Hullo, those who are reading. Sorry for the mess, but I was dissatisfied with pacing and overuse of the past perfect. This chapter fixes much of those problems; it recycles most of the important points (and my favorite asides) from the deleted chapters. From here, I aim to make this straightforward and not too... distractingly digressive. Thank you for your patience.
If, however, you felt the previous iteration worked better, and my instincts are just terrible, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. I can't tell anymore, and feedback would be useful. Thanks again.
Terry Pratchett owns all the Discworld stuff.
Some weeks later, Susan would marvel at how easily Death could be cowed. It flew in the face of the usual implacable characterization. It really depended on context.
The short form was that on this early summer day, Susan had stormed through the doors of Fidgett's Gentlemen's Club on Esoteric Street, stalked past the tall brass urns and their sprawling broad-leafed plants, up the carpeted stairs and into the library where four tubby old rich men dozed with their waistcoats unbuttoned in order to kick her grandfather out of his feigned snooze and demand he take her to his country and give her alcohol.
Not very long afterward, Susan slapped open the door of Death's cottage, nearly clipping Albert on the way in. Slinging her light overcoat at the coatrack, she groused, "I really hate being human, sometimes, I really do."
"Try bein' a stick of furniture sometime!" Albert snapped, stomping away toward the kitchen. Susan ignored him. It was how they communicated.
WHAT HAPPENED?
"I dumped Lobsang, that's what happened." Susan headed straight for the study, her grandfather trailing her like a bewildered old hound.
OH, DEAR.
She snorted and looked over her shoulder on her way to the desk that stood in front of a convenient liquor cabinet. "Shouldn't you already know?" Her tone was just shy of snide. "If you exist in all times - I mean if last century and next week are in no way different to you, then this shouldn't be a surprise."
YOU DON'T WANT ME PAYING THAT MUCH ATTENTION TO YOU. YOU SAID. YOU SAID IT WAS SO FAR FROM NORMAL THAT IF IT WENT FURTHER, IT WOULD BECOME AN ENTIRELY NEW DIVISION OF PSYCHOLOGICAL STUDIES.
With a flat stare that usually triggered infantile cowering in her employers, Susan pointed at the liquor cabinet. "May I?" she ground out between her teeth. When Death nodded, she flung open the doors and fished out a tumbler and a tall crystal decanter of something tawny and powerful.
"Fate!"
His own name came into Fate's mind with literally no regard for physics. For one, Fate only wore the shape of a middle-aged man for the look of it; while he never really manifested for humans, the other gods and anthropomorphic personifications in Dunmanifestin skimped on respect when he showed up in any of his other avatars (stone slabs didn't get much by way of eye contact). He certainly didn't wear this form in order to use the ears, which was good, because the other personalities on the divine peak of the Hub treated sound rather like two seven-year-old girls treated those trunks of old clothes in the attic.
"Fate! Dammit, don't ignore me!"
This one, for instance. Anoia. Recently benefited from the antics of Moist von Lipwig, one of Fate's favorite gamepieces. She was currently calling Fate's name at the top of her whisks, ladles, box of matches, and three hair elastics - her 'voice' evoked what she presided over, so it was a good job that Fate didn't use his human form's ears. Anoia was aggravating enough as it was.
"I'm not ignoring you, dear. I'm attending to The Game." Fate flicked a look across the Disc at his opponent, who rolled her eyes.
"Ah," Anoia replied, coming to his side. She flicked her cigarette, the flying sparks descending to the Disc over Djelibeybi; a number of priests ascribed the resulting meteor shower to seven different supreme gods. "Is Moist doing anything interesting?"
After a moment's pause, Fate replied, "Still discovering what he can get over on Harry King. Seems to be trying to push his own inhumation fee higher." He turned his night-sky gaze to Anoia and asked, "Was there something you wanted?"
Irritably reducing her cigarette to half its length on one draw, Anoia asked, "How much longer do we have to keep the human? He's creeping me out. And Offler's trying to teach him how to do a death roll."
"I think he's looking on his time here as a sort of study-abroad training. All the better to inhume with, you know."
"I don't think he needs help."
The Lady looked up from the Disc, too, and interjected, "Look at it this way - he's harmlessly amusing himself and is out of your hair."
"Harmless? He's drowned three naiads! Naiads, Lady!"
