Custom be Damned

Sacharissa/Otto

Sacharissa/William/Otto

Rated G

Words: 2370

What an odd thing respectability was, Sacharissa thought. She’d believed that losing it was the sort of thing that made people cross the street to avoid you. 

People crossed the street to talk to her now. Strangers didn’t approach a woman who was a lady, but they did approach the newspaper lady, she found. Often, they claimed they had a lead for a story, or they wanted to discuss something that had been printed recently (send an editorial, she told them), or they had adverts, or questions. Just as often, though, they were curious, and wasn’t that something? There was something else you could be besides respectable, and that was interesting. Interesting got you interviews. It got you readers. It got you work. 

Sacharissa had been born as if in a cocoon. There were rules to adhere to and set paths to follow, and if you did exactly you were expected to, you were guaranteed safety and success. It wasn’t like that outside of the cocoon. Outside of the cocoon, no one told you what to do, and the risks were greater, but so were the rewards. You had to shed the respectability to get out.

It was easier than she had expected it to be, and far less frightening, but some of the training from that old self still stuck, and was trickier to wriggle out of.

There was the matter of William. Quick, resourceful William who had a sharp eye and a moral compass that drove him to be better than he had been raised to be. He was not as stuffy as he could have been, all things considered, and he was improving. Sacharissa liked him. She liked sparring at words with him; their arguments made her feel giddy and energetic afterwards, because they were never about being right, they were about the thrill of the back and forth, the thrust and parry. It helped that he was handsome. It helped that he so clearly liked her, but didn’t know how to ask.

There was the matter of Otto. Dear, sweet, Otto with his funny caped waistcoat and little glasses and exaggerated accent. She’d learned all the songs in his League of Temperance songbook, and had tried to convince herself that there was nothing more to it than wanting to be a good friend. It didn’t explain why she’d started dropping by the thaumonics shop on her lunches to read iconography pamphlets, to the point that the shop proprietress started to notice her. There wasn’t exactly a point to wanting to impress Otto with her breadth of knowledge on his favourite subject. But impressing wasn’t what she was after. She was after the spark in his eye when he got onto his favorite subject with her. She was after the surprised, pleased little “ah!” when he was unconsciously humming a black ribboner melody and she tuned in with the harmony, and they hummed together in the press room, sharing a moment between them, unnoticed by everyone else there.

Respectable people had to choose. She didn’t.

She made up her mind to have a word with Otto first.

“I know the city better than you,” Sacharissa told him one night when they were preparing to lock up the press room. “And it’s quite dark out. Let me walk you home.”

“Yes,” he said, amused, “zhat’s true, but you are forgetting I can see in zer dark.”

“Look,” she said, “I want to. Will you let me?”

Few lights were still on, and the building was quiet. Otto looked briefly at her, then looked straight ahead, looking at nothing. He very primly did up his scarf.

“You want to go home with me,” Otto said, putting on less of his protective accent.

In the half-dark, no one could see that Sacharissa was blushing. Her blood rushed in her ears, her stomach felt high and tight. She had not been taught how to approach men to ask for love.

“I want to go home with you,” Sacharissa affirmed, steeling her nerves. “Yes.”

Then she exhaled with belief. It was simpler than she had thought.

“You know…” he said haltingly. “I don’t… zhere are people who are very interested in… I don’t bleed people anymore, you know.”

“I know,” Sacharissa said. She thought she’d never understand the exact feeling, but what she did understand came close. It was disappointing when she thought men wanted to be friends with her and it turned out that they only wanted to be friends with her breasts.

“I’m not after that. I like you, Otto. You’re my friend and I like you and you’re a vampire. We don’t have to— Nothing needs to come of this, if you’d rather not. But I’m not after your teeth.”

“Ah,” said Otto, smiling. “In that case, Miss Cripslock, please do valk me home.”

///

William de Worde lived off of his ability to notice things. Perception was his profession, as was coming up with a comment ready to print within the day. He did not have a comment for what he was noticing now.

He sat at his desk towards the end of a long day and pretended to rearrange some papers while he thought.

Otto and Sacharissa were together now. They were his friends and he was happy for them, but he could not shake the feeling of personal loss. William wasn’t entirely sure what he had lost. Neither of his friends had changed the way they interacted with him. They were both still the same Sacharissa and the same Otto and they hadn’t disappeared into each other’s exclusive company like some couples sometimes did.

Small mercies, perhaps. In a part of his head, William blamed his own indecision. He hadn’t made up his mind about which of them to court and they had gone off and courted each other. What drew him to both of them had drawn them to each other.

