Disclaimer: Discworld is owned by the illustrious Mr. Pratchett.
Azalea Mukkins stood over a counter that was in bad need of varnish, inspecting a cup of tea she had just prepared. She sighed, noting that the tea seemed to be a strangely dark shade of brown and had little bits of tea leaves floating in it. Azalea had never been able to cook food of any kind. Even a task as simple as making tea eluded her. She would under steep it, or over steep it, or the bag would split open and give the liquid a gritty and all together unpleasant texture. The latter two seemed to have happened in this instance.
Azzie's mother had often lectured her about her culinary skills. When her daughter showed no signs of improving, she had hoped the child would at least marry someone rich and never have to cook. That was, after all, why she had named her Azalea (which no one, under threat of physical harm, called her; anyone who valued life referred to her as Azzie.) Such a name sounded so regal, fit for the wife of a duke or prince. Of course, Mrs. Mukkins was most likely trying to compensate for her own failed dreams of royalty. One could not imagine her disappointment when Azzie did not marry a prince or duke. In fact, she did not marry anyone. She turned out quite differently than anyone had expected.
Azzie Mukkins was a witch.
It wasn't by choice. Azzie had a career in warfare planned from the time she was seven years old. Being quite a tomboy, she had never played with dolls or tea sets, preferring instead to practice swordplay with a stick. Her mother, along with her aunts and various other female relatives, had hoped she would outgrow this. Just wait until she grows up a little, they would say, and then she'll get interested in boys and such and forget all this solider nonsense. They were wrong. Azzie never developed much of an interest in the opposite sex, which might have been partially due to the fact that because she had frizzy red hair and freckles galore they never developed an interest in her. Her desire remained with the warrior's calling.
But one day a strange old woman had come to her village. All the young girls in the town had been gathered in the market square for this woman to see. All the girls except Azzie. She didn't give a hoot about what some old biddy wanted, so she had run off to the woods.
The woman had found Azzie in the forest. Up in a tree, to be exact. She had known exactly where she was without even looking. The lady had told her that she'd better get down from the tree, the whole neighborhood could see up her dress. Azzie had reminded the old woman that the whole neighborhood wasn't here. Then she'd asked what she wanted.
And she had received the shock of her young life.
That was when she'd learned she was a witch. At first she'd thought she was joking, crazy, or both. She couldn't be a witch. Magic had always seemed like such boring, tedious work.
But the woman was not joking. She even seemed to feel that Azzie should feel a sense of pride, or at least of duty, at such a discovery. What Azzie did do was rage at her mother about insane old people being allowed to run loose in the hope her mother would see things her way.
Mrs. Mukkins did not see things her way. She had agreed to the apprenticeship at once, thinking of it as an opportunity to curb her daughter's tomboyish ways. Azzie had been sent packing with the old woman, who was quite miffed at being called insane.
And so Azzie stood, in her cottage, looking down at a failed cup of tea.
"I think the tea's ruined." She said, turning back to her companions.
The older of the two sniffed in a way that clearly stated she had expected Azzie to be unsuccessful. Azzie scowled, but the woman took no notice. This woman was Granny Weatherwax, who commanded an immense amount of respect, or at least fear, from the locals. Nobody in their right mind crossed Granny Weatherwax.
"Doesn't bother me." The other witch seated at the table said cheerfully. "Gives me an excuse to try some of our Shawn's brandy. He pinched it from the castle." She produced a flask from a pocket in her dress and took a swig. She then wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Weak. Probably store bought."
This connoisseur of fine brandy was Nanny Ogg, a powerful witch in her own right and matriarch of the enormous Ogg clan.
These were the two witches who had appeared on Azzie's doorstep that morning. They seemed to feel it was their responsibility to assuage Azzie's skills, and had spent most of the afternoon pointing out her lack thereof. Not to mention her inability to grasp the fine art of tea making.
"Does anyone want something else to drink? Juice, maybe?" Azzie asked in a final attempt to please her guests.
"Nah," Nanny Ogg said, standing up from her place at the table, "Me and Esme had better get going, anyway." They left without another word.
Azzie slumped down into a chair, absent-mindedly pulling the sleeve of her dress back into place as it started to slide down her shoulder. All the dresses she owned were largely oversized. She had bought them after being told several times that witches had to wear black. She'd ordered all of the garments at one time, preferring to get it over with quickly instead of spending hours searching in some market for something she didn't even want. The dresses had arrived exactly as promised, except for one thing.
They were about three times too large. They were so big she had to wear clothes underneath them or risk exposing a little too much skin, and her undergarments, to anyone who cared to look.
She had tried returning them but the seamstress she purchased them from had mysteriously disappeared. So, rather than buy new dresses, she had resigned to rolling up her sleeves five times in order to use her hands and had kept the ridiculously baggy outfits.
Azzie didn't even like black. It made her skin look pale, her hair look even redder, and her freckles look blotchy. She wore it simply because people expected witches to wear black, and apparently there was no use in being a witch if no one knew it.
But she wouldn't wear the hat. It may have been a witch's status symbol, but it was also two feet high and pointed. That was simply too much.
Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg had only been gone a few minutes when there was a knock on the cottage door.
"Come in," she shouted.
Heavy boots thudded across the floor as the visitor approached. Azzie twisted in her chair to see who was calling.
"Hello Azzie." The man said cheerfully.
The arrival was Henry Willington, possibly the only person (besides her mother) that knew Azzie's middle name. She had known him since they were children.
She had met him when he had climbed the roof of her mother's house to rescue a stray cat and had fallen off into the rain barrel. Such an accident was not unusual for Henry. He seemed to have a habit of embarking on some good deed and winding up with egg on his face, sometimes literally.
