Vimes stared out the window, watching an unattended cart roll by on the street. The Watch house was nearly empty as the shifts were changing. If he had any sense, he would have left long ago.
He should be home, he knew. Sybil would certainly have dinner on the table by now. He was too occupied to be hungry.
Just a few more minutes.
One day. One day and time was up. Two damn weeks and they were still no closer to solving the thing. And they weren't the only ones. Word on the streets was that the Agony Aunts were every bit as confused.
He should have left something, some trace, some something. But he hadn't. Just a dead woman, cut up like…
Vimes shook his head, officially deciding to stop thinking. It wasn't doing any good. He was only becoming increasingly frustrated.
He gathered up his cape and headed for the door. A good nights sleep might clear his head. He'd start over in the morning.
Azzie stood back and surveyed the constant mess in which she lived. While she didn't go so far as to actually let the cottage get unclean, it had slipped past the borders of untidy.
So she went to the closet and came back armed with a rag and a broom, she attacked.
It was a distinct sign of boredom. Azzie never cleaned except in her most absolutely restless moods. She hadn't been very active the past fortnight.
An hour later she sank into a chair, dusty and exhausted. For the first time in her occupying it, the cottage was spotless. It was a little frightening.
The cleaning frenzy had given her an appetite. She forced herself to get up and dragged her resisting feet towards the pantry. She pondered her choices.
Some cake and preserves would do. She opened a jar that was at the forefront of the shelf and sniffed delicately. It was still good.
She put a kettle on and laid out a plate and cutlery. As she chewed her mind wandered. The preserves had been a gift from Henry's mother, who had been made well aware of Azzie's cooking misadventures by her son. He'd – but no. She didn't want those memories brought up. Thinking of Henry caused uncomfortable pangs.
The meal was finished before the water was hot. She busied herself wiping down the already gleaming table until the kettle whistled.
She picked it up and the noise ceased. She moved to pour it but stopped.
Something was unquestionably and indefinably wrong. The feeling that time had stopped swept over Azzie. The sounds of the cottage; the clock ticking, the brush of her dress against the floor, all seemed faded.
There was no preventing it. That same painful buzzing deafened her as the vision took control.
An alley again, this time by some kind of elaborate and ornate building. Azzie squinted. A theatre, maybe? She couldn't tell, having had little experience in identifying grandiose structures.
Her mind reeled as she tried to imprint any significant details into her memory. A crunching alerted her to movement ahead.
The man's clothes were well tailored and fitted, the expensive kind. His cloak was a deep red.
As red as… Azzie felt faint. The blood pooled this time, having no rain to carry it away.
She couldn't help herself. "No!" she cried out, as much in anger as in fear. She reached her arm out towards the woman.
As quick as it had disappeared the room swam back into focus. Azzie was gripping the counter so hard her knuckles were white.
She let go and hissed in pain. Her hands were scalded.
She was trembling and sickened, but at least she had managed to stay on her feet. No one would have to run for Granny Weatherwax this time.
There wasn't anyone to fetch the witch even if she was needed. Azzie was alone. A sort of terror gripped her. Alone.
Azzie sat down on the floor, fighting the tears that threatened.
The grandeur of the Opera house was slightly spoiled by the sight of the body that lay not so far from it. Fancy stonework couldn't make up for that.
She was like the other one; a seamstress, down on her luck and desperate. Her eyes stared sightlessly up at Vimes, who found he could not meet them.
He turned away, clenching his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. It hadn't been enough. For all their investigating, for all their searching and scrutinizing, it still hadn't been enough. Another dead woman, another unsolved crime.
Vimes was angry in a way that could be described only as consuming. When he got his hands on that twisted little bastard…
A small thud alerted him that there were more important issues to be attended to. He looked at the newest member of the watch, who had just slid into a sitting position.
The boy had discovered the victim half an hour before. He seemed to still be in shock.
Vimes crouched beside him. "Lance- Constable Willington?"
He blinked and looked up, still unfocused. "Yes, sir?"
"I think you should go back to the watch house." He paused for a moment, and then decided to send the boy home. They could spare him, and he would be of no use whatsoever in the condition he was in. "Take the rest of the day off, if you'd like."
"Oh. Thank you." His voice was faint and unsteady.
Vimes moved to leave, but a hand on his arm stopped him. "Does it happen often?"
"What?"
"This. Does it happen often?"
Vimes looked steadily at the young man. The Watch was draining him. He'd seen it in new recruits before; that empty, exhausted expression. Willington was quiet, contemplative. A person like that was not equipped to handle finding murder victims in back alleys.
Vimes cleared his throat. "That depends on how you look at it." He said.
Vimes sat heavily down at his desk, rubbing his temples. His head was not being kind to him.
Fred Colon knocked on the doorframe. "Busy, sir?"
He grunted an affirmation.
"Well, its just that this here came for you…" the sergeant brandished a folded piece of paper, fastened with wax. "But if – "
Vimes nearly bowled him over. "What? What is it?" he tore through the seal under the astonished gaze of Colon. It was blank, except for three words.
Four days, Vimes.
The letter was jammed carefully in the door hinge. It was slightly grimy, streaked with earth and filth, but Azzie could still read her name scrawled across the back in Henry's spindly handwriting.
A smile flickered across her face. Henry was faithful in his correspondence. He wrote even when there was nothing significant to say.
She opened and unfurled it, letting the empty envelope fall to the table. The words were scribbled as though written in great haste. It was a short message, only a paragraph long.
Her hands shook as she read. She examined it again, to be sure.
It was just like you said, Azzie. Everything was just like you said…there was a sense of panic to the narrative.
The victim. The location. The cause of death. His description mirrored her vision from the previous night.
Azzie tossed the letter carelessly away. It had told her all she needed to know.
What she was doing was reckless. It was dangerous. Everyone she knew would disapprove, Granny Weatherwax most of all. The old witch had told her to keep her business to herself, to not run about trying to prevent premonition after premonition.
This was hardly a deterrent.
She pulled a small bag from the closet and packed it as full as she could with extra clothing and food. Her coin purse, sadly, jangled very little as it was added. Lancre operated more on trade than cash.
Her broom was standing by the door. She picked it up, holding it under one arm as she pulled the door open. She hesitated for a moment, glancing back.
The hat hung on its hook, displaying quite a collection of dust. It hadn't been worn for ages.
She took it along as an afterthought. People were more likely to respect a witch than they were Azalea Mukkins, divination practicing village girl in a state about events yet to come.
Ankh- Morpork. She was going to Ankh- Morpork.