Lancre's ever present wind whistled under the crack in Granny Weatherwax's door. Its shriek faded to a low moan as it moved on to torment leaves and complicated hairdo's elsewhere.
Out in that wind, a falcon soared high above the canopy of the forest. It dropped in elevation, making a landing on a branch swinging back and forth in the gale, and looked out across the landscape. It blinked.
Granny sat up. She placed her card carefully on the mantle and swung her feet over the side of the bed.
There was a cat outside. She could hear it yowling in the off key melodies of cats everywhere, but only barely. The wind nearly drowned it out.
No sooner had she stood up than was there a furious hammering on the door. She pulled it open to reveal the Willington boy, disheveled and disordered from the bluster.
The faint aroma of wine hung about him, but he was not drunk. To the contrary, he had the look of a man who had seen something to sober him up very quickly.
"Granny Weatherwax, you've got to come quick!" he panted. His face was flushed red, and he was short of breath. He had obviously run all the way. "Something's wrong with Azzie."
The witch grabbed her hat and wrap. "What happened?" she asked, although she already knew.
"I don't know." Henry said desperately. "One minute she was fine and the next she was shaking and screaming…and… I didn't know what to do!"
Granny ran towards the drop, broom in hand. "You go home!" she shouted over her shoulder. She leapt astride the broomstick. As usual the magic didn't take for a minute, and she fell into the chasm, nearly hitting the tops of trees.
When it caught she swooped up and over Lancre, soaring higher and faster than the bird she had only just been. The torrents of wind made it a little difficult to fly, but she hadn't been using the broomstick for cleaning all these years.
Azzie's cottage was a small, shingled speck below. Granny Weatherwax spiraled downward, skidding to a stop in the garden. She strode in through the open door.
There was a huddle of people in the room. One was a thin, fidgety woman with bright red hair the exact color of carrots. Granny recognized her as the girl's mother. The other two were miscellaneous male relatives.
She leaned her broom against a wall. They moved out of the way silently.
Azzie herself was sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to her chin. She was trembling, her eyes wide and darting. The child looked terrified.
Granny knelt before her. She could see the grip fear had on the girls mind. Very gingerly, she released it. Headology could be a useful thing.
The young witch looked around, confused. "I … but…" she had stopped shaking.
Her mother rushed forward, wailing. "Oh Azzie, I thought – "
She was cut off abruptly as the girl leapt to her feet. "Murder!" she shouted, stumbling forward frantically.
Her family gaped at her, taking a step back, except her mother, who stood still with her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were welling up.
"Murder." Azzie said again. "There's been a murder! I saw it… I …" she stopped. "But not here." She said quietly.
Granny cleared her throat. "This girl needs to rest now." She said. "So you'll all be going home."
"But – " Mrs. Mukkins protested.
"Home." There was no room for argument in the word.
They left reluctantly, Azzie's mother stealing tearful glances at her daughter. Granny Weatherwax shut the door behind them.
She turned back to the girl, who had eased herself into a chair and was sitting stiffly at the table. She fixed her with a stare.
"We are going to have a talk."
The early morning rays of the sun lit the horizon. Or they would have, had the day not been as rainy and miserable as it was.
The day was a few things. It was cold. It was stormy. It was also early.
Commander Vimes of the Ankh – Morpork City Watch lit a cigar. The smoke curled up and faded into the wind. He put the packet back in his helmet.
The body lay a few feet from him. It was covered under a cloak provided by one of the officers, to keep out the rain and lessen the stares. Nobody needed to know what it hid.
And nobody should, Vimes thought grimly. The woman, a former member of the Seamstresses guild, had been nearly dissected. The cuts had been made with icy, calculated precision, her organs laid carefully beside her.
At least he knew it wasn't a doctor.
Vimes felt a distinct sense of unease as he looked down at the blanketed heap. He'd been patrolling the streets for many years and seen a great deal of gruesome things. But nothing like this.
