Mad Stoat, the Kingdom of Lancre, the Discworld, Octaday morning
Agnes stepped through the portal and was home. Not home home, where her parents lived, but the-cottage-that-used-to-be-Magrat's home, where she was going to spend the rest of her days.
She had a vague sort of plan for the afternoon, and it went like this: first, go in and set her things down, then air out the cottage and get it ready to be lived in again, then go see her parents and have a happy, tearful reunion, and some of her mom's cooking, and only THEN bother to find Granny and Nanny for the Talk she knew would be coming. It wasn't them being angry she was avoiding, it was having to explain herself, and the realization that however much she needed to have gone to Fandom, the old biddies would manage to make her feel ashamed for it.
All of that ran headlong into a wall when she walked inside and found them sitting in her living room. She stared helplessly for a moment, then pulled herself together. "I... suppose you're wondering where I've been..." she begain.
"No, we ain't," Granny snapped. "Just why it took you so long to get back. Have a nice holiday, did you?"
"...And did you bring back any Twinkies?" Nanny added, with a wink.
Well, then. Agnes took a moment to process that. She wasn't sure how much they knew, or how they knew it, but it certainly made her side of the conversation easier. "No, but I've a gift box from Jeff, God of Biscuits for each of you -- which you're not getting if you're planning on lecturing me."
And so there wasn't any lecturing -- at least, not just then -- even though there was plenty of glaring
That Tuesday night, they met on the heath the way they used to, just like nothing had changed -- a coven of three witches huddled around a fire on the windswept moor, becoming one with Nature, tampering with things of which Man was not meant to wot, and engaging in general chatty gossip about who said what about whom.
"Make the tea, Agnes," Granny instructed, as Nanny dug into her bag for biscuits to share.
Agnes had been dreading this moment, but she had to put her foot down. "Why should I?" she asked.
"That's just the way it's always been done," Granny answered. "You makes the tea, Nanny pours, and I drinks it. That's the way it goes."
"No, it's not," Agnes countered. "First of all, I didn't used to make the tea, Magrat did. And she's Queen now, and I'm not her, and you can't just stick me in her place and expect me to fit." She looked at the older witches defiantly. "And as traditions go, it's not that old ANYWAY. The only reason Magrat always made the tea is because neither of you wanted to. This coven was her idea, and you made her work for it. And the only reason Nanny poured is because Magrat's clumsy and sometimes spills the tea!"
Agnes glared from one woman to the other, and then Granny lifted her gaze and met Agnes's eyes. It was a staring competition, and Agnes was going to lose. Granny Weatherwax could out-stare cats. She could out-stare the SUN, even. Agnes could feel those sharp eyes boring into the back of her skull, but she was determined not to blink. She was going to lose, and her mind was going to turn to jelly under that stare, and still she held her gaze.
Eventually, Granny nodded, satisfied, and looked away. Agnes hadn't won, they all knew that, but she'd passed some kind of test. "Right, then, I'll put the kettle on," Granny said.
[OOC: ...and that's it for Agnes. She's been fun!]
She had a vague sort of plan for the afternoon, and it went like this: first, go in and set her things down, then air out the cottage and get it ready to be lived in again, then go see her parents and have a happy, tearful reunion, and some of her mom's cooking, and only THEN bother to find Granny and Nanny for the Talk she knew would be coming. It wasn't them being angry she was avoiding, it was having to explain herself, and the realization that however much she needed to have gone to Fandom, the old biddies would manage to make her feel ashamed for it.
All of that ran headlong into a wall when she walked inside and found them sitting in her living room. She stared helplessly for a moment, then pulled herself together. "I... suppose you're wondering where I've been..." she begain.
"No, we ain't," Granny snapped. "Just why it took you so long to get back. Have a nice holiday, did you?"
"...And did you bring back any Twinkies?" Nanny added, with a wink.
Well, then. Agnes took a moment to process that. She wasn't sure how much they knew, or how they knew it, but it certainly made her side of the conversation easier. "No, but I've a gift box from Jeff, God of Biscuits for each of you -- which you're not getting if you're planning on lecturing me."
And so there wasn't any lecturing -- at least, not just then -- even though there was plenty of glaring
That Tuesday night, they met on the heath the way they used to, just like nothing had changed -- a coven of three witches huddled around a fire on the windswept moor, becoming one with Nature, tampering with things of which Man was not meant to wot, and engaging in general chatty gossip about who said what about whom.
"Make the tea, Agnes," Granny instructed, as Nanny dug into her bag for biscuits to share.
Agnes had been dreading this moment, but she had to put her foot down. "Why should I?" she asked.
"That's just the way it's always been done," Granny answered. "You makes the tea, Nanny pours, and I drinks it. That's the way it goes."
"No, it's not," Agnes countered. "First of all, I didn't used to make the tea, Magrat did. And she's Queen now, and I'm not her, and you can't just stick me in her place and expect me to fit." She looked at the older witches defiantly. "And as traditions go, it's not that old ANYWAY. The only reason Magrat always made the tea is because neither of you wanted to. This coven was her idea, and you made her work for it. And the only reason Nanny poured is because Magrat's clumsy and sometimes spills the tea!"
Agnes glared from one woman to the other, and then Granny lifted her gaze and met Agnes's eyes. It was a staring competition, and Agnes was going to lose. Granny Weatherwax could out-stare cats. She could out-stare the SUN, even. Agnes could feel those sharp eyes boring into the back of her skull, but she was determined not to blink. She was going to lose, and her mind was going to turn to jelly under that stare, and still she held her gaze.
Eventually, Granny nodded, satisfied, and looked away. Agnes hadn't won, they all knew that, but she'd passed some kind of test. "Right, then, I'll put the kettle on," Granny said.
[OOC: ...and that's it for Agnes. She's been fun!]