Azzie opened her eyes slowly. They seemed unwilling to respond. The room faded in and out in time with the throbbing of her head. She stared up at cracked gray walls and a dripping ceiling.
It was cold. She pulled the sparse blanket tight around her and shivered. It did little to help.
She turned her head to the side. There were bars. She blinked.
What in the hells – oh.
She remembered, unfortunately. The events of the previous night ran through her head, making it hurt even worse. Thinking was not an activity she wanted to do at the moment.
Azzie could hear voices outside her cell, faintly. One was lisping slightly. The other had Ankh- Morpork written all over it. She rolled over and pretended to sleep.
"She got quite the knock on the head." There were footsteps now. "Lucky she didn't get hurt worthe."
"Gave Nobby a good smack, I know that."
"Corporal Nobbs will recover, I'm sure." This voice was new. It seemed to have authority over the other ones. They called it sir.
"Did anyone else notice the hat?" asked the second speaker in a hushed whisper. "That means she's a witch, it does."
"There were witches in Uberwald." It seemed to be a foray into memory. Azzie knew she recognized the accent from somewhere.
"My Mum said never to trust witches. Might turn you into something…unnatural."
Despite herself Azzie felt a spark of righteous indignation. She sat up and glared. "What was that about witches?"
There were three men in front of her. They all wore watchmen's uniforms, but that was where the resemblance ended. One was exceedingly scruffy and had an expression that suggested he was permanently angry. Another had a face that was strangely scrambled, and could have been called lopsided. Definitely an Igor.
The third was heavy and red faced. He looked as though he was contemplating the many definitions of unnatural.
"Well?" she snapped, tossing off the blanket and standing up.
He panicked, eyes darting frantically back and forth. "Err…I'll…I'll go do what you said, will I, Mr. Vimes?
Without waiting for an answer he darted off, moving surprisingly quickly for a man his size. The man called Vimes watched him go with something akin to amusement.
He pulled a cigar packet from his helmet and lit one.
Azzie felt her headache worsen.
Vimes studied the girl sitting in the elderly chair usually stored away in the corner of his office. She had the air of one short on patience and with an abundance of stress. Never a good combination. He should know.
He tossed an envelope onto the ever-expanding pile of papers that was his desk. It nearly slid off.
"You don't happen to know what that is, do you?"
She stared at him blankly. "What?"
He sighed. "I didn't think so." The small white square mockingly announced his name in beautifully penned script. The message ran through his mind. Right under your nose, isn't it, Commander? "What were you doing in the alley?"
"Having a nice nighttime stroll." She snarled.
Vimes bristled. He had exactly no time for this. And he told her so. "If all you're going to do is hold me up – "
She leapt to her feet, eyes blazing. "Hold you up? I see what that …that…" she seemed to falter. "…I see what he does, every single time he does it! Do you have any idea what that's like?" her voice was rising fast towards obvious hysteria.
Vimes felt understandably disconcerted, being fairly inexperienced when it came to calming panicked females. "There's no need – why don't – sit down!" it ended in a roar.
She dropped into the seat suddenly drained. Her fury vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I see them die." She said softly. "It won't stop until he does."
Vimes looked up sharply. "You're a witness?"
"No." she sounded exhausted. "Not a witness." She was mute for a few more moments before asking, "Can I leave now?"
Her permission came in the form of a nod. There was nothing to hold her on, even if he'd wanted to. Discovering a body wasn't a crime.
He was left alone, in his mess of an office, wondering what had just happened.
"This is it." Henry said, swinging open the door to reveal a room sparse in its furnishings.
"It's nice." Azzie said, or rather tried to say. She was cut short by a yawn.
Mrs. Collins had been rather testy until Henry had claimed Azzie was a relative. She wondered why landladies always seemed to be called 'Mrs.' when there was rarely a Mister about.
She dumped her belongings on the floor and stumbled in, fatigue making every movement require too much effort. She did notice a few paintings in the collection that were new.
"What's those?" she managed to ask, pointing. The person in them looked incredibly familiar.
He turned his trademark red. "Oh." He muttered. "Uh, I dunno. You're a good subject, I guess."
So that was who it was. Azzie wasn't sure how to react. Forget reacting, she thought. She'd react in the morning. In the meantime the bed looked incredibly comfortable, so she took advantage of it.
"What time do you want me to wake you?" Henry asked while making himself a bed on the floor.
Azzie did not hear him, as she was already snoring.
Nanny Ogg topped off her mug, adding a little something stronger to warm the bones. She smiled as spiders in the rafters fainted from the fumes. It was satisfactory.
The door to her cottage slammed open and in strode Granny Weatherwax. An irate Weatherwax too, brandishing a piece of paper.
"Look what that girl has done.' She fumed, waving her evidence around. "Just look what that girl has done, Gytha."
Nanny took the document and read it. It was a letter from that Willington boy to Azalea Mukkins. She sighed and responded in a way that was characteristically Nanny Ogg.
"Oh, bugger."