William had always been aware of men, and in his stubborn way had always refused to believe there was anything bad about it. That one had to be cautious, he knew, but he also knew that no one commented too much about two bachelors moving in together, even for years. He had half-entertained a fantasy of morning coffee with Otto, lounging in housecoats. He had also half-entertained a fantasy of the same with Sacharissa, and both images had seemed so right that he never could pick one over the other. The two scenarios overlapped in his mind, like those picture books where you had to look at a page with your eyes unfocused, and then you would see the picture moving, animated, three-dimensional.

It pained Wiliam to have to get rid of the picture book, but the sooner he did so, the better it would be, and the easier it would be to move on. For move on he must, since they were his friends, and he ought to be happy for them.

It was difficult to move on when nothing had changed at all. Not even the subtle flirtations from both of them. William tried to make himself believe they had never been flirtations and he had been reading too much into friendliness and a sense of humor.

Then again…

There wasn’t much subtlety about a man calling you handsome and winking at you from time to time. Otto hadn’t stopped doing that. William didn’t mind that he hadn’t stopped doing that, but he felt a sense of guilt about it, and thought of bringing it up with Sacharissa.

William sought for the right words to phrase the idea so it didn’t make him sound like a snitch. He was a journalist, not a snitch, and Otto wasn’t doing anything wrong, only ill-timed with William’s attempt to move on.

Perhaps he ought to talk about it with Otto, then, not with Sacharissa. And he ought to get it over with. The more he waited, the worse his own feelings about the conversation would become.

William rose up forcefully from his desk with the full intention of going down to the iconography cellar where Otto worked, to see if he was still there. He nearly collided face-first with Sacharissa, who stood quietly in the doorway.

“I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I came to say something but I saw you there so focused in your thoughts and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He was about to reassure her that there was no need to apologize, but he saw that she was partly laughing at him, and he smiled a little sheepishly at her instead.

“I’m sure what you came to say was more important,” William said.

“I would hope so,” Sacharissa answered, her face an expression of mischief. “Otto and I were going to invite you to dinner. At his flat.”

Oh no, William thought.

“Yes!” he said, sounding eagerer than he wished to. “Tonight?”

Sacharissa shook her head.

“Octeday, after the weekend paper goes out. I think we’re all pretty busy till then.”

“Yes, we’re all very pretty—pretty busy, ack!—till then. Yes. Okay.”

“Okay,” said Sacharissa, looking at him with amusement and what he both hoped was and hoped wasn’t fondness. “See you then.”

///

Come Octeday, William found himself walking up the steps to Otto’s flat on Elm. He brought a bottle of wine in his bag, because he didn’t like showing up to dinner empty-handed, but he was beginning to regret it. It was an Ephebian blend, made from sea grapes, part of the stash he had brought with him from his father’s cellar when he moved out, and he was beginning to think it was too fancy. William thought his friends deserved the best, but the idea that bringing sea grape wine could be read as a ridiculous flex of wealth was beginning to eat at him. He didn’t think Otto and Sacharissa would think that he was the sort of person who thought like that, but the uncertainty of thinking about what other people thought one was thinking was grating on his nerves. But then Otto had been a baron once, hadn’t he? What was it Otto had said? Baron Myteeth? Gods, no, that had definitely been a joke, that couldn’t—

“Vere you going to knock at any point?” Otto asked, opening the flat door.

“Yes, I was going to knock,” William huffed.

“And vere you going to enter?” said Otto. “Or do you have to be invited?”

“You’ve already been invited!” Sacharissa called from within.

William stepped inside.

Otto’s flat was small, but well decorated, and William could see where Sacharissa’s hand had come in. The reds and blacks were all Otto, but Sacharissa had put up colored etchings of landscapes and animals that she had inherited from her father. They did not match the furniture, but somehow, it all fit together.

///

Otto had cooked, because he had a talent for it, and because Sacharissa lacked the patience for cooking. There was a mushroom barley soup with cabbage rolls on the side. William hadn’t expected to like the mushrooms, but he did.

Sacharissa started to get talking about an idea she’d had for an article, but Otto had objected to talking shop during a meal, so she poured herself another drink and started going on instead about her plans to adopt a cat.

Otto and Sacharissa sat next to each other on one side, and William sat on the other, watching them both, watching them watch each other, watching Sacharissa go on about cats.

“It’s not all cats that are haughty,” William insisted tipsily, toward the end of dinner.

“No indeed!” Sacharissa agreed, “But what I’m saying is that I wouldn’t mind if a cat were haughty. As long as he’s also orange and well-behaved enough not to wreck the house but not too well-behaved.”

“Not too vell-behaved?” Otto asked. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” Sacharissa declared. “You can’t have a cat that likes authority. That’s just a dog.”

