After being smited by Talonvine's Day and pineapples, I cannot hope to do anything better. And I didn't actually have Carrot plan a surprise for Angua, the fic's sort of just... coming along. ;; With awful OOCness.

Somewhat uninspired. As I post it I've missed Valentine's Day, sorry, so the conclusive chapter will come later too.

I'm going to warp canon timeline a little because I greatly prefer Magrat to Agnes. Also, Verence/Magrat is adorable. Also, can't remember if Carrot met the witches before, so I'm just doing it as I know it. Song from Hamlet.

While researching, this line cracked me up: "Remember, you cannot say to the grease, Be Soap. You have to follow instructions."

--

"To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning bedtime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine... would you pass the pork grease, please?" Magrat Garlick raked a few strands of damp, stringy hair out of her eyes and in doing so, dislodged a limp daisy that had been tucked behind her ear. "Oh, bother it."

Gytha Ogg, better known as Nanny Ogg, rose and passed a grimy wooden bowl to Magrat, who energetically dumped the contents into the enormous cauldron she was stirring.

"And while you're at it, could you just hand me that saucepan of goose fat... thank you. Granny, are you done with breakfast yet?"

"How can I," grumbled Granny Weatherwax, "with you cooking that horrible stew that'd put anybody who's anything off his or her food at any time?"

Magrat said nothing but her cheeks flushed. "Are you done with breakfast, Granny?" she repeatedly.

"Yes, I am."

"Thanks," said Magrat stiffly, taking her plate. There was a half-eaten, oozing sausage on it. She squeezed the dripping grease out of the sausage into the pot and stirred it feverishly.

"Is that horsemeat I smell?" Nanny asked, wrinkling her already-wrinkled nose. "That lunch, then, Magrat?"

"No, it's soap," said Magrat earnestly, wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow. "I'm trying a special recipe I got from one of the girls down in the village."

"Oh," said Nanny Ogg loudly and dismissively. "Just soap, then." When Granny Weatherwax looked away, she bent near Magrat and whispered almost just as loudly, "Did you put any moors in it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Amour, girl, amour, when something's got a moor in it, it's persuasive." Nanny Ogg winked enormously. "Anything... special for young Verence?"

Magrat flushed even redder. "It's just... going to have some orange and lavender and rosemary," she said desperately.

"And the gooey parts of three pigs, too."

"Just so you know, that is what soap is made of," Magrat said hotly, "and I've already made moulds in the shape of little ducks."

"Little ducks? For Valentine's Day?" Nanny Ogg looked crestfallen. "Well, it's... it's very thoughtful of you, Magrat."

"It's ridiculous," said Granny Ogg decisely, suddenly re-entering the conversation. "I won't have you fussing over any flibbety-jibbety, moorish business, young Magrat, do you hear?"

Fuming, Magrat tossed her head and resumed stirring. As she stirred she warbled,

"Then up be rose and donn'd his clo'es
And dupp'd the chamber door..."

There came an enormous knock on the door. Magrat jumped, splashing some of the soap, which happily began to eat into the stone floor.

"I'll get it," Granny Weatherwax said, getting to her feet imperiously.

"Keep singing, Magrat, I'm beginning to remember this one," Nanny Ogg said.

"Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never depa-a-arted more."

The soap mixture was thickening like quick-drying cement, and looked a bit like porridge that was maybe six months old. Copious black steam issued from it, making Magrat cough.

"I remember it now!" Nanny Ogg crowed. "We'll sing it together, then..."

"Umm, maybe I'll skip the next verse," Magrat mumbled. "Maybe you should - "

"By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame! (for shame, indeed)
Young men will – oh my."

Standing by Granny Weatherwax was a young man of godlike proportions. Magrat dropped the ladle she had been stirring the soap with. It sank into the cauldron with a forlorn gloop, and a moment later the handle resurfaced, bobbing to the top like a drowning man before being swept under by a wave of thick gray oil.

"Hello," said Carrot pleasantly.

"Oh, hello," said Magrat rather breathlessly.

"Is this where I can find the three great witches of the Ramtops?"

"Oh, yes," Nanny Ogg said, a peculiar gleam in her eyes, "And...

...young men will do't if they come to't,

By Cock, they are to blame!"

"Nanny!" Magrat gasped, mortified.

"Did you write that?" Carrot asked, looking excited. "I'm looking for someone who can tell me how to write poetry..."

