone inspecting a pie for undercooked bits. "You Jeremy Spangler?"
"Yes, ma'am," Jeremy says, standing quickly and wiping his hands on his apron. "How can I help you?"
"I need shoes," Granny announces, as though this is a matter of great cosmic importance.
Jeremy nods, already moving to fetch a measuring stick. "Of course, ma'am. Please, have a seat."
Granny sits on the proffered stool, her expression suggesting that she is doing the chair a favor by occupying it. Jeremy kneels and begins measuring her feet with a quiet efficiency that seems to come from years of practice.
The door jingles again, and a small package lands on the counter with a thud. A crow, blacker than ordinary crows and with an air of misplaced dignity, squawks once and flies off, leaving behind a slightly battered parcel wrapped in festive paper.
Jeremy looks up, puzzled. "Oh, that'll be from Uncle Jeremiah Spangler," he says, his tone a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. "He's always sendin' things."
Granny raises an eyebrow as Jeremy retrieves the package. He holds it out to her, his face reddening slightly. "Could you… could you read it for me, ma'am? I, uh, I never learned."
Granny takes the package and unfolds the attached card with the same care she might use to defuse a bomb. The handwriting is neat but unnecessarily elaborate, the sort of script that suggests its author has entirely too much time and too few productive hobbies.
"'To my dear nephew Jeremy,'" Granny reads aloud, her tone flat. "'Wishing you the joys of Hogswatch and the warmth of family. Enclosed is a tin of my finest hot cocoa blend. Do enjoy.'"
Granny stops reading, her lips tightening into a line so thin it could slice paper. Jeremy is smiling, his expression one of pure, unsuspecting delight at the thought of his uncle's generosity. It's the sort of smile that belongs to someone whose idea of severe danger is misplacing a cobbler's last.
- A cobbler's "last", for those unacquainted with the noble art of shoemaking, is not, as the name might suggest, a dramatic farewell uttered by a dying cobbler. Nor is it the final shoe ever made by a particularly melancholic one. No, a cobbler's last is a sturdy, foot-shaped form, usually made of wood or metal, upon which shoes are crafted into their final shape.
It is, quite literally, the cobbler's foundation. Without it, shoes would flop about like particularly indecisive pancakes, and civilization as we know it would be reduced to barefoot chaos. Misplacing one, then, is the sort of crisis that sends cobblers into fits of despair, much like an artist losing their muse or a wizard misplacing their staff—except with more muttering and considerably fewer magical explosions.
The name, of course, invites confusion, which is why cobblers often sigh heavily when explaining it to the uninitiated. A cobbler's first, second, or third would have been equally important, but alas, the language of shoe-making has never been concerned with making sense to outsiders.
But Granny sees it. Right there, imprinted faintly at the bottom of the card in the finest handwriting money can buy:
Receipt No. 492: Poison Delivery (Special Hogswatch Blend). Beneath it, in impossibly smaller print:
The Assassin's Guild takes no responsibility for failure to notice this receipt due to poor literacy, poor eyesight, or poor judgment.
Granny freezes, the tin of cocoa suddenly seeming heavier than it should be. It's not just a tin anymore; it's a decision. One of those decisions that sits squarely on your shoulders and grins at you like a cat that knows you've locked yourself out of the house.
Jeremy is smiling, oblivious, his hands busy with the kettle as he chatters about how kind his uncle is to send gifts every year.
Kind. The word hangs in the air like a bad smell, clashing terribly with the grim truth printed on the card.
And here's the problem. The conundrum. Granny has no time to waste. Jeremy's death is her ticket to Death, her one chance to fulfill a little girl's wish and beat Hogswatch's ticking clock. But, by reading this letter aloud and not mentioning the fine print, she's crossed a line—a thin, wobbly line that most people wouldn't even see, let alone care about. But Granny sees it. Oh, she sees it clear as day. And she doesn't like it one bit.
It's one thing to let fate take its course; it's another to give it a helpful nudge while looking the other way. She hasn't poisoned Jeremy Spangler, but she's holding the tin that will do it, and that feels uncomfortably close to shaking hands with the assassin who packed it.
And there's the rub. She's never been one to shy away from hard truths, but this one feels particularly thorny. Could she let a blind man walk into traffic if it meant saving another life? Maybe. But could she hand him the stick and wish him luck? No. Not even for all the hours of sand in Death's hourglass.
Under her breath, she mutters something that might be curses or might just be her opinion on the entire business of luck. She picks up the tin, unscrews the lid, and sniffs. The sharp tang of chokeweed hits her nose, unmistakable even through the rich scent of cocoa. A rare herb, elegant in its deadliness, meant to make a death look natural, and about as festive as a lump of coal.
- Chokeweed, a rare and unfortunately named root which, in small amounts causes cardiac arrest and tastes slightly of mint.