Most murders had a reason behind them. Robbery, jealousy, a long-standing grudge. This one was different. The thorough, almost ritualistic aspects suggested something else altogether.
Someone had done this because they enjoyed it.
Azzie walked quickly through the village market, staring fixedly at the ground ahead of her. The people milling about the stands stared and whispered. Some even poked their heads out of windows to get a glance.
What had occurred the previous night was something she didn't particularly want as common knowledge. So naturally, everyone knew. Her mother had probably gone home and told anyone who would listen.
Her head was spinning. She couldn't seem to get her thoughts to sit still for even the smallest fragment of time. Sight? Her? It didn't make any sense. It made less than sense.
She reached Henry's house just in time to see him head out the door. "Wait!" she shouted, jogging towards him.
He looked surprised to see her. "You're up?" he asked. "Are you sure you should be? Shouldn't you be in bed, or something?"
She shook her head. "I'm fine, Henry."
"I was just about to go see you. I would've been earlier, but your mother said you needed rest."
"I'm fine." She said again. She peered at him, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly unfocused gaze. "Henry, did you sleep?"
He shrugged. "I was worried." He looked at her in a concerned way that was very embarrassing. "Are you sure you're okay?"
She sat down on the step. "No." she sat silent for a moment. "I'm sure you've heard what people are saying."
"Anything from you had a fit to something about a poultry spell gone wrong. The rumours aren't very clear at this point."
"Granny Weatherwax says I've got the Sight."
"Sight?" he sat down beside her. "Like visions?"
She nodded. "Like visions."
He paused, and then asked the question slowly. "Is that what –-"
"Yes." She answered shortly, in a tone that stated no further discussion would be allowed.
"Oh." He said. "Do you want to come in for a cup of tea, or something?"
"Okay." The stability of tea in a warm house seemed like a good idea.
Even more so when somebody else was making it.
Vimes sifted through the papers on his desk in an effort to find Cherry Littlebottom's report on the seamstress. His attempt was in vain. Like so much before it the desk had simply engulfed the paperwork. He would have to ask her himself later.
There was a knock on the door. "Come in." Vimes shouted absentmindedly.
Nobby stood there with an envelope in his hand. "This just arrived, sir."
"What is it?" Vimes grunted, shoving aside a pile so he could see.
"Dunno. S' got your name on it."
It was true. Vimes's name was printed neatly across the paper in black script. He tore it open and unfolded the letter.
He scanned the words quickly, tensing as he read. "Nobby?"
"Yessir?"
"Where did this come from?"
Nobby looked confused, or as confused as someone of his appearance could. "The post."
Vimes lay the letter down. His eyes fell on a line near the end.
In two weeks time, another one dies.
Azzie walked through the woods, glancing from time to time up at the thick tangle of trees that surrounded her. She felt jittery, panicky even on paths she had known since childhood. Something rustled in the underbrush and she quickened her pace.
She found herself wishing she had stayed at Henry's, or at least taken her broomstick. The familiar forest seemed to have shadows and angles it hadn't before. Azzie could imagine unfriendly eyes staring out at her from every possible hiding spot.
Gods, she was getting positively paranoid. She wondered if the rest of her life would be like this. Did getting visions do this to everyone?
It was the knowledge that he was still out there, she realized. Not that she thought he would come after her, or anything so foolish. The killing hadn't taken place in Lancre, she knew. The little country didn't have cities of such magnitude. The best the nation could manage was large townships, and those were rare.
But he could do it again. And she could see it again.
In the meantime, Azzie decided, she was going to run the rest of the way home.
The desk was a solid, antique one; the kind of craftsmanship that lasts. Paper was stacked neatly in one corner, the sheets stark white against the rich brown finish.
The writer paused, then placed his quill down and examined his handiwork. It was satisfactory.
He smiled. It was time to see how well Vetinari's terrier could hunt.