The wrath of Aziraphale was absolutely nothing compared to a few sharp words from Granny Weatherwax. Nanny however, was remaining steadfastly unrepentant.

"I don't see how it's my fault Esme," she said. "I wasn't the one who did it. Besides, everyone's always saying how these politicians and royals should make love not war; and it's not as if any kiddies saw it happening. You should know, you was sitting there telling off Mr. Punch."

"Gytha Ogg, you're going to get up this minute, and help me sort this mess out."

"Yes Esme." Nanny sighed; there was really no arguing with Granny when she said things in that tone of voice.

—

Aziraphale was doing his level best to make the people entwined in the ballroom, as guilty, repentant and un-entwined as possible. He wasn't having much success. The denizens of Discworld seemed to be rather resilient to angelic interference. It was really rather disheartening. In the end he decided to give up and have one of the delicious looking pastry things that had been carelessly abandoned on a side table. They tasted even better than they looked, though Aziraphale was quite unable to place all of the ingredients in the chocolate topping. It was not enough to have one, so he ate another, and another, and yet another. This display of unbridled gluttony was only interrupted when he was tapped on the back by a mildly concerned looking old woman.

He spluttered. "Mrs. Ogg, I was just er..."

"How many of those have you had?" she demanded.

"Just a few," he replied, guiltily. This was not technically a lie. Many or few is a completely relative concept.

"Oh bloody 'ell."

"What's wrong?"

"You might remember me mentioning my Special Secret Sauce earlier."

Aziraphale nodded politely. It wasn't the sort of thing one was able to easily forget.

"Well, that's what's on them that you've just eaten."

"What!"

"There was a mix up in the kitchens. Still, it probably doesn't do anything to angels like you." Nanny's voice implied hope rather than expectation.

The room began to seem increasingly hot and stuffy. Aziraphale's clothes suddenly felt very uncomfortable and restrictive. Taking them off began to seem like a very attractive option. Thoughts of clothing removal however, began to put him in mind of certain occasions in which apparel had been removed solely in order to let Crowley touch his bare skin. Such thoughts were not conducive to the maintenance of either dignity or equilibrium. There was only one thing for it. "Mrs. Ogg, I would be very grateful if you could point me in the direction of the nearest ice cold stream."

"About a mile and a half south of here," said Nanny, looking just a tad concerned.

"Thank you, very much obliged."

Aziraphale ran, or rather, lurched uncomfortably out of the ballroom, down the hallway, and out into the courtyard, where he shocked many of the post Special Sauce joggers by gracelessly unfurling his wings and taking to the air.

The river that Mrs. Ogg had directed him to was quite easy to spot from the air. It looked so very blissfully cool. There were even small chunks of ice floating on the surface. Five minutes after Aziraphale's landing however, and there were jets steam rising from the surface.

—

After one and a half hours of attempting to locate the castle library Crowley decided to take a break. The castle was even more bloody enormous on the inside that it looked from the air. He'd walked through a seemingly endless series abandoned armouries, hidden stairways, and forgotten wine cellars (from which he had been sure to liberate a few samples for further inspection), before admitting to himself that he was well and truly lost.

Currently he was standing in an enormous cobweb laden room with one tiny window, and being assailed by the feeling that somebody, or something, was standing right behind him. He swallowed nervously. "Wasn't expecting to see you here."

"I GET EVERYWHERE."

"Look, you're not come for me have you?"

"NO. THOUGH I DO WONDER WHAT YOU ARE DOING HERE."

Crowley turned around to look the anthropomorphic personification of Death in the skull. "I don't see what it had to do with... you're wearing a Hogfather hat."

"I'M GETTING INTO THE SPIRIT OF THINGS."

—

As the water of the previously icy river did its job Aziraphale managed to will most of the Special Secret Sauce out of his body. This was rather more difficult than he had anticipated owing to the fact that, in his eagerness to take a cold bath, he had forgotten to ask what the actual ingredients were. Still he was feeling much more like his usual self, if far wetter and colder. There was, of course, the problem that he'd just unfairly blamed the demon for something he hadn't actually done. Feelings of mild to moderate guilt began to set in, and he was suddenly confronted by the awful possibility that Crowley too had unknowingly partaken of the spiked pastries; and the demon was far less likely than Aziraphale to opt for the ice cold water solution. There was only one thing for it. He'd have to go back to the castle and apologise.