Granny reaches into her cloak, her fingers brushing past the familiar folds of her emergency pouch. Her hand emerges with a pinch of swampwort, the only herb with enough stubbornness to neutralize chokeweed. It has a bitter smell, the kind of smell that says it's been dragged out of the muck but hasn't forgiven you for it.
She crushes the swampwort between her fingers and lets it fall into the tin. The cocoa doesn't protest, but she swears she hears it sigh. Or maybe that's just the weight lifting off her conscience.
By the time Jeremy returns with the steaming kettle, the cocoa is as harmless as a field mouse at a vegetarian convention. He thanks her profusely for reading the card, pours himself a cup, and sips with a contented sigh.
Granny doesn't stay long after that. She adjusts her hat, mutters something about needing to check on other business, and strides out of the shop with the air of someone who has just done the universe a favor and expects no thanks for it.
- It may be of interest to the reader to note that Jeremy Spangler went on to live a long and prosperous life, though he never could explain why his cocoa always had a faint hint of mint. His uncle, Lord Spangler, fared considerably worse. Three days later, during his Hogswatch Eve feast, he choked on a grape—an indignity made worse by the fact that he'd specifically left his vast fortune to Jeremy under the assumption the young man would be dead by then.
Which, of course, just goes to show that the universe has a sense of humor. A dark, ironic, and slightly herbal one.
Chapter 7: The Problem with Chasing Death
Ankh-Morpork's
The Shades are not so much a neighborhood as they are an ongoing argument with reality about what constitutes acceptable living conditions. The streets twist and coil like snakes caught mid-thought, and the shadows have their own agendas, none of which involve being helpful. If you were to ask the average citizen to describe the Shades, they would likely say something along the lines of, "It's where you go if you want to get stabbed—but creatively."
Granny Weatherwax, naturally, does not fit into this equation. She strides through the tangled streets as if she has an appointment with Destiny and fully expects Destiny to apologize for making her wait. Her boots click on the cobblestones, the sound echoing ominously in the silence, and the shadows—usually so full of life, or at least something vaguely wriggling—seem to shrink away from her.
- From: "Ank Morpork City of One-Thousand Surprises" The Shades, as any self-respecting Ankh-Morporkian will tell you, is not so much a neighborhood as it is a suggestion that the rest of the city should be grateful it's not worse. It's a place where the streets are narrow, the alleys are narrower, and the chances of making it to the other end unscathed are about as slim as a seagull avoiding the barbecue in the Dockside Markets.
Officially, the City Watch patrols the Shades. Unofficially, the Shades patrol themselves, often with knives, clubs, and the sort of creative malice that suggests someone really missed their calling as a playwright. It's a place where people disappear—sometimes willingly, but usually not—and where the shadows seem just a little too eager to help.
If you find yourself in the Shades, either you're very brave, very foolish, or very lost. And if you're none of those things, you're probably there for business, the kind of business that doesn't issue receipts or survive cross-examination.
It's said that the only thing keeping the Shades from consuming the rest of Ankh-Morpork is that even the criminal underbelly who run most of the city doesn't trust it. It's a black hole of morality, where the usual laws of commerce and survival are suspended in favor of rules that seem to have been written like a particularly vindictive dice game.
In short, it's not a place you go looking for trouble. It's a place where trouble is already waiting, sharpening its teeth and wondering whether you'll be worth the effort.
It's said that the last time Corporal Carrot of the City Night Watch patrolled the Shades, the criminals held a union meeting and decided, unanimously, to move to a different part of the city for the evening. Now, with Granny Weatherwax strolling nonchalantly through their turf, they are seriously considering forming a prayer group.
The usual suspects—cutthroats, pickpockets, and miscellaneous ne'er-do-wells—peer at her from behind barrels and doorways, whispering furiously.
"Who is she?" one hisses.
"She's a witch," another replies, in the hushed tone usually reserved for natural disasters or particularly bad omens.
"Well, what's she doing here?"
"Walking."
"That's it?"
"Will
you be stopping her then?"
And that, really, sums it up. No one in the Shades is stupid enough to mug a witch. It's not the risk of death that bothers them—dying is practically part of the job description—but the unsettling notion that a witch might decide to do something worse than killing you. Witches have a reputation for leaving people alive in ways that make them wish otherwise.
Granny, for her part, is oblivious to the growing existential crisis she's causing among the local criminal element. She's far too busy being
annoyed. She had spent the entire night walking through this den of iniquity, fully expecting at least something to happen. The Shades were supposed to be dangerous, weren't they? People were supposed to meet untimely ends here!
But no. Not so much as a mugging. Granny hasn't even had the satisfaction of glaring someone into unconsciousness.
By dawn, her patience is wearing thin. Time is running out, and Hogswatch Eve is looming like an overzealous aunt who insists on pinching your cheeks. She needs to meet Death, and walking the streets hoping for someone else's misfortune is proving utterly useless.
The obvious solution would be to summon Death directly. The wizards at Unseen University had a whole spell for it—what was it called?