'Oh, I don't know about poetry," Nanny simpered, "But I do know a couple songs, and a mighty fine one about a hedge-"

"Oh, you don't want none of her sort, it isn't for the likes of nice young men like you," said Granny Weatherwax, in a way that was more Granny than Weatherwax.

"Nonsense, it's exactly what every young man needs to know. It's for a certain young lady, isn't it? Ooh, there's nothing like a serenade to win you a girl. When I was a young -"

"Wouldn't you like a cup of tea? I could make one, if you'd like," Magrat squeaked. Carrot glanced at the cauldron on the fire, now hissing and crackling, and shook his head politely.

"Now what you need for a good serenade," Nanny Ogg continued, "is a balcony."

"A balcony?"

"Yes, a balcony is very important. Then you need roses. Roses everywhere. You can hold another rose between your teeth..."

"But then I wouldn't be able to sing, would I? And... really, I'd rather not sing, if that's alright with you..."

"No singing? Ah well. So you're looking for poems?"

"Well," said Carrot, taking out a pencil and a folded piece of paper, "do you know any word that rhymes with Angua?"

There was a long silence.

"What you could do," Nanny Ogg ventured, "is write 'To Angua' at the very top of the page and then carry on."

Carrot chewed the end of his pencil. "Would that work?"

"Do we know any other poetry? Esme?"

Granny Weatherwax frowned down her nose, which was unfair to the nose, really. "In a land far away, there is a kind of poem called a high ku." She paused to let this sink in. "The first and third lines hav five syllables and the second line has seven. So that would be something like...

"This is a high ku

It's taller than a low ku

Or a medium one."

"I've learned a lot," Carrot said, "But I still don't feel... well..."

Would a poem make it up to Angua?

"Oh, don't make long faces," said Nanny. "We're sorry we couldn't help. Affairs of the heart is tricky business."

"Maybe you could take her a present," Magrat supplied. "A gift speaks a thousand words."

"But a gift also puts you into a horse's mouth," Nanny Ogg countered.

"But thank you all so much. I've got to leave now, if I'm to make it back into Ankh-Morpork in time."

Granny Weatherwax showed him to the door. As he was leaving, she muttered, "I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. She'll know how you feel. Things like that always show. And words are just words. Remember that."

As Carrot headed for the road back to the city, he did feel a little comforted. But he couldn't forget how he's seen Angua with the little white dog in her lap, tickling it under its chin.

--

"Coast is clear," Sally hissed, tagging Angua's shoulder as she sprinted by. "Phase two, go now!"

With one hand firmly over Feathers' muzzle, Angua rushed him to the Patrician's doorstep and set him down. Cheery jumped up to pull the doorbell, before running after Angua back around the corner where Sally was waiting.

They could hear footsteps inside the house. Feathers whined and tilted his head, looking bewildered. Then he bounded off the doorstep and around the corner after them.

"No! Feathers, go home, go home," Angua moaned. "Back! Home! That way!"

The door opened and a clerk popped his head out to find the doorstep empty. Grumbling, he retreated back into the house.

Feathers licked Angua's hand.

"So what do we do now?"

"Could you Change and then escort him to the door again?"

"Why don't you Change into hoardes of bats and drop him through a window?"

"Let's just try again, maybe this time he'll stay..."

They tried again. Feathers did not stay. The clerk was visibly annoyed now and slammed the door.

"It's not working, Cheery."

"Go back, Feathers! Back! Back!"

"Third time's a charm? I think I know what might work."

"You're putting him on the porch this time."

They tried a third time. Angua rang the bell. Sally lowered a wriggling Feathers onto the doorstep and ran around the corner. Immediately Feathers set off after her.

She spun around, fangs bared. "Bad dog! Back! Back!"

Feathers whimpered and made for Angua.

"Go on, you've got to Say the Words," Sally whispered.

Angua swallowed. "Bad dog," she managed. "Go back now. Stay."

Tears gathered in Feathers' enormous brown eyes, and glistened in a truly heart-wrenching way. Tail between his legs, he turned around and slumped towards the doorstep just as the door opened. It was the Patrician himself.

"Feathers!" came Vetinari's voice. "Where have you been? To think you almost missed Valentine's Day..."

Angua groaned and sat down. "That was awful of you, Sally."

"No problem."

Cheery sighed, and then assumed an expression of enthusiasm. "Pineapple dakries, anyone?"