Okay, so it had been a bit of a long shot.

And by long shot, he meant - the time it took to get from one end of Ankh-Morpork to the other. Blindfolded. On rollerskates. Carrying Carrot. Without dying.

"Sam…"

That was Sybil. She was using her I'm Not Angry I Just Want To See You Try And Get Out Of This voice, and if that voice had been given an entry in the Book Of Man under the section of Females (Vimes wished there was a Book Of Man with a section on Females), underneath it would be written 'You are doomed. But if you proceed with caution, you might not die.'

Vimes proceeded with caution, "Yes, dear?"

"Are you busy tomorrow evening?" she asked, in a very casual tone of voice, smiling at him.

He was doomed. He was going to die.

"No, dear. Why?" he replied, in a very casual tone of voice, smiling back.

"Well, I was having a very nice conversation with Mr Lipwig yesterday and he told me that there was going to be a Midwinter Gala at Havelock's place tomorrow."

"How lovely."

"And he said that he'd invited us."

"That's very kind of him."

"He said he was going to send out the invitation…"

"It must have gotten delayed. The weather's pretty bad at the moment."

"…But then he was passing Pseudopolis Yard…"

"It probably got caught up in the paperwork."

"…And he saw you outside…"

"Must have got the wrong person."

"…So he gave it to you…"

"Must have slipped my mind. I did hit my head very hard that day."

"…And I found it, ripped up into little pieces, in your coat pocket."

Vimes went for a Long Shot so magnificent that it definitely deserved its capitals.

"Those damn hamsters, they really do get everywhere."

And then Sybil laughed, and he knew he was going to live. But there was no way he was going to get out of that damn gala, short of maybe breaking his leg.

…How much did breaking your leg hurt, again?

-x-x-x-

"William! William, where are- oh, there you are, of course."

William De Worde looked up from his desk, standing and smiling at his wife as she approached excitedly, "Sacharissa?"

"I've just spoken to Moist - there's going to be a ball this week, on Thursday, at Vetinari's palace! Its strictly notebooks-closed, but that doesn't mean we can't do a nice little report on it for Friday's morning paper- oh, we could do a section on the best dress shops on Monday! We could interview all the dressmakers and have a different one featured each-"

"Sacharissa!" William caught his wife's hands to cut her out of her spiralling plans, "It is Monday. And I doubt that most of the people that will read the paper will be invited."

"That doesn't mean they won't be interested." she pointed out, pulling back from him to relieve herself of her handbag and hat, then sitting on the side of his desk as he resumed work.

"Fair enough. Alright, we'll do a report on the ball, definitely, and we can get Otto to-" he paused, face lighting up as an idea hit him, "We can get Otto to stand in the entrance and offer to take pictures of the couples-"

"A copy for them and a copy for the Times!"

"Exactly. I'll talk to Otto later." William scribbled a quick note to himself on the corner of a bit of paper that was probably important.

"I can wear that dress you bought me for my birthday, William."

William smiled; part of their marriage was, if he was honest, convenience. They spent pretty much 24/8 together anyway, they usually got on exceptionally well, and no one else understood the constant and quite overwhelming need to find News.

And then there was this part of him, the part that had suggested the marriage as a passing thought in his whirling mind, the part that had woken up one morning and told the rest of him, without question, that he had fallen hopelessly in love with his pretty blonde co-worker. It had been a bit of a surprise, really - he strongly suspected that this part had been keeping it secret from the rest of him for quite a while, which worried him greatly - and he hadn't expected to fall for anyone, let alone Sacharissa.

Diligent, hardworking, steadfast, take-no-nonsense Sacharissa. The confident, beautiful young woman who, whilst being self-assured and strong, still needed someone to open jam jars and tell her she looked beautiful and save her from murderous thugs. And, somehow, he had become that someone.

He'd never been particularly suave. The proposal had been an abysmal failure, and he didn't like to think about it because it had been so damn embarrassing. He wasn't very good at being romantic but, thankfully, whilst Sacharissa adored that sort of thing, she found it even more endearing that he tried it, despite knowing he'd fail miserably. But this…this had been a stroke of genius that even Mr Smooth-Talker Lipwig would have appreciated.

Three months prior to her birthday (three months), she'd seen a beautiful sky-blue and navy dappled dress and fallen in love. She'd tried on the one in the shop window and discovered that, due to her, ah, pneumatic warmth and rather generous curvy hips, it was too tight and didn't fit particularly well around the waist or bust. She'd left the shop in low spirits with a self-esteem level to match, then forgot all about it in the new week's news rush.

He didn't forget. Seeing a perfect opportunity, he'd gone back to the shop the very next day, when Sacharissa was out, purchased the dress and paid the dressmaker to make the various adjustments needed for it to fit. It had cost him quite a bit of money - or, maybe it was the usual fee for such a service, he didn't know much about dresses - but the price had been well worth the look of absolute delight on her face when, on her birthday, she pulled the dress from its wrappings.

She had, at first, faltered and turned to him with a look of one trying to break something gently, but he'd insisted that she try it on. A few minutes later, when she returned, the dress a perfect fit and a smile that nearly reached from ear to ear, she looked absolutely radiant.

After long kiss that he would much rather have received when Otto and Gunilla Goodmoutain were not present and smirking, she'd murmured in his ear, "You got it altered, didn't you?"

"Altered?" he'd pulled back and blinked at her innocently, "No."

Okay, so he'd lied, properly flat-out lied, and it still made him twinge uncomfortably inside. But it had made her so happy, and harmless lies to make self-conscious women happy were forgivable, surely?

"Oh, where did I put that notebook…?"

William came back to the present with a jolt and realised Sacharissa was turning the small office they shared upside-down in her search.

"Which one?"

"The one with the green cover."

"Most of your notebooks have green covers, dear."

She considered that, "The one with the huge ink blot on the front from where you jogged me when I was tidying up last week."

"Oh, that notebook. Its, um, on the floor over there." he shrugged, feeling foolish as he gestured to it, "You left it on my desk. I've never had great aim…"

"Hmm!" She sighed and picked it up, leafing through it with the eye of one searching for something specific. Then she put it down, distracted, and caught his eye.

"Ah - William?" she smiled brightly in her very attractive way, and all at once he felt strangely nervous.

"…Yes?"

She licked her lips and approached him, choosing her words carefully, "I know we've never really talked about this, because, you know, the job has always come first, but," she beamed anxiously, "I think I might be pregnant."

Sometimes, William thought that working in Public Interest had affected Sacharissa's priorities; 'William, darling, there's going to be a fantastic party on Thursday, I simply can't wait, I can wear my lovely dress! Oh, and I'm pregnant, thought you might want to know.'

Then, William's brain processed the words. And then, he passed out.