The Rite of Ashkente. Yes, that was it. But the thought of involving wizards makes Granny's mouth tighten into a line that could shear sheep. Wizards, in her experience, were prone to unnecessary drama, loud noises, and an unhealthy fascination with food and fire, in that order.
No, there's only one thing for it. If Death won't come to her, she'll have to go to him.
The idea sits heavily in her mind, like a particularly stubborn stone in a stream. She doesn't like it. Not one bit. But it's the only plan she's got. Temporarily dying, just long enough to have a word with Death, isn't exactly ideal, but neither is breaking the heart of a poor, dying girl.
Granny adjusts her hat with a sharp tug and steps purposefully into the growing light of dawn. The Shades watch her go, collectively exhaling as though a storm has passed.
"Right," she mutters to herself. "If Death won't come to me, then I'll just have to knock on his door myself."
The cobblestones, which had been steeling themselves for an inevitable confrontation, sag slightly in relief.
Chapter 8: A Temporary Arrangement
The Assassin's Guild, as always, smells faintly of polished wood, expensive candles, and the sort of incense that implies someone is trying very hard to mask something far less pleasant. Granny Weatherwax strides back through the front gates with her usual air of unshakable purpose, and this time, the guards don't so much as blink. One of them even offers her a respectful nod, which Granny ignores because it's much safer to let people think they're beneath your notice than to actually notice them.
Lord Downey greets her in his office, which looks like the word
renovations sounds if you try to say it with a mouth full of water, his expression carefully neutral, though there's an unmistakable flicker of resignation in his eyes. He stands as she enters, gesturing for her to sit, which she doesn't.
"Ah, Mistress Weatherwax," he begins, his voice smooth as a snake on polished marble. "You've returned. I must say, your intervention in the Spangler affair was… fortuitous."
Granny folds her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion which she masks carefully. "Didn't do it for you."
"Of course not," Lord Downey says quickly, though his tone suggests he's perfectly happy to take credit regardless. "However, it seems you've saved the Guild from what could have been a most… embarrassing situation."
Granny raises an eyebrow but says nothing, so he continues. "Lord Spangler's payment, you see, failed to clear. An unfortunate oversight, I'm sure, but it meant the inhumation would have been"—he grimaces faintly, as though the very idea pains him—"pro bono."
Granny snorts. "You lot don't kill unless there's a fat purse in it, eh?"
"Precisely," Downey replies, his composure slipping just long enough to reveal a flicker of distaste. "It's a matter of principle. We are, after all, professionals."
- The Assassins' Guild of Ankh-Morpork prides itself on having the most rigorous moral code in the city, which is saying something in a place where the Thieves' Guild operates on an actual quota system for robberies. In fact, the Guild's code is so strict that one wonders how they manage to get any killing done at all.
For starters, an Assassin may only kill for money, and not just any money—it must be a large amount of money. Pocket change is for thugs, and thugs don't wear silk-lined cloaks and practice calligraphy. Furthermore, a proper Assassin leaves a receipt at the scene, ensuring that even the dearly departed can take solace in knowing the job was handled with professionalism.
Of course, fairness is paramount. The Guild insists that the "client" (a polite term for "victim") be given a sporting chance. This means they must be capable of defending themselves—though, conveniently, owning enough wealth to hire bodyguards counts as "capable," whether they've actually done so or not. And while incapacitating bodyguards is acceptable, killing them unnecessarily is considered poor form. After all, good help is so hard to find.
Assassins also have a deep disdain for firearms and anything mechanical that might make the job look too easy. This is not because they're afraid of competition but because such methods lack the requisite style. Without style, one is merely a thug with a higher price tag. An Assassin must exude elegance, boredom, and a faint whiff of being slightly aloof—otherwise, what's the point?
It is this rigid adherence to rules and refinement that sets the Assassins' Guild apart. They are, in their own eyes, artists. Dangerous, impeccably dressed, receipt-leaving artists who occasionally get very cross when their fees bounce.
Granny waves a hand dismissively. "Save your speech. I'm not here to discuss your little code of ethics. I need your help."
That catches him off guard. "My… help?"
Granny nods sharply. "I need to die."
Downey blinks. For a man who runs a guild specializing in death, he looks oddly unsettled by the request. "I beg your pardon?"
"Temporarily," Granny clarifies, as if this makes the request perfectly reasonable. "I need to have a word with Death. Your office smells like it's got the right herbs for the job. Don't tell me you haven't got a poison that'll do it."
Lord Downey recovers quickly, his calculating mind already working through the implications. "We do," he admits. "But I must warn you, Mistress Weatherwax, such an endeavor is not without risk. There is always the… possibility of miscalculation."
Granny fixes him with a glare that could curdle milk at fifty paces. "I'm not here for a lecture. You've got the poison. I've got the plan. All you've got to do is make sure I don't stay dead longer than an hour."