The Lady flapped her hand. "They'll pop back. You know they survive as long as their rivers do. And last I heard, they were lining up for him to do it again. They think it's fun."
"It's disgraceful!"
"If he actually bothers you, just shut his head in a drawer again."
"You two keep bringing him back!" The cigarette, fumbled mid-gesture, only missed the Disc by the slimmest of margins. Krullian astronomers gleefully documented the comet that came close enough to the Rim that a few of those working on the Edge got unseasonable sunburns.
"Keep trying. It's possible Death will make it stick this time."
It wasn't until she was four tumblers in that Susan realized Death had been pouring her generous measures of sherry. After glowering into the glass in sullen recognition, she tipped the contents into her mouth and swallowed as fast as she was able. Those first four fingers of whisky had affected her vision, it seemed.
"I know I'm an adult now," she drawled. The part of her that was knurd - that is, so sober that she needed a few drinks just to get to normal - would've protested, but it was too busy stumbling around in circles and laughing at the kittens that were clawing their way up Death's robes.
OH?
"I have regrets," she explained, her voice going dire and profound, so much so that it was at least half sarcasm.
INDEED, Death answered.
"Lobsang, for Instance. I wish that'd lasted longer." The condensation rings on the black mahogany table she and her grandfather flanked drew her attention. Her index finger pulled the rings into intricate wreaths, loop by loop. "I mean, I can't go back. It's done, o'course."
WE CANNOT CHANGE WHAT HAS HAPPENED. Susan supposed her grandfather was trying to be helpful, but platitudes did not magically become welcome when said in block caps that sounded like slabs of stone grinding across cave mouths.
Irritated with Death, with the situation, with herself, she drawled, "Yes. Thank you." Then she palmed her forehead and muttered, "And why the hell did I let him take me to bed? That was an idiot move, in retrospect."
TAKE YOU WHERE?
"Don't even try that, Granddad," Susan scolded. "You can't feel angry - you don't even have the glands for it."
I DO NOT FEEL ANGRY, Death corrected her, lowering his countenance so the twin blue glows in his eye sockets came from under the brow ridge in a sort of glower. I CAN BE ANGRY. I AM ANGRY. CONSIDER IT A VARIETY OF GRIM.
"Well," Susan said, "Drop it. I'm an adult; it's done; you're not to go take some silly revenge on a boy who's no worse than any other fool on the Disc. Besides, he's an anthropomorphic personification, too, now, and I'd like not to know what it looks like when Death and Time fight. I'm sure it's against the Rules."
I WILL NOT HAVE MY GRANDDAUGHTER TRIFLED WITH.
Her irritation shifted just enough to allow a little amusement in. "Did you ever consider it was me doing the trifling?"
If Death had had flesh, Susan had the impression that it would be scarlet with embarrassment. She started to laugh. She laughed like she hadn't laughed since she was very young. Eventually, she had to set down her glass and support herself against the table.
Through it all, Death waited in a silent, bewildered sort of embarrassment.
IF YOU ARE QUITE DONE, he finally intoned, picking two kittens out of his lap and placing them on the floor. It was difficult to be repressive when one was covered in cute.
"I forgive you almost everything just for that expression," Susan said with a smile, adding "As it were." If she were a genius with paint, she'd paint it; if she were a poet, she'd compose sonnets about it; regardless, she'd remember it all her days.
THANK YOU, Death replied, perking up. He'd been afraid for a moment that Susan was going to be all... lachrymose. Ysabell would have been. Death had so liked the last ... Susan had been stepping out with Lobsang for about a year, so he'd liked the last year because Susan had seemed so happy. Comparatively, that was. If he was any judge, though that was pretty touch-and-go. At least, she hadn't been avoiding him as studiously as she once had, and when grandfather and granddaughter had spoken, the exchange hadn't been cold and arch. And now, he'd finally gotten a laugh out of her!
"Did you know?" she asked. Her voice was suddenly solemn. She looked up at him, and her eyes had lost the gleam that came with humor. Death felt a bit like something small and fluttery facing down the business end of a pin; he had no heart to feel sinking, but he could certainly imagine it.
KNOW WHAT?
"Did you know that this was how it would end? All along?"
DID YOU? Susan's bleary eyes gained some focus in a glare. THERE WENT THAT BRIEF BIT OF GOOD MOOD, Death mused with a mental sigh.
"That power comes and goes with me, remember? Did you know?"