Henry was, or had been, an artist by trade. He was actually very talented, and Azzie had never been able to understand why he didn't leave the Ramtops and try to sell his work. The people of Lancre didn't exactly have an appreciation for fine art.
But Henry's family did not approve of his creative doings. The Willington's were soldiers and had been for generations. Why they had moved to Lancre, a kingdom whose only contribution to warfare was an army knife, was anyone's guess. They wanted Henry to go to Anhk-Morpork and join the city watch. The fact that he wasn't at all violent didn't seem to enter into their minds. Neither did the fact that he was a complete klutz who was probably more likely to injure himself than anyone else. Azzie hated to think what would happen once he got a sword in his hand.
Being an obedient son, Henry had agreed to comply with his parent's wishes. Although he showed no outward signs of discontent, Azzie had noticed that his paintings had taken a decidedly melancholy turn. They suddenly all consisted of dark, gloomy colors and depressing scenes.
"I ran into Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax out in the lane."
"Really?"
"Granny Weatherwax told me to tuck in my shirt." Henry said with a small grin. For some reason, he seemed to find the old witch's often scathing comments amusing. He was the only one that did.
"So what's wrong with you?" he asked.
"What do you mean? There's nothing wrong with me."
He snorted.
"I'm just in a bad mood, that's all."
He looked doubtful.
"Well what about you? You're always pretending that everything's all right. At least I show my emotions!" she accused in an attempt to wipe the skeptical expression of his face. It was extremely annoying.
He just shrugged.
She gave up. It was impossible to make him mad.
"I saw Bridget at the market today." Henry said casually. " She said she might come by to see you."
Azzie shuddered at the mention of her cousin's name. Bridget was, in her mother's opinion, everything a girl should be. Pretty, feminine, and maddeningly cheerful. Azzie couldn't stand her.
"Thank you. That was just what I needed to hear."
Henry looked sympathetic. "Sorry, but I thought I should warn you." Even Henry, who bore a grudge against no living creature, wasn't fond of Bridget. Bridget was as girlish as a girl could be, and Henry was shy around most women, so he was never entirely comfortable with the blonde ball of energy.
A situation that was made worse by her constant flirting. If a girl smiled at Henry he turned ten shades of red, and Bridget was far too touchy- feely to just smile. It was so obvious it was disgusting (as Azzie so often mentioned to people who decided she was just jealous, but didn't dare say it or risk having to chase their head down the street.)
"Hi Azzie!" an excited, oh-so-happy voice called. Bridget danced into the cottage without knocking. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" she asked, twirling around.
"Lovely." Azzie grunted. And it was looking better by the second.
Ferns and various bracken crunched under the weight of Granny Weatherwax's boots. "I tell you, Gytha, that girl has it. She just don't know it yet."
Nanny Ogg nodded. "Felt it the moment I stepped in the door. It's why Myrna Kilter chose her, you know."
"In one so young as that…" Granny Weatherwax's voice trailed off. "Could cause trouble. She won't know how to control it."
"The witching should help."
"I just hope it helps enough." Granny Weatherwax said, a slight hint of foreboding edging her voice.
The forest closed around them.
Azzie and Henry sat in front of the fire, watching the flames snap and crackle (as well as pop).
The night had come on fast. Thankfully, Bridget's visit had been brief. Henry had spent most of the day helping Azzie repair the thatching on her roof. The rain had been leaking through as of late.
Azzie was, at the moment, feeling rather giddy. A half empty bottle of wine sat beside her. She'd found it after cleaning out the cupboards the previous day. It must have belonged to the late Goodie Kilter.
Azzie had no idea how long it had been there, but it didn't matter. It wasn't as if wine could go bad.
Henry was lying on the floor. "So, " he said, "What'd you wanta do?" his voice was getting slurred.
Azzie fought the urge to giggle. "I don't know." A thought nagged at the back of her mind. There was something she was forgetting…
It occurred to her, bright and shiny in the fog of her memories. Mrs. Carter. She'd asked Azzie to check and see if her worries about her husband were founded. He'd been disappearing for long periods of time, and she had become convinced he was seeing another woman. Azzie would never have agreed to look into the matter, but the Carters were old family friends. This meant Azzie was hardly fond of Mr. Carter as it was.
Azzie smiled for a moment. Scrying and flying on a broom where about the only things she was good at when it came to witchcraft.
Of course, it did occur to her that now was probably not the best time for scrying. However, that small fact seemed unimportant.
She walked to a desk and rummaged through the top drawer. A round, lopsided glob of glass was tucked away behind a stack of paper.
"What're you doing?" Henry asked, following her.
"A favour for someone."
Most of the cottages furnishings had belonged to Azzie's former benefactor. The formidable lady had never been one for glitz and glitter. The glass had been leftover from the work of a local window maker.
Azzie set it on the table. She unwound the power, somewhat unsteadily, she knew.
The globe did not fill with light as it was supposed to. The power stopped. It didn't vanish, didn't dissipate, just stopped, as if frozen.
At first Azzie put it down to the alcohol. But there was a darkness growing around her. She could see it at the corner of her eyes.
"Henry?" she said, aware that panic was taking hold.
He replied, but she could only hear a loud buzzing. It filled her ears with aching volume.
And then the sound of rain.
She blinked. It was a city street, or more accurately, an alley. She could feel the wet cobblestones under her feet.
A hunched figure stooped ahead of her. She tried to move forward, but it seemed her body wasn't listening.
Metal reflected in the moonlight. A woman was sprawled out on the ground, eyes vacant and staring.
There was the sound of flesh tearing. The rainwater swirling around the cracks and dips of the street took on a red tinge.
The blood.
Oh gods, the blood. She could smell the blood.
Azzie screamed.