Downey considers her for a long moment, then nods. "Very well. I will prepare the necessary compounds. However, I must insist on administering the antidote myself to ensure—"
Granny cuts him off with a sharp gesture. "You just make sure it works."
True to his word, Lord Downey assembles the required ingredients with the kind of meticulous care that suggests he takes no small amount of pride in his craft. The poison, when presented, is contained in a delicate glass vial, its contents swirling faintly with an iridescent sheen that reeks of showboating.
Granny eyes it with suspicion. "That's not going to do something fancy, is it? I don't need no fireworks."
"Of course not," Downey assures her, though there's a faint trace of amusement in his tone. "It is perfectly… subtle."
She takes the vial, turning it over in her hands. The weight of the moment settles heavily on her, though she doesn't let it show. Trusting someone else to bring her back—a man like Lord Downey, no less—is a gamble of the highest order. But with time running out, she has no choice.
She sits, tips the vial back, and drinks. The taste is bitter, like regret mixed with over-steeped tea, and it burns all the way down.
"An hour," she says, her voice already fading. "Don't you dare be late."
And then she slumps forward, her body going limp.
For a moment, all is still. Then a faint shimmer rises from her form, like heat off a summer road. Granny's spirit stands, adjusting her hat as if nothing has happened.
"Well," she mutters, glancing back at her body with mild disapproval. "That's a sight."
Lord Downey, to his credit, doesn't flinch but catches her body and lowers it gently to the floor, bending over it with a look that manages to encompass a war between frightful concern and forced apathy. "Good luck, Mistress Weatherwax," he says, his voice steady. "I do expect a decent story out of this… further irregularity."
Granny doesn't dignify him with a reply, not that he could have heard it in her current ethereal state. With a determined expression, she taps her foot and somewhere, in the distance, the faint clink of a scythe echoes like a clock ticking down.
Chapter 9: An Appointment with the Inevitable
Granny Weatherwax stands beside her body, arms folded, foot tapping against the invisible floor of what can only be described as a very efficient sort of void. There's a faint hum in the air, like the echo of a distant clock, though it doesn't seem to be measuring time so much as reminding it to behave.
"This is takin' too long," she mutters, glaring at the shimmering nothingness around her. "Always said bad manners are a sign of bad character. And lateness is the worst of all."
After what feels like an eternity—but likely is only fifty minutes or so, because eternity has a way of making itself known—there's a ripple in the air. A figure emerges, tall, cloaked, and skeletal, carrying a scythe that gleams with the kind of precision that suggests someone has been polishing it out of habit.
Death steps forward, his empty sockets fixed on Granny, his posture as dignified as a monarch about to grant an audience. His voice, when it comes, resonates like the final note of a symphony played in the key of inevitability.
"
I APOLOGIZE FOR THE DELAY, MISS WEATHERWAX. I WAS... NOT EXPECTING YOU."
Granny sniffs, unimpressed. "I reckon you weren't. But here I am. And here you are, finally."
Death tilts his head, a motion that suggests curiosity rather than offense. He produces an hourglass with a flick of his bony hand, holding it up to examine. The sand inside trickles slowly, far too slowly for someone who ought to be dead.
"
YOUR TIME IS NOT YET COME," he states, the words carrying the weight of certainty that only Death can muster.
"That's obvious," Granny replies, her tone sharp enough to make the void flinch. "I've got a job to do, and it involves you. There's a little girl back in Ankh-Morpork, dying faster than she ought to be, and all she wants is her cat back. Threepaws. You've got his hourglass, I reckon."
Death's sockets seem to narrow slightly, though his tone remains calm. With another flick of his hand, he conjures a second hourglass. This one is small and empty, its grains long since spent.
"
THREEPAWS.
A CAT. NINE LIVES. ALL ACCOUNTED FOR."
Granny's gaze sharpens. "And why can't he have a tenth? What's one more life to a cat who's already cheated you nine times?"
Death hesitates, a rare pause for a being who is usually so certain. "
NO ONE CHEATS ME.
CATS SIMPLY DO NOT FOLLOW THE SAME RULES AS OTHERS. THEY SEE ME. THEY KNOW ME. AND YET, THEY REMAIN... UNBOTHERED EIGHT OUT OF NINE TIMES."
"Sounds like you like 'em," Granny observes, her eyes narrowing.
"
I FIND THEM... INTRIGUING," Death admits. "
THEY ARE UNLIKE DOGS, WHO BARK, OR HUMANS, WHO BEG AND FEAR. CATS SIMPLY... ACCEPT ME."
"Then you'll understand why this one needs to go back," Granny presses. "A little girl's wish is depending on it. Hannah Long. Her candle's burnin' too fast, and I reckon you've noticed."
Death nods, producing another hourglass. This one glows faintly, its sand trickling with a rhythm that seems hurried, as though it knows time is short.
"
HANNAH LONG. A BRIGHT LIGHT, BUT A BRIEF ONE. HER FLAME HAS A COMFORTING STEADINESS TO IT, DOES IT NOT?"