IT WAS ONE OF A BILLION BILLION POSSIBILITIES, SUSAN. EVERY DECISION DESTROYS AND REBUILDS THE UNIVERSE EVERY MOMENT. THIS BREAKUP BOTH DID AND DID NOT HAPPEN.
The frown went a bit more fierce. In Death's growing experience, that tended to precede what some would classify as a tantrum. He'd never quite dared to call those bouts of snapping and storming away by that name; he had the idea it wouldn't be easy to gain forgiveness, regardless of how much she'd laughed just s few moments ago.
With studied nonchalance, he asked, DID YOU KNOW, THERE IS A THEORY THAT SOME FELLOWS CALL THE 'TROUSERS OF TIME'? A CONVENIENT METAPHOR FOR MORTAL MINDS TO ACCEPT. THE THING ABOUT TROUSERS IS THAT THERE'S MORE THAN ONE LE-
Death paused and then creaked to his feet. One hand swung casually out to the side; the scythe clicked against the metacarpals as it responded to its owner's call. Death said, EXCUSE ME. THE DUTY CALLS. FEEL FREE TO STAY AS LONG AS YOU LIKE.
He'd felt the fabric of the universe twitch and unravel a bit. The sensation felt like Fate. Grimly, he wished for an opportunity to kick that fellow right in the fork.
Mrs. Gammage patted Susan's hand reassuringly, and because it was Mrs. Gammage, Susan neither withdrew nor glared. For one, the gesture was kindly meant and had involved no prying; for another, Mrs. Gammage wouldn't see a glare. The poor old widow, as out of place in Biers as Susan was in every other part of her life, was as blind as a mole.
"Shall I buy another round, dearie?" asked the old woman. "Miss Angua had me mend a great sack of socks for her, so I'm flush this week!"
There was a palpable feeling of ears pricking up at the mention of money and the equally palpable and immediate setting aside of that sudden interest. No one dared take a copper from Mrs. Gammage that she didn't offer; those who did found themselves short both money and a bit more than a gallon of blood.
"Thank you, Mrs. Gammage," Susan replied, "But I think I've had all I need tonight." Indeed, after borrowing Binky long enough to make it back to Ankh-Morpork, Susan had nursed one beer until she'd wound down from angry and depressed to merely dizzy.
"I'm sure you know best, dear. And I'm sure whatever it is will pass."
That's one of the several things Susan liked about Beirs. Even the lone fully human patron refused to pry into others' business.
"I'm sure it will." To keep the small talk going, Susan shifted the topic. "What do you have planned for your sock money?"
"Oh, I've a little account at the Royal Bank," the widow replied. Her dried-apple face split into a surprisingly healthy grin. "I'll let the stuff multiply a little. No one'll let me buy more than one drink for 'em, so I may's well put the money where it'll do a little good." She leaned in, as if imparting secret knowledge, adding, "I dropped by the Small Gods' Cemetery, though. I heard through the grapevine that a new shovel and set of shears wouldn't be refused."
Susan commended her charitable impulse. They chatted for the next couple of hours, interrupted only by Mrs. Drull, a ghoul who catered for kids' birthday parties. Politely excusing herself, Susan left the old ladies to gossip in that efficient way only elderly females and certain men of a theatrical bent can. Bidding Igor the bartender goodnight, she departed.
Though Susan was too well-disciplined and not nearly drunk enough to weave on her feet, she left her defenses lower than usual. She didn't relax quite far enough to be good prey for any hardworking night prowler, but since she was feeling just a little self-destructive and a lot sorry for herself, she didn't hide her presence from anyone. Folks' attention, for once, utterly failed to slide past her. Thieves flicked their eyes uneasily at the skinny figure in black with a tied-down cotton-ball of white-blond hair with a black streak in. Seamstresses on their way to or from clients nodded respectfully at her and felt a cynical, surprised sort of gratification when Susan returned the courtesy.
It felt weird to have this many gazes on her, but she luxuriated in the curiosity and suspicion. She didn't know how many eyes followed her movements, but in this time and in this place, she didn't give anything that resembled a damn.
Five eyes of the dozens that followed Susan's progress gazed from rather farther away than she ever would have suspected.
"Can this be any more dull?" the owner of one eye complained. Watching Susan drink had had about two minutes of interest in it; it had gotten a little better when Fate had changed the view to the palace in Djelibeybi. Fate had blown into the vision, and a priest had clutched at his chest and fallen over, but then he'd shifted the view back to Susan on her way to join that boring old woman in the bar.
