Hot and Cold by samepaverge
Chapter 1
The Wishbone Box Company had its headquarters(1) located at Lockbee Street in Ankh-Morpork. Its previous proprietor, Strawhat Wishbone, died a month ago in a fit of ill-humours and word around the manufactory was that he took the box company with him to the grave. It was not without a grain of truth, for even before Mr. Strawhat had shuffled off his mortal coil, he had the company backed into a corner, and when he did, everything was in shambles. Angry investors and equally irate creditors had to be placated with promises that were more empty than anything. Everyone looked to Mr. Strawhat's second in command, a zombie named Amicus Wellerby, but when he was called upon to helm the ship, they had discovered that it was already abandoned, with a note(2) on the bed inside the empty quarters.
The question that remains then, is that of succession. One would naturally turn to the first-born(3). They are, after all, said to be the most responsible in a group of people of similar parentage. They also have natural leadership skills honed by agressive persuasion and diplomatic argumentation(4) that would be useful in the cut-throat world of trade and production. Superiority of age, it is said, is one of the most obvious and visible signs of maturity, as is evident to anyone who has met an older person and has either been bored or scared.
The first-born of the Wishbone family is, unfortunately, in a coffin one-metre in length and six feet underneath the Small Gods Cemetery, his only means of identification being a nondescript slab of stone etched with his name (Partyhat Wishbone), date of birth (6th OF GRUNE), date of death (SOMETIME AROUND SEKTOBER) and the family motto: BUGGEREM. Alas, the only diplomatic argumentation young Partyhat learned was delineating property lines between himself and opportunistic maggots, ultimately losing everything to the maggots, because they had a very good lawyer, but most of their luck was on Partyhat's weak legal defense.
Duncehat Wishbone, the second child, was decidedly less dead than his elder brother, and has grown up to be on the wrong side of thirty. He was, despite his name, an intelligent enough young man, when he could be arsed to it, but Duncehat spends most of his time as a high-risk trader of feather dusters at Pseudopolis and wreaking havoc with the hearts of ladies on that part of the country. He is what is known as a local Cassava, but has been despairing these past few weeks because of a certain Miss Hennrieta, a beautiful but thorny young woman who knows that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach(5). She also knows that the way to a man's money pouch is through his back pocket, and so she is partly the reason why codpieces are in vogue at that part of Pseudopolis.
Hennrieta, of course, is not her real name, but she only reveals what she wants people to see. Once, Duncehat held out a bouquet of dusters for her, but the only thanks he got was a careless cut to the arm, and a rich laugh while he bled. Duncehat's heart fluttered at that full, trilling sound, and he knew he had Met His Match. It could simply be said that Duncehat's schedule is packed, and his current life goals include retailing dusting agents and snagging the heart of a woman who, legend had it, kept hearts preserved in jars of fluid.
The third son, Hardhat Wishbone, was unusual. Thing is, nobody quite knew what he did. Last Offle he was a writer of some sort, a 'diarist' who would expose everything that needs to be exposed about Ankh-Morpork, the only problem being that Ankh-Morporkians are more than aware of the state of their city, and no one really needed to know that the river Ankh was causing the bloody stench, because every half-lung reminds them of that fact(6). Hardhat had since abandoned the vocation and had taken on being a Bungler, which involves following individuals who are more than capable of doing things on their own, and bungling things for them. He worked for Mr. Quell Enoch of the Thieves' Guild, and had done his job so well that he was more than suprised and angry to receive a note of his termination. But the third son took the family motto to heart, and was more than comfortable with his new vocation as an Assessor of Local Brewed Products and is dutifully present at his office desk at the Mended Drum with other Assessors.
The three sons, Partyhat, Duncehat and Hardhat, are decidedly set in their ways and are all doing rather well in life, but as it is, the group is not complete, for old Strawhat and his wife had another child, and for the first time, a daughter. Angela Wishbone was, obviously, the youngest of three brothers, and had grown up to be a bony young woman of twenty-two. Little Angie, as she was once called, keeps her hair in a bun and wears a nondescript dark blue dress that gives one the feeling of an oncoming spell of rain. She was not exceedingly pretty, nor rich, nor spirited, and therefore had nothing convenient to recommend her. 'Who would take on old Strawhat's daughter, eh?' was a little joke around Lockbee and had spread out on the other streets, even on the ones that had no idea who Strawhat and his daughter was. One could actually tell if one is in Lockbee Street by asking that question. A mocking guffaw would mean yes, while a response of 'What the bloody hell is a Strawhat daughter? Buggeroff!' would mean that, no, you are quite far from your destination.
Little Angie wakes up at five-thirty in the morning, makes breakfast, does stretches and then stitches. At seven Hardhat comes home from work, very exhausted, you could tell because he couldn't walk straight. She puts Hardhat to bed, then does more stitches until Pa wakes up, eats breakfast and leaves for the manufactory next door. Mum wakes up at eight thirty, better get sweeping or else. At ten, lunch has to be made, at one, mum sends her out to get several bolts of whatever fabric the old lady fancies. By evening, make dinner. Read for the rest of the night until the candles run out.
That was Little Angie's routine, everyone knew that. In fact the whole family set the time to her little habits. But for two years, the Wishbone household have noticed that she was shirking her work. Not a biggun, mind you, but little ones, five minutes off of this or that, and she began to have a whole chunk of time to herself, time in which she was neither seen nor heard inside the house, and as time passed by, Little Angie seemed to change. She insisted on being called Angela now, and had started using words like 'interminable' and 'perspicacious', even scarier ones like 'fiscal responsibility' and 'credit'. Her gait, which was gangling, had slowly transformed into a confident stride that might get her out of the Shades unscathed. When before she looked down when she walked, she now looked up with a glower that changed the meaning of 'Who would take on old Strawhat's daughter, eh?', where the answer now involved bony knuckles and displaced blood. Angela's bun was noticeably tighter. She still swept the floor at eight-thirty, but in such a way that made you ask no questions about it.
Old Pa Strawhat was found lying down on a discarded pile of boxes. It was Amicus who found him. When news of his passing came, Duncehat came home from Pseudopolis, Hardhat worked overtime, and Angela set the table minus one.
When the old man was laid down to rest and the fresh earth shoveled back, Duncehat turned to Angela and Hardhat to ask the most important question: Who's taking over this whole box thing now, eh?
1 Despite the absence of any other quarters to speak of, anywhere
2 The note was nothing interesting of course, as it simply detailed that Mr. Wellerby had urgent matters to attend to at Genua, nevermind that Mr. Wellerby had 'died' a hundred years ago and is survived by virtually no one.
3 The thought of Mrs. Wishbone running the company is horrendous to Mrs. Wishbone. Any mention of it would be followed by an angry tirade consisting mostly of the tribulations of motherhood followed by a copper pot of high velocity and missile precision. Does it ever miss? Don't try to find out.
4 bullying and duping, respectively
5 Incidentally, the men who find this out of Miss Hennrieta are all dead.
6 Common knowledge: it is medically unsound to take a 'lungful' in Ankh-Morpork. It constitutes more than twelve percent of the city's mortality rate. Pamphlets are still circulated by the city's Centre for Illnesse Prevention: Be Carefull, don't have a lungful!