Much to his relief, Aziraphale eventually found Crowley alone, and stylishly reclining, on an ancient red and gold upholstered chaise lounge; in a cavernous, dusty room, filled with an array of ornate, yet utterly dilapidated, furniture.

"Crowley I... I'm... It was the dessert," he blurted out.

Crowley turned and regarded him with an almost dazed expression.

"I thought you'd incited that orgy in the ballroom, but it turns out that one of the kitchen maids accidentally put some of Mrs. Ogg's special sauce in the chocolate pudding. Crowley, I'm sorry, I really am."

There was no response from Crowley.

"Look, I know you're probably furious with me at the moment, but could you at least say something. Please?

Crowley cleared his throat, opened his mouth, as if to speak, and proceeded to say absolutely nothing. It was as if he were completely unable to put whatever it was he wanted to articulate into words.

"Crowley are you all right?" said Aziraphale, his tone shifting from apologetic to concerned. "You haven't been experimenting with those Octarine Darted Tree Frogs again have you?"

Crowley shook his head. "I've just seen Death; well, an aspect of him."

"That is perfectly normal, isn't it? He does work anywhere in which living things can conceivably die; and with all of these cobwebs around that chandelier it isn't particularly surprising that he'd make a personal appearance."

"Angel, in six thousand years of existence have you ever known Azrael to don a novelty party hat and attach a piece of silver tinsel to his scythe?"

"What, you mean he..." Aziraphale trailed off; there really wasn't a sensible response he could think of.

"Exactly. He's apparently also sub-contracted the death of rats out to a five inches tall skeletal rodent known as the 'Grim Squeaker'."

"Grim Squeaker? Crowley are you sure you haven't been experimenting with brightly coloured amphibians."

"No, Go... someone's honest truth. I was lounging around up here pondering the nature of existence when..."

"Sulking you mean?"

"I wasn't sulking I was... well maybe I was sulking, a bit, but it was all your fault. Oh, and don't think I've forgiven you for it yet."

"I said I was sorry Crowley, there really isn't a great deal else I can do."

"There is one thing you could do," said Crowley, suddenly wearing an expression that was not so much suggestive as downright lascivious.

Aziraphale sighed. "My dear, you really do seem to have developed a rather one-track mind of late. One rather wonders how you coped before we started...erm...."

"What, shagging?"

"Well, yes; if you really must insist on putting it so crudely."

"How would you rather I put it? Making tender love on the hearth rug? In case you haven't realised, we're not characters in a bloody seventies romance novel."

"You're being thoroughly infuriating," said Aziraphale, a note of irritation entering his voice. "Besides, you know full well that neither of us so much as owns a hearth rug."

Crowley opened his mouth, as if to make a pithy reply, and then closed it again; having seemingly decided that pithy replies wouldn't be particularly conducive to the attainment of his eventual, and really quite transparent, aims. Instead, he set his glass down on the floor, stood up, and slid an arm tightly around the angel's waist.
Aziraphale scowled. "Crowley, I demand that you remove your hands from my person this instant."

The demon sighed in the most exaggerated manner possible, and released his grip.

"Thank you. As I was saying, you managed to go six thousand years without me pandering to your every carnal whim; I don't see why you can't go for one without..."

Crowley snorted. "You pandering to my every carnal whim? Excuse me, but whose idea was it to tie me to the bedposts in that country hotel? It sure as Glasgow wasn't mine. And let's not forget what you did with that carton of sticky toffee ice cream."

Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush at the memory. "At least that was a private room; as oppose to the largest furniture shop in the country."

"I don't recall you complaining at the time. In fact, if I remember rightly, it was you that kept me there for four hours the morning after."