Jonathan Teatime poked at the vision - or was it merely a model? - of the Discworld. His human finger passed clean through, as though he'd tried to touch a rainbow. "Why can I not go back? I'd like to have my eye back, you know. There's so much to do, and I can't do it here."
Fate leaned back comfortably on his marble bench. It made up one side of a small amphitheatre, which centered on the small Discworld. Had he touched the Rim where Teatime had tried to touch it, the Great A'Tuin would've gone spinning in space; he'd done it once before, and the space turtle's sick had been recorded in history as the most interesting meteor shower ever seen.
"You've been gone four years," he told the Assassin, who blinked once before accepting the information. "It's unlikely you'd find it."
"The boy has it," Teatime replied.
Leadingly, Fate countered, "The boy had it four years ago. Nine-year-old humans are known to be scornful of things they had at five."
"I'd find it. It's mine."
"Hmm." This time, the response was disinterested. "You'll have to wait. Go find something to do."
A dagger, its blade dark and matte with lamp black, flew from its sheath and stopped an inch from Fate's neck. The stars-in-a-void eyes shifted in such a way as to imply they were looking at the dagger, which whined as it curled into a tight spiral.
"You bore me, boy," Fate sighed. "Be sure you don't annoy me. Go find something to do." A square hand rose and flipped dismissively.
Teatime found himself in an ice field that made up the godly part of Cori Celesti. He'd only once needled Fate into doing this before. Teatime started up this time, since going down last time had landed him back in the center of Dunmanifestin, where the model of the world floated. He'd been trying to get to the mundane part of the mountain, which made up the Hub and would lead him into the Ramtops and, eventually back to distant Ankh-Morpork. There were goats and yeti and, at some point, people; if he inhumed any of the three fairly early in his journey, he wouldn't freeze to death. Although Teatime hadn't been very good at avoiding death recently, he seemed to be doing fairly well at recovering. He'd try again.
At least it was something to do.
The screamer's job was to grab readers' attention. Since this one had penetrated Susan's hangover with a big, bold "DEATH STALKS NOBLE HALLS!", it had done its job admirably, for Susan was handing over a couple of pennies to young Markus, who respectfully lifted his soft cap to her. Absently, she advised him not to be late for class; twice this week was twice too often.
He lingered on a too-bright gap-toothed grin before he answered her. "Not to worry, Miss Susan!" he said. "You've made up my last tuppence for today. I'll go shine my face and be to school directly, see if I don't!"
Markus was just at the age to wonder about the differences between boys and girls and to take a sudden leap forward in creativity when alleviating his boredom. He was remarkably well-behaved for someone with few social skills and no friends. Susan was deeply invested in his being so. Susan kept an eye out for those children. Though she knew she could never put whole a shattered mind nor mend a fractured sense of self – nor even fend off the blows that would cause the breakage, no matter how much she wanted to do otherwise – Susan could sure as hell help build a metaphorical container to keep all the bits in. There would be no new Jonathan Teatimes on her watch.
So far, so good on that count. She was proud and grateful that she'd managed to moderate young Jason, who had been yearmates with Vincent (but who had at least another two years ahead of him at Madam Frout's. When one couldn't sit still for a lesson without adding this bit of metal to that beaker of water just to enjoy the light show and find out whether Miss Susan knew any interesting swears, one tended not to advance all that fast in school); he could now be relied on to announce his more distressing impulses before acting upon them. It didn't mean he always suppressed the impulses, but he did give her a sporting chance at distracting him.
As she reflected on that bit of progress, the teacher part of Susan wondered what she'd have been able to do with the mad Assassin if she'd gotten to him when he was young. She had so many experiences and ideas now that she hadn't had even five years ago, because Jason had taught her as much as she'd taught him. If nothing else, her threats had become extremely specific, legal, and actionable.
And it wasn't just monsters who had learned to avoid her; the Beggars', Theives', and Confectioners' Guilds now taught their inductees how to handle Miss Susan. If she could manage that and curb some of Jason's worst impulses, then...
Jonathan Teatime had been a child once; surely there was a point at which he had heeded threats instead of embodying them.
And that was where Susan shut down that line of thought. The firing of two more synapses would have her astride Binky and heading off to fix Teatime before she killed him.