"Well, it won't comfort her much longer if you don't help," Granny says firmly. "Flip the cat's hourglass over. Make it match hers. Seems fair, doesn't it?"
Death regards her silently, his skeletal hands holding the empty hourglass. Then he speaks, his tone deliberate and measured.
"
FAIRNESS IS NOT WITHIN MY JURISDICTION. I AM IMPARTIAL. TO FAVOR ONE IS TO DISRUPT THE BALANCE."
Granny leans in, her expression a steely mix of resolve and irritation. "Don't give me that nonsense about balance. You're telling me you've never had a bit of sand left over? All those folks who show up early, wastin' your time. And don't tell me you're so efficient there's no extra grains tucked away somewhere. You must have a pinch or two lying around."
Death tilts his head, his sockets unreadable, though his posture suggests a faint flicker of discomfort.
"
SUCH SAND SOMETIMES EXISTS," he admits after a pause, his voice heavy with the weight of a cosmic confession. "
BUT IT IS NOT MINE TO GIVE. IT IS... RESIDUAL, AND ITS USE WOULD BE... IRREGULAR."
Granny's eyes narrow. "
Irregular… I seem to hear that word a lot lately and I'm gettin' a bit fed up with it! You're
Death! The ultimate regularity. You're tellin' me you can't bend a rule for once? You've got all the time in the universe. Surely you can spare some of it to think this over."
Death shifts his scythe slightly, the movement deliberate. "
TO DO SO WOULD BE TO BREAK THE NATURAL ORDER. SUCH FAVORITISM IS NOT ONLY FORBIDDEN BUT... UNWISE."
Granny doesn't miss the hesitation in his tone, the reprimand. "You're not wrong," she says, surprising even herself with the sudden concession. "Rules are rules. I'm a witch; I know that better than most. The natural order keeps things runnin' smooth."
Death inclines his head, a faint gesture of acknowledgment. "
THEN YOU UNDERSTAND WHY IT CANNOT BE DONE."
"But understanding don't mean acceptin'," Granny counters, her voice hardening again. "And rules or not, there's always exceptions, ain't there? There's always those times when fate, or chance, or whatever's out there nudges things just a little. You can't tell me you've never seen it happen."
"
IT HAS OCCURRED," Death admits, the words precise, deliberate.
"Well then," Granny presses, "why not here? Why not now? You've got sand for wishes, don't you? Some extra set aside for when the universe decides to be kind. I reckon there's even a little left over from old fools like me, turnin' up early and windin' up stayin' for supper. Why not let it fall where it's needed?"
Death pauses, his skeletal fingers tapping gently on the hourglass in his hand. The sound is soft but carries the weight of countless centuries. "
TO GRANT SUCH A REQUEST WOULD BE... UNEVEN. AND YET..."
Granny leans back, sensing the faintest crack in his otherwise unyielding demeanor. "And yet," she echoes, watching him carefully. "Think on it. That little girl deserves more than what she's got, and all she's askin' for is her cat back. Ain't that worth breakin' the rules just this once?"
The void around them seems to still, as if the very concept of time has paused to listen. Death stands motionless, his head tilted as though considering a question too vast even for him. But before he can answer, the faint pull of reality begins to tug at Granny's form, her spectral presence flickering like a candle caught in a draft.
"
YOUR TIME MARCHES ON," Death notes, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative, "
I WILL… CONSIDER MATTERS."
Granny scowls as her form begins to dissolve. "Consider? Consider will you!? Well don't think you've heard the last of
me, because I'll be back if I have to. Mark my words."
And with that, she is gone, yanked back into the physical world with all the grace of a sack of potatoes being dropped onto a cart.
Far away, in the timeless void of his domain, Death stands alone, staring at the faintly glowing hourglass labeled Threepaws. His skeletal fingers hover over it for a long moment before he sets it down on his desk, its empty chamber reflecting the faint light of Hannah Long's still-burning candle.
- Death's desk is a masterpiece of existential furniture. It occupies the majority of his study, though the room itself seems unconcerned with spatial constraints, as if the laws of physics were too reverent to impose their will here. It is vast, sprawling, and covered in candles—thousands upon thousands of them—each representing a life. Some burn tall and steady, others sputter precariously. There are no rules to their arrangement, no alphabetical order or logical grouping. The desk simply is, much like its owner, and neither feels the need to explain itself.
Hannah Long's candle is not particularly tall, nor is it particularly elaborate. It sits quietly amidst the chaos of flickering flames, a small, unassuming beacon. Yet, its light is different. It is brighter than most, not in an overwhelming way, but in a pure, uncomplicated glow that seems to push back the shadows with quiet determination. It is the light of a life lived simply, contentedly, without guile or pretense. It is not the kind of light that burns for long, but it is the kind that leaves an impression.
