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There
was
the
distant
sound
of
a
knock
at
the
front
door
of
the
house
.
She
hesitated
for
a
moment
,
then
blew
out
the
lamp
,
crept
heavily
along
the
length
of
the
kennels
and
pulled
aside
the
scrap
of
sacking
over
the
window
.
The
first
light
of
dawn
showed
her
the
silhouette
of
a
guardsman
on
her
doorstep
,
the
plumes
of
his
helmet
blowing
in
the
breeze
.
She
bit
her
lip
in
panic
,
scuttled
back
to
the
door
,
fled
across
the
lawn
and
dived
into
the
house
,
taking
the
stairs
three
at
a
time
.
"
Stupid
,
stupid
,
"
she
muttered
,
realising
the
lamp
was
back
downstairs
.
But
no
time
for
that
.
By
the
time
she
went
and
got
it
,
Vimes
might
have
gone
away
.
Working
by
feel
and
memory
in
the
gloom
she
found
her
best
wig
and
rammed
it
on
her
head
.
Somewhere
among
the
ointments
and
dragon
remedies
on
her
dressing
table
was
something
called
,
as
far
as
she
could
remember
,
Dew
of
the
Night
or
some
such
unsuitable
name
,
a
present
long
ago
from
a
thoughtless
nephew
.
She
tried
several
bottles
before
she
found
something
that
,
by
the
smell
of
it
,
was
probably
the
one
.
Even
to
a
nose
which
had
long
ago
shut
down
most
of
its
sensory
apparatus
in
the
face
of
the
overpoweringness
of
dragons
,
it
seemed
,
well
,
more
potent
than
she
remembered
.
But
apparently
men
liked
that
kind
of
thing
.
Or
so
she
had
read
.
Damn
nonsense
,
really
.
She
twitched
the
top
hem
of
her
suddenly
far
too
sensible
nightshirt
into
a
position
which
,
she
hoped
,
revealed
without
actually
exposing
,
and
hurried
back
down
the
stairs
.
She
stopped
in
front
of
the
door
,
took
a
deep
breath
,
twisted
the
handle
and
realised
even
as
she
pulled
the
door
open
that
she
should
have
taken
the
rubber
boots
off
-
"
Why
,
Captain
,
"
she
said
winsomely
,
"
This
is
a
who
the
hell
are
you
?
"
The
head
of
the
palace
guard
took
several
steps
backwards
and
,
because
he
was
of
peasant
stock
,
made
a
few
surreptitious
signs
to
ward
off
evil
spirits
.
They
clearly
didn
’
t
work
.
When
he
opened
his
eyes
again
the
thing
was
still
there
,
still
bristling
with
rage
,
still
reeking
of
something
sickly
and
fermented
,
still
crowned
with
a
skewed
mass
of
curls
,
still
looming
behind
a
quivering
bosom
that
made
the
roof
of
his
mouth
go
dry
-
He
’
d
heard
about
these
sort
of
things
.
Harpies
,
they
were
called
.
What
had
it
done
with
Lady
Ramkin
?