She couldn't go back and fix him. Of course she couldn't do that! More, she wouldn't. Susan firmly reminded herself that probably she had only defeated that adversary by luck. Who knows when he'd gotten so badly broken? She wouldn't push luck that much just for pride's sake, just to show that she could. That sort of thing got up the Lady's nose, and the risk of angering someone that powerful probably wouldn't be worth whatever was gained. Teatime was dead; that was that.
Besides, Grandfather had been clear: What had happened had already happened; what would happen had also already happened. So, the point was, this mad young Assassin had grown up to kill many, which was part of his job, and had done so with vigor and excess, which probably wasn't. He'd tried to kill the Hogfather; Susan had stopped him. He'd tried to kill her; she'd returned the favor. He'd tried to kill her grandfather; she'd stopped him permanently. Those things had already happened, and going back in time to try to stop them happening wouldn't actually stop them happening.
The only time Death had deviated from this theme had been last night. Her grandfather had begun to ramble about Time's trousers. Metaphors got messy when she'd dated one (and had noticed nothing unusual about his trousers when he wasn't wearing saffron or starry-black robes) and called another "Granddad". She'd never even gotten to hear the whole trouser theory because the Duty had called Death away before he could finish his thought. And then she'd gone and gotten drunk.
So, no. Susan reminded herself that she simply tried to make sure the children within her scope of influence didn't become like Teatime, because she couldn't go back and make sure he didn't become like himself. It was simply out of the question, so she had to influence the future and be satisfied with not influencing the past.
Some schools of thought (headed locally by an orangutan) held that to change history would change all of subsequent history, which would alter you as you were when you decided to alter the past, and therefore you wouldn't decide to alter the past. As a result, this school of thought believed that people were changing history all the time and were thereby guaranteeing that they never went back and did it. *
While dating Lobsang, Susan had been so keen on being normal about it that she had no idea this school of thought existed. It didn't matter, because she wasn't going to go back in time, no matter how powerful the urge to make a difference.
She could guarantee it.
*Yetis had a slightly different take on the whole thing, but the net effect was the same; if you died, you could return to your save point and avoid your death on the next try. Live and learn, as it were.
Later that week, Susan had her grandfather over for tea. Her flat was tiny and in one of the middle-class neighborhoods that was just barely on the nicer side of the River Ankh, but she was quietly proud of it. It was where a real person with a real job lived.** And that real person with a real job could afford it more easily, having been promoted to Deputy Headmistress just this past Hogswatch. Madam Frout had made the sudden and final acquaintance with Susan's grandfather about a month after Susan had broken up with Lobsang. Though Madam Frout been barely middle-aged, she'd believed firmly in the Healthy Benefits of Regular Sport, so it had been a surprise to hear that she'd been found cold and stiff at her kitchen table before a bowl of porridge.
So, the senior teacher, Miss Halpern, had advanced to Madam Halpern; Susan, as the next senior*** and most lucrative teacher at the academy, had become Madam Halpern's deputy.
At the time, it had been pretty exciting. Madam Frout's plan for education had been, in fact, a Plan for Education Through Play, and it had been exceedingly silly and almost completely ineffective. On the small scale of her own classroom, Susan had counterbalanced the silliness with structured classes, critical thinking, creative field trips, interesting guest lecturers, and a crucially cynical understanding of human motivations. However, because she'd had no way to expand this curriculum to the rest of the school, rather more of her time than should be necessary was dedicated to undoing the damage done by well-meaning milquetoasts. The post of deputy headmistress gave her plenty of scope to change the tone of the place.
Half a year on, Susan came to the conclusion as she prepared for school that perhaps her reach had exceeded her grasp, and she was just adult enough to admit it. Though she was able to persuade, bully, or steamroll the other teachers into including at least one lesson on critical thinking into their plans, there had been little success. Most of the young women in her employ simply weren't capable of teaching those lessons, never having received them themselves. They hadn't benefited from the upbringing afforded by parents trying far too hard to counterbalance the metaphysical effects of having an anthropomorphic personification in the family.
Only Miss Atherton showed any aptitude, but she was exhibiting the symptoms of an unpaid accountant on the cusp of saying, "We'll have to hold the ceremony in the Temple of the Small Gods; my mother's an Anoian, and she'll kill me if I get married at the Temple of Blind Io."
All this was getting in the way of making a difference.