Death finds himself drawn to it more often than he would admit. Its glow brings a peculiar sense of joy, though he would never use such a word—it feels far too mortal. He cannot explain it, which is unsettling, because Death does not deal in mysteries. He is, by nature, the final answer to all questions. And yet, here is this tiny candle, casting a warmth he cannot ascribe to the inevitability of endings. It is not in his nature to feel. But still, there is something in that light—a small, bright defiance against the very concept of him—that he finds... reassuring.
Granny, for her part, feels the pull of reality like a hook dragging her by the scruff of the neck, and then she is abruptly back in her body. She sits up with a jolt, coughing violently as air rushes back into her lungs. The transition is neither graceful nor pleasant.
"Bloody damn fool of a process!" she snarls, her voice hoarse but furious. It is not the sort of language that anyone would expect from a woman of her standing, which is precisely why it makes Lord Downey flinch.
He watches her carefully, standing just out of arm's reach as though she might lash out in her disorientation. "Was he… amenable?" Downey ventures, his tone cautious.
Granny glares at him, her face a thundercloud of irritation. "Amenable? Hah! Death's just like the rest of 'em. All talk, no decisions, and plenty of 'we'll see' and 'highly irregular.'" She adjusts her hat with a decisive tug and swings her legs off the couch, standing on still-wobbly feet. "No straight answer, no spine when it matters. Typical."
Downey frowns, unsure whether she means Death or men in general, though he suspects it's both. "Then what will you do now?"
Granny's eyes narrow, and a steely determination sets her features into a mask that could intimidate a statue. "I'm goin' to do what needs doin', that's what. If Death won't budge, I'll have to involve the one thing that makes men and the gods themselves tremble, or so I hear."
Lord Downey's eyes widen, genuine fear flickering in their depths. "You don't mean…
her?"
- There are many ways to invoke fear in Ankh-Morpork, but the particular brand of dread Lord Downey's voice carried when he said "her" was reserved for only one person. Not a god, nor a demon, nor even the Patrician himself could inspire that particular blend of reverence and terror. No, when someone said "her" with that much unspoken horror, they could only mean Mrs. Cake.
Mrs. Cake is an institution, a phenomenon, and possibly an unlicensed deity, though the cosmic jury on that last part is still in recess. She is a stout, bustling woman whose floral dresses seem to shout "domesticity!" with the force of a foghorn, and whose hat looks perpetually prepared to do battle with an uncooperative universe. She runs a boarding house filled with residents no one else would take. She is unfailingly polite, maddeningly insistent, and as immovable as a mountain that also serves tea.
Her gift—or possibly curse—is to know exactly what you're about to say before you've even thought of it, and to answer it in a way that leaves you convinced she's right, whether or not she actually is. Most people find this unnerving. The gods find it infuriating. Mrs. Cake is the only mortal being who can turn divine will into a nervous cough.
Men, when frustrated by things beyond their control, take the names of gods in vain. The gods, of course, do the same. But the name they use is Mrs. Cake.
Chapter 10: A Knock at the Door
The boarding house of Mrs. Cake is a study in contradictions, much like the woman herself. Its architectural style could be described as "make it fit, somehow" and seemed to defy gravity, logic, and the building regulations of Ankh-Morpork all at once. Inside, however, it was clean, tidy, and ruthlessly organized in a way that made even chaos feel self-conscious. The house didn't just exist;
it persisted.
Granny Weatherwax's knock reverberates through the thick wood like a declaration of intent. The door swings open before the second knock can land, and there stands the woman herself, solid as a troll birthday cake and twice as immovable. She has the look of someone who already knows what's about to be said but is graciously allowing it to be said anyway.
"Evenin', Esme," Mrs. Cake says, her voice warm but lined with the steel of someone who regularly bargains with the supernatural over tea. "Come in for a cuppa, why don't you?"
"I won't, thank you kindly," Granny replies, her tone making it clear that the offer was as unnecessary as inviting the tide to come in. "I'm here to tell you somethin' important."
Mrs. Cake steps aside anyway, the space in the doorway radiating expectation. Granny remains rooted on the doorstep, cloak swirling in the crisp evening breeze.
Granny clears her throat and announces with the kind of authority that demands attention from mortals, gods, and passing pigeons alike: "Come Hogswatch Eve at midnight, a special present'll be arrivin' for young Hannah Long. A surprise, no less." She pauses, then adds for good measure, "A very special one."
Mrs. Cake raises an eyebrow. "And who's deliverin' this special surprise, then?"
Granny's chin lifts slightly, her voice rising as if addressing the air itself—or someone lurking just beyond it. "Death. Himself. The gift'll be Threepaws, returned safe and sound, because it turns out he weren't dead after all, just on his eighth life." She folds her arms, her glare daring the universe to contradict her. "And I'll bet he'll stay for a cuppa too, what with all the trouble he's puttin' me through."
Mrs. Cake doesn't flinch, but the faintest twitch of a smile crosses her lips. "Bold of you, Esme, to be arrangin' Death's social calendar."