"Well, I seem unable to recall you making any objection to being tied up. Unless of course there exists an obscure language wherein 'Oh yes angel, just like that' somehow translates as 'cease and desist immediately'."

The argument could have gone on for a very long time, had not a white haired young woman in a black dress, whose entire demeanour screamed schoolteacher, drifted through the wall without warning. Well, to tell the truth, she didn't so much drift through the wall as glide purposefully, and her demeanour was such that had it really screamed, it would have undoubtedly been docked one silver star, and banned from the toy corner for the rest of the day.

"EXCUSE ME... Damn it's happening again. I mean; excuse me, but you wouldn't happen to have seen a very tall thin gentleman come this way?"

"You mean tall, thin gentleman, as in, say, Death?" said Crowley, not quite sure whether to be stunned, or just irritated, by this new interloper.

"Yes, have you seen him?"

"Walked through here wearing a novelty party hat a minute or two ago."

"Oh poo... I mean, oh shit. He must be trying to get into the spirit of things again. Ever since that business with the Hogfather, he's been trying to...."

"Business with the Hogfather?" interrupted Aziraphale, looking alarmed.

"Long story. It's just that he appears to be neglecting his duties as Death."

"Neglecting his duties as Death, how is that possible?"

"BECAUSE I CAN BE ROPED IN TO HELP OUT WITH THE FAMILY BUSINESS."

"Family business?"

"I'm his granddaughter, Susan."

"Granddaughter? How on earth did he... I mean..."

"Long story. Now which direction did he go in?"

Crowley pointed hesitantly at the east wall. "I...erm... I think he was heading for Klatch."

"THANK YOU CRAWLY," said Susan, before promptly vanishing into thin air.

For several minutes there was silence as both angel and demon process to digest this new, and frankly rather disturbing, information about the most powerful of the apocalyptical horsepersons.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, eventually giving up on trying to somehow mesh the concepts of Death, grand-daughter, Susan, and Hogfather. "I think I need a drink."

The demon wordlessly picked up a half-empty bottle of Bear Huggers' Single Malt from the floor, and handed it to him.

"Thank you," said the angel, before downing the contents in one.

—
Corporal Cheery Littlebottom was hopelessly lost. She had been trying to find the kitchens in order to fetch Lady Sybil some warm milk for young Sam, but had somehow ended up in what looked to be a very large corridor, lined with dust covered paintings, and filled with lots of well dressed, yet rather dishevelled, people; who appeared to be trying to make sense of recent - and never to be referred to again - events in the ballroom.

"Erm... excuse me," she said, to a tired looking, dark haired young woman, who was holding what looked and smelled like an extra-large, extra-strong, cup of Klatchian Red. "But you couldn't tell me where the kitchens are from here could you?"

"Back out of the gallery, fourth door on the right," the woman replied, taking a sip.

"Thank you." She paused for a moment and looked at the enormous cup she was carrying with concern. "Look I know this probably none of my business, but haven't you seen the public awareness campaign?"

"Which one?"

"You know: 'If you do caffeinated, don't do knurd'."

"Heh, it'll take more than this to get me knurd."

"But in Ankh Morpork they only sell it in tiny glasses."

"Look, have you ever had a mad stalker threaten to steal all your coffee and replace it with the D-word?"

"Well... no," said Cheery, not quite sure what the D-word was.

"Then you can't possibly understand why I need to do this." With that she took a defiant gulp from the gigantic mug.

Cheery smiled politely, and backed away slowly. The woman was clearly completely mental. As she was about to turn back toward the way she came however, somebody caught her eye. It was a short, auburn haired man, who had a large heart-shaped birthmark on the back of his neck. She was sure she'd seen him somewhere before, but couldn't quite put her finger on where. In The Times maybe, or perhaps in Completely Women. It was then that it hit her; he was person number six on the Ankh Morpork Most Wanted list. As the man disappeared up the staircase at the other end of the gallery, she knew she had to find the other members of the watch; and fast. The problem was that running in a cerise ball gown, whilst holding a large axe, and wearing iron-reinforced kitten heals, was nigh on impossible. In the end, the best she could manage was a fast hobble.