Susan took a moment to stare into the middle distance at this thought. It had had shades of capital letters starting to color it. It was reassuring to find a purpose just as she was entering a crisis of the early twenties, but it wouldn't do to have found a Purpose. That way lay spectacles on chains, hidden bottles of gin, and the idea that obedience walked hand-in-hand with permissiveness.
SUSAN?
Grimly, Susan shooed her thoughts into order and poured her grandfather a fresh cup of tea. She examined her lower-case purpose.
Make a difference. In what? To whom? And of what sort?
"I wish I could make more of a difference at school," she sighed, half answering herself and half answering her grandfather. Taking up her own cup and beginning to pace the bit of floor not taken up by the table that sometimes served duty as a desk, washstand, and butcher's block, Susan continued, "I could use the Voice, but that'd be cheating. I can't cheat. There'd be difference, but people have got to make it for themselves." She paused just long enough to take a sip of the tea. "Like Jason. I can't just reach in and flip all his switches. Rather, I shouldn't, even if I could - and I doubt it, because I think the damage is too permanent..."
She paused, frowning at the idea that had just sprang into her head. "He's too like Teatime." The name came out through gritted teeth, frustration and dread coloring it. Susan threw back the entire scalding cup in one gulp. Grimacing at the knowledge that she'd not be able to taste anything for two days, she asked plaintively, "What makes kids like that, anyway?"
Having remained silent the entire time and positively radiating concern, Death finally spoke up. ER, SUSAN? Wavering only a second, he said, YOU REALIZE IT'S A BIT POINTLESS TO WONDER. WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MAKE THEM THIS WAY HAS HAPPENED. IT IS NOT AS IF YOU CAN CHANGE IT. THINGS THAT HAPPEN STAY HAPPENED.
"I know, you've told me before. Repeatedly," she sighed. "I just can't help thinking that a little push at the right time could achieve something."
THAT WAY LIES SORROW, he warned. YOUR FATHER FOUND THAT OUT THE HARD WAY.
"At least I'll have tried," she retorted. She knew she sounded childish; she'd made the Power With A Purpose argument the first time she'd done this Death thing. She understood better, now, why she couldn't treat everything the way she treated most things - that is, authoritatively and decisively - but she also had a better idea of how the universe worked. Using the powers her heritage gave her judiciously was possible simply because she knew more of the Rules and could work around them.
"Besides," she added, "Queen Keliherenna is still alive." She could never get her parents to talk about it, but Susan had read the autobiography, and Her Majesty invited Susan to the capital every Soul Cake Tuesday and was never lacking for interesting stories.
THREE GODS OWED ME FAVORS. SHE SHOULD NOT HAVE LIVED. AND EVEN IF I COULD PULL THE TRICK AGAIN, I WOULD NOT. THAT BOY THREATENED YOU.
Just then, Death felt reality twist, another rent falling open, another life ending unexpectedly. Another life that Death had to usher into the afterlife, personally. Another absence that he couldn't hide in his omnipresence. A Fated absence. This time, he cursed aloud, surprising Susan almost out of her scowl.
"What's wrong?"
I CANNOT SAY.
"You cannot?" The scowl solidified again.
I'D LIKE TO. VERY MUCH.
Another important human life fell into his sphere of influence, leaving the edges of reality flapping and raveling slightly, lesser lives speeding from their current reality into the afterlife at those tears.
BUT IT WILL HAVE TO WAIT IF YOU WANT FOURECKS TO REMAIN POPULATED. He called the scythe to him and headed for the door. JUST... DON'T ACT RASHLY, WOULD YOU? Another city worth of lives popped free of reality. ALL RIGHT, I'M GOING!
The door would have slammed behind him if he hadn't merely used the expedient of passing straight through it.
**If Susan had her own income, she needn't take any money from the duchy's coffers, which Lord Bloemkoolveld was in turn using to establish dame schools in every village. And if she were making a difference - directly as well as indirectly - in the lives of others, then at least she could say that she had some purpose, even if it were just guaranteeing another generation of spinster teachers.
***For some reason, in Ankh-Morpork, a young woman who was good with children and could do sums and write letters could hardly go two terms without being proposed to by a number of entrepreneurs with a need for accountants who don't require wages. In the normal course of things outside Ankh-Morpork, such a woman would have to become a governess in the employ of a surly gentleman of considerable fortune with dark secrets if she ever wanted to marry.