"It's not arrangin'," Granny snaps. "It's headology. Say somethin' firm enough, often enough, and the universe'll come round to your way of thinkin'. And Hogswatch Eve, well, that's when the universe is most obligin' to a bit of persuasion."
Mrs. Cake tilts her head thoughtfully. "And if Death don't oblige?"
Granny's eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to shear wool. "He will. And if he don't, well... there's always
you, Mrs. Cake."
The smile vanishes from Mrs. Cake's face faster than a thief caught in the act. Even the air around her seems to hesitate, suddenly unsure whether it should stick around or make itself scarce.
Mrs. Cake's voice drops an octave, though her tone remains unnervingly calm. "Esme Weatherwax, are you usin' me as leverage?"
Granny doesn't answer directly, which is, of course, an answer in itself. "Let's just say Death knows what's good for him. And what's good for him is to do as he's told. Because if there's one thing the gods, the universe, and even Death himself understand and I will freely admit, it's that when Mrs. Cake's expectations get involved, nobody leaves happy, in fact, nobody leaves a'tall, if they're not met, or so I hear."
Mrs. Cake studies Granny for a long moment, then nods. "Fair enough."
Granny steps back, adjusting her hat with a final tug and raising her voice once more to the empty air. "And don't forget to poke holes in the box before you wrap it! I won't have that cat suffocatin' before he even gets to the girl!"
The night doesn't respond, though it feels slightly warmer for a moment, as though the cool night air had shuffled awkwardly under Granny's gaze. She turns without another word, cloak snapping behind her as she marches into the darkness.
From the shadows of the boarding house a young girl coughs in her sleep, her breath frail but steady, for now.
Far beyond the mortal plane, a skeletal figure pauses in his work, as though sensing his name being invoked in a way that boded ill. He tilts his head toward an hourglass on his desk, its faint glow casting long shadows, and for a brief moment, the inevitable feels... evitable.
- The thing about the inevitable is that it's surprisingly good at not happening, at least when people are paying attention. It's like a cat walking across a precarious shelf; so long as everyone's watching, it'll make a show of balance and grace, as though it had planned to be on that shelf all along. The moment no one's looking, however, it'll topple three priceless heirlooms and a vase.
The inevitable has a reputation for being, well, inevitable, but this is largely due to excellent public relations. In truth, it's as prone to hesitation as the rest of us. Give it a strong enough stare, a well-placed hat, and the right combination of stubbornness and audacity, and the inevitable will usually shuffle its feet, clear its throat, and ask if perhaps it might come back later.
In fact, many of the most inevitable things in history have only happened after someone said things like, "Oh, go on then, if you must" and "Hold my beer" and "it couldn't possibly."
THE END
Or at least… it should have been…. if a certain user on Sufficient Velocity hadn't made a secret santa wish of their own and if that wish had not, like Hannah's wound up in the wrong place…
Epilogue: The Inevitable Evitability of It All
That, by all accounts, is where the story should have ended with Death as immovable and implaccable as… himself.
It did end there, in fact, at least until a user in the Sufficient Velocity forum made the heartfelt wish of receiving a story from a writing prompt that bore an uncanny resemblance to this exact tale. What user
LuciDreamer did not realize was that their wish, much like that of Hannah Long, got slightly misfiled during its journey through the multiverse of ones and zeroes that pretends to be the internet. Instead of landing in the hands of a benevolent Hogfather or a bored Muses' Guild, it arrived with the NSA—or rather, a more obscure branch of it: the
No Such Monastery.
The monks of the No Such Monastery are a secretive and surly lot, tasked with ensuring that history, in all its sprawling, inconvenient detail, follows the proper track. Their archives are filled with the
History Books—20,000 tomes, each ten feet tall, weighing several tons, and requiring a magnifying glass to read the script. These monks understand the phrase "
it is written" in ways that most people would find deeply unsettling. What people don't realize, however, is that some things—like the wish of a small child—can scribble themselves into the margins of those books, causing no end of frustration for the monks.
Children, the monks have often said, are the natural enemies of history.
Thus, on the eve of Hogswatch, the most senior monk of No Such Monastery tried to trace LuciDreamer's misplaced wish and determine whether a misplaced Christmas prompt constituted a breach of cosmic protocol.
Death sat down at his desk.
Death, of course, had already checked to confirm that no wishing sand existed in his domain. He was very thorough about such things. And yet, as Death sits at his desk, the quiet of eternity is disturbed by a faint and familiar sound: the soft hiss of running sand. This is not unusual—sand runs all the time in Death's domain, for obvious reasons—but it is not supposed to be running
here. It is a sound out of place, like laughter at a tax office or competence in the postal service.
He pauses, skeletal fingers mid-tidy, and reaches into the folds of his robe, which contain more dimensions than even he has catalogued. After a moment of searching, he pulls out a small hourglass. Its label reads "Threepaws," and for a moment, Death tilts his head in the universal expression of someone staring at a puzzle where the pieces don't quite fit.