William started laughing, then Otto joined him, then finally Sacharissa joined the two of them, laughing with them.

“Ve have a proposition for you,” Otto said, once the laughter had cleared from the air.

“No!” said Sacharissa, grinning. “Well, yes, that too, Otto, but he’s a gentleman, and we’ve only taken him to dinner once. First, we have a proposal.”

“Oh, yes, naturally,” Otto said, correcting himself. “Ve are proposing to you.”

“I’m sorry?” William asked, gently putting down his glass.

“But not right away!” Otto said. “Not on the first date!”

There was a silence as William tried to process their words. Sacharissa was blushing violently and adjusting her cuffs as she spoke.

“It’s difficult, you see,” she informed the buttons at the wrist or her shirt, “because there’s no custom for this. We can’t be the first people to invent this, but it’s not the sort of thing people talk about, because they don’t think it’s respectable. But you like us and we both like you and I think we have enough respect for each other so as not to need to concern ourselves with everyone else’s.”

“Are you trying to ask if I’d like to be—” William began, letting himself hope that he had understood, “part of a… part of an… er…”

The word his mind supplied was harem and his sense of words knew it was the wrong word, completely wrong, because that was one king with several wives and this was different, this was three equals, none of them in charge, three individuals deciding of their own accord to be together. Whatever it was, it was something that appealed to him, something that he hadn’t thought of before but that sang to him like a song that becomes a favorite on first listen.

“A three of us,” Sacharissa said, still blushing, but addressing him directly rather than her shitrcuff now, fixing him with her gaze.

“Ve understand if you say no,” Otto said gently. “There vill be no hard feelings, as they say. There vill be very good feelings if you say yes, but if not, ve understand. There’s no custom for this, as Sacharissa said.”

William said, 

“Custom be damned,” and held out his hands across the table to both of them, which they accepted.

Visits to Granddad’s

Death’s presence at a birth was always under tragic circumstances. Tonight, however, was an exception.

It was, perhaps fittingly, a dark and stormy night. Death sat in the parlor of the Sto Helit’s manor. He flicked absently through a magazine while Mort paced the room, face tight and body tense.

I ASSURE YOU IT WILL GO SMOOTHLY.

“So you’ve said.”

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.

“You’ve said that too.”

NOT MUCH LONGER NOW. 

Mort wanted to scream. He wanted to snap. He did not want the personification of death present at the birth of his child, no matter how good-natured he knew said personification was. But Ysabell had insisted. No matter how… complicated their relationship was she wanted her father there. And how could Mort argue with that?

Death certainly seemed to be trying to be reassuring, but this was simply not a task a seven-foot skeleton was designed for. Mort sighed and took a seat. Every few seconds he would glance at the clock, fidgeting, while Death watched in concern and gave encouragement.

Time crawled by.

After what felt like days, the clock chimed midnight. A traditionally dark and mysterious hour. Nothing much happened. Then at a quarter past, footsteps echoed in the hall. The parlor door creaked open.

“Lord Sto Helit it’s happen-” the midwife began cheerfully, before her eyes fell on the other figure in the room. She froze and her face fell. Like witches, midwives were familiar with Death.   

I’M NOT HERE ON BUSINESS. THIS IS MERELY A SOCIAL CALL.

She eyed him with suspicion before turning back to Mort. “It’s happened sir. Both mother and child are… healthy,” she said hesitantly. She had been certain of that fact before opening the parlor door.

Mort thanked the midwife and followed her out, leaving Death to wait behind.

A few minutes later he returned without the midwife. “Ysabell and I would like you to meet our daughter.” Misgivings aside, he was family. Mort and Death went to Ysabell’s room, where she lay on a pile of pillows, a small bundle in her arms.

“Father, meet Susan,” she said, holding out her arms so he could see. He looked down and saw, well, a typical human baby. Not especially interesting looking or beautiful except to the new parents. Nothing about young Susan seemed out of the ordinary except for a black streak in the fuzz of her hair, and a birthmark matching the scars on Mort’s face.

Death gently took the child into his arms, and in a voice like slamming coffins said COOCHIE COO. WHO’S A LITTLE CUTIE THEN?

*****

They sat in awkward silence around the tiny table in Death’s kitchen. Susan was perched on Ysabel’s lap, seemingly unaffected by the tension in the air. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence and poking at the meal of burnt egg and chips Albert had prepared, Ysabel bounced Susan on her knee to a shriek of delight and commented, “We’re teaching her animal sounds, she’s getting rather good at it.”

Mort smiled and lept on the topic. Anything to stop staring into those cold blue eyes in the eerie silence. “That’s right! Susan, what goes moo?”

“Cow!” the two-year-old exclaimed.

“That’s right!”

Death nodded. INTERESTING. AND THIS IS A USEFUL SKILL?

“Oh yes.” Albert nodded, “Very important at this age.”

WHY?

Albert shrugged. “It just is.”

FASCINATING.

Ysabel smiled. “Susan, what does a dog say?”

“Woof!” 

“Would you like to try father?”

SUSAN. WHAT SOUND DOES A CAT MAKE?

“Meow!”

If death had eyebrows, he would have raised one. THEY DON’T REALLY SOUND LIKE THAT.

Mort shook his head, “No, but well… It’s a human thing.”

I SEE.

And so it went, with Albert and Death and her parents asking all manner of animals and their sounds.

That is, until…

“And what goes neigh?”

Susan smiled brightly, full of confidence. “Binky!”

Ysabel and Mort shared a look. Susan had not met Binky yet, how could she know his name?

CORRECT.

*****

Death’s desk was vast and black, just like the rest of his home. An effort had been made at general deskishness, but clearly by one who didn’t quite understand how desks worked. The drawers were stuck shut, and several of the pens had never contained ink. The chair was much the same, although comfortable enough. 

When Death was in his study it was usually all business. He could be seen examining books from his library of life timers. At the moment, however, a large stack of dark cushions occupied Death’s usual seat. Atop the cushions sat Susan.

She solemnly regarded the blank piece of paper in front of her on the vast desk. Beside it was an array of crayons. The crayons, unlike almost everything else in the house, weren’t black. This was thanks to The Death of Rats, who had stolen them from the mortal realm.

Over her shoulder Death watched with curiosity. 

She reached out a small hand and clutched a green crayon in a tight fist. She drew several upright lines covering the bottom page.

WHAT IS THAT? Asked Death.

“Grass,” she said without looking up.

I SEE.

Susan set down the green crayon and her hand hovered over a selection of blue crayons, indecisive. As far as Death could tell they were all basically the same. After some careful thought, she picked one up and began scribbling at the top of the page.

AND WHAT IS THAT?

“The sky.”

AH. YES OF COURSE.

An attempt at clouds was made. They were somewhat patchy and hard to make out against the already uneven sky.

EVAPORATED WATER. WELL DONE. Death observed, his tone encouraging.

A tree followed suit, misshapen brown trunk with a round lump of green on top for the leaves. Death thought he was beginning to understand the process, basic colors and shapes, probably easier for a small person to draw.

But then Susan reached for a red crayon, which Death did not understand. 

She started pressing the end of the crayon to the “leaves” of the “tree” creating several red dots.

AND THESE ARE? Death tilted his skull to the side inquisitively. 

“Apples.”

MY GOODNESS. 

A yellow quarter-sphere was added to the top corner of the page, with little yellow lines coming out from it.

Death watched and mused. It was in the sky, with the clouds. There were no large yellow balls in the corner of the sky that he knew of. No corners of the sky for that matter. He tilted his skull to the other side, peering closer at the child’s drawing. After a long moment, he hazarded a guess.

THE SUN?

“Yes.” Susan looked up from her drawing to smile at him at the correct guess. She was enjoying all the attention, her parents were never so intrigued and confused by her art. She laughed. “You’re funny Granddad.” 

If Death could have frowned at that, he would have. FUNNY HOW?

But she didn’t explain, just reached for another crayon. Black this time. Death was clearly not that familiar with children’s art, but even he knew enough to find this unusual. 

She formed a black blob, about the same size as the tree. Perhaps it was one of the trees from his garden? But no, that didn’t seem right, because she left a circular hole of white at the top of the… back pillar? where the white of the page showed through. She added stubby black rectangles to the sides of the... trunk?

With the black crayon again two black dots were drawn in the circle and deep blue dots within those. The rest of the drawing had been puzzling, but Death was even more puzzled by this new shape and its odd familiarity.

He watched as a thin brown line was added, stretching up from the grass to the… arm? of the black shape. A grey curve was drawn at the end of the. He knew that shape, far more elegant and refined but. 

MY SCYTHE. It was a statement not a question. THAT’S ME.

She nodded anyway.

He paused then. With Ysabell and Mort’s concerns… He had agreed to certain conditions to be allowed to meet his granddaughter.

YOU’VE NEVER SEEN THE SCYTHE. Again, not a question. He doubted she even knew who he was, in an anthropomorphic sense. So that meant.

YOU REMEMBER IT?

“Yes.”

So she was remembering things before they happened already. That would worry her parents and no mistake. 

He watched as the final detail, an unrealistic smile, was added to the picture. 

Susan picked up the drawing and proudly presