Chapter 4

I can't see your star

I can't see your star

Though I patiently waited, bedside

For the death of today

I can't see your star

The mechanical lights of Lisbon

Frightened it away

--Evanescence, "Star"

Susan was grading papers. Normally, this was a rather relaxing and enjoyable time for her, but there were some things that could not be remedied.

For example, her box of chocolate was gone. This was completely unacceptable. Someone had been into them. Maybe one of the chil—

SQUEAK.

Oh, never mind.

"I thought I said to leave me alone here. At home, fine. But not here." The Death of Rats, gnawing on Susan's last chocolate, a luscious dark cherry delight, gave a muffled GUEAGH, by way of apology. Sighing, Susan knew that this aspect of her grandfather only showed up when he needed something he was either too embarrassed or incapable of getting himself.

Quoth flew in through Susan's window, and alighted down on the circle map of the Disc by Susan's desk.

"Well, I s'pose the rat's here, eh?" he said.

Susan replied curtly, "That's right. And you can just tell my grandfather—"

The Death of Rats started to snigger. SNH. SNH. SNH. Quoth shouted "Shut up, will you? It's not even funny. This is serious." Occasionally Susan was intrigued by something; this was one of them. The Grim Squeaker hadn't been particularly urgent about speaking, which meant it wasn't important. But Quoth seemed to think it was.

"Well?" she said, after a long , embarrassed silence from Quoth. 'What is it? And this better be good; I need to catch up on my grading." Quoth took a deep breath, and let loose, "Well, you know how your granddad gets these funny thoughts, right?" Susan was getting a small frown line to embed itself on her brow; this was not what she wanted to hear. How could he? Now, of all times? Just when things were becoming somewhat nor---no, routine. She would never dare use the word normal in reference to herself ever again.

"What is it?" she asked, exasperated. "What's he gone and done now?"

The Death of Rats skittered behind a bookshelf, and came out with a small hourglass.

SQUEAK, it explained, and motioned with its tiny scythe for Susan to have a look.

She turned it over and said, "It looks just fi—" then stopped. This was not fine.

"This is a living person?" she demanded. Quoth fidgeted uneasily. "Well, y'see, that's the funny bit, look at how the glass is designed. It's subtle."

Susan held the hourglass aloft in the last rays of the sun through her window, paused, and breathed gently, "Ah. This was never normal to begin with."

The Death of Rats nodded vigorously.

"But why would he do this?" Susan said softly. "He's breaking every rule on this one. He didn't even do this for mother or father."

The black bird replied, "This's why we need you. We think he wasn't paying attention to the design; just the sand. She doesn't even need the sand stopped, well, yes and no."

Susan pulled out her faithful poker; it was a comfort in times of crisis or anger. 'I've never had a raven kabob, you know," she said evenly.

"Okay, okay! I'll talk, I'll talk! The hourglass is lines inside, using the bottom of the glass as a starting point, and travels through the wooden support back into the top again; she's got recycled time. She probably ages, but in reality, she's like you. Whether she knows it or not, she isn't affected by time, and was born that way."

Susan took a deep breath. "I should visit this girl. I can't tell grandfather no; there's almost no point, really, but I can make sure that this girl isn't up to something. Where is she?"

Quoth squawked in surprise. "You can't sense her?"

Susan frowned. "No, I can't. I have a sort of idea in my head that she's shopping, but not where. It's like Lobsang, or very similar."

The Death of Rats gestured for the hourglass, and Susan returned it. The miniscule Death scrambled away with it, putting it somewhere for safe keeping. Quoth said, "You were very close about her, though. He gave he money for new clothes. She's writer."

Susan groaned internally. Writers were creative, ingenious, unpredictable, and very illogical. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. Especially since she needed to go shopping for small box of chocolate.

Grace was feeling out of sorts. Ankh-Morpork had some of the best shops in the world, but you had to sift through the crummy ones first. And there were quite a few of those.

In fact, she'd had a terrible headache all day, and by all rights she should have been over that damn hangover. She clutched her head and went Arrrrghh, the standard procedure for hangover sufferers everywhere. But she could swear she heard voices.

Grace thought a bit, and realized she probably ought to eat something. She had a few clothes picked out and had tailored; nothing ostentatious, just work clothes with a few callas lilies done in silver thread on them. So she decided to take a break and go get something nice to eat.

And then she saw a chocolate shop. Grace wasn't fat, but she wasn't a little girl, either. Every woman understands what this is. It's being just shy of fat, and the addition of your favorite chocolate will put you over the edge. It always does. However, eating that wholesome stew with extra beef fat trimmings will never do this. It's a law of nature that only chocolate is allowed to be the reason women get fat.

When Susan saw the girl, she choked on the milk-chocolate caramel cream she was sampling. Not here! Anywhere but here!

When the girl, a robust blonde of low maintenance regarding fashion, came up to her and asked, "Is that the new Geinhime Cream that came out?" Susan felt her heart sink. This wasn't going to be easy. This girl had all the capabilities of actually being her friend.

And when Susan explained who she was and that she wanted to talk, Grace went wild. She pulled out a notebook and said, "I have to interview you! The big guy himself doesn't act the way I expected, but you! You're so interesting! On the way to his house he mentioned you, and barely said anything! Please, tell me all about yourself. I want to publish this book--"

Susan was lost in the tide of friendship and advertising and Geinhime Creams. And she realized she wasn't going to tell the girl that anything was wrong. In fact, she was going to her grandfather's house. This very evening, to help Grace pick out something sensible to wear for shopping and for going out on rounds with Death.

"Damn it all," Susan said helplessly. Someone had to be told. Someone would have to do something. But her grandfather was oblivious, and wanted to be (if he didn't already know this), Grace was too nice—and oh hell, she was trapped. Trapped, because she knew there was no other way out.

He was a master at trapping her into doing the right thing, into being selfless and…dare she say it?…kind. Now here she was again, because something wasn't right, and trying to make sure the cosmos didn't come unraveled or anything. Grace passed Susan another Geinhime Cream.

"Here you go, Miss Susan."

"Thank you Grace. But no more after this."

"But the next one is a nougat cream and peanut butter."

"Nougat? Oh, nougat never counts. Pass it over.

Well, not actual silver. This WAS Ankh-Morpork after all. But a very realistic, reasonable, substitute of shiny thread. "Yores for onlee 30 cents pur spoole! A reel Steel!"