The sand is falling. This should not be.
Cats, as everyone knows—or as everyone should know—are allotted nine lives. Not because the universe is kind, but because cats are notoriously hard to kill, and nine lives is simply a bureaucratic convenience. According to Death's impeccable records, Threepaws had used all nine. Nine lives, neatly spent, as neatly as anything can be where cats are concerned.
And yet, here it is, running right-side up, sand trickling down in a steady stream, oblivious to the metaphysical chaos it is causing. And there, in his own book, the number: Eight, not Nine in his own penmanship.
Death examines the hourglass closer. This time it is undeniable: only eight lives have been spent. Somewhere, somehow, the ninth life had been reinstated. Death turns the hourglass in his hands, checking for cracks, cosmic anomalies, or perhaps some form of divine practical joke. The sand continues to flow, smooth as inevitability itself.
What's more, the hourglass is upright. This bothers him more than he would admit. Hourglasses, particularly those for cats, follow a precise flipping logic—or as precise as anything concerning cats ever is. Their ninth and final life, the last flip of the hourglass, is supposed to run backwards, the hourglass flipped in a distinctly odd-numbered inversion, just as it had for every other cat in history. The sand should be tumbling up from bottom to top, defying gravity as naturally as cats defy furniture. But here it is, running right-side up, as though the hourglass had been flipped ten times, not nine.
"
HOW INTERESTING," Death says, aloud but to no one. He tilts the hourglass experimentally, but the sand continues its downward journey with the serene arrogance of a thing that knows it is exactly where it should be.
If Death were capable of feeling perplexed, this would certainly be the moment. But perplexity, like laughter or curry, is a mortal thing, and Death is nothing if not consistent. Instead, what he feels is the faintest echo of a question—one of those persistent, niggling thoughts that lingers in the back of the mind long after it has been dismissed. It is not
wrong for the hourglass to be running this way. But it is not
right, either. Like him, it simply
is.
Satisfied that the hourglass is behaving, even if its behavior is inexplicable, Death sets it aside and reaches for a small black box. Carefully, methodically, he begins poking air holes into the lid. This is not strictly necessary—Death does not deal in necessity—but it is proper. Cats do not appreciate suffocation, no matter how metaphysical the circumstances. A small black ribbon is tied neatly around the box, because Death, if nothing else, appreciates presentation.
As he finishes, he glances once more at Threepaws' hourglass, the sand now quietly running itself out. The symmetry of it is almost comforting. Almost. But in the back of his mind—or whatever Death has in place of one—there lingers the faintest suspicion, the kind one gets when mopping a floor so clean that the act of mopping itself seems suspicious.
"
PERHAPS," he says to himself, "
I HAVE MISSED SOMETHING."
But he doesn't dwell on it. After all, there are always more hourglasses, more lives, and more sand. And besides, there are roasted chestnuts ushering him to immediate action.
Death placed the hourglass back on the shelf and tucked the small black box with its delicate black ribbon into the folds of his robe.
By midnight on Hogswatch Eve, Death arrives at Mrs. Cake's house with the kind of punctuality only an anthropomorphic personification can manage.
Mrs. Cake, ever the force of nature, greets him with a steaming cup of tea. She doesn't ask why he's there, because Mrs. Cake never asks questions she already knows the answers to.
Upstairs, Hannah Long waits, her breath thin but steady, her wide eyes fixed on the door. When it opens, and she sees the small black box cradled in Death's skeletal hands, she sits up, trembling with both frailty and excitement.
Death places the box on her bed with care. "
OPEN IT," he says, his voice both infinite and oddly gentle.
The ribbon comes undone, the lid lifts, and out leaps Threepaws, purring as he lands on her lap. For a moment, the candle of Hannah's life burns a little brighter and her sand runs just a touch slower.
Death watches silently, smiling—because a polished skull can make no other expression—as the little girl hugs her cat, her laughter ringing out like chimes. The room feels lighter, as if even the shadows have stepped back to give joy a little more space.
Downstairs, Mrs. Cake pours another cup of tea and raises an eyebrow as Death descends the stairs. "Stayin' for another cuppa?" she asks, her tone suggesting it wasn't really a question.
"
NO," Death replies. "
OTHERS AWAIT ME. MANY ARE CURRENTLY CHOKING ON ROASTED CHESTNUTS, AND I AM RATHER OVERDUE."
Mrs. Cake nods sagely. "Good parties, Hogswatch dinners. Bad food safety."
Death tips his head in polite agreement, adjusts his scythe, and steps into the night.
For one moment—just one—the universe had bent, reshaped itself around a wish so simple and pure that it couldn't be ignored. On Hogswatch, the rules relaxed, and even inevitability hesitated.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. Like Death, it simply was.
And that, truly, is where the story ends.
I'm still trying to figure out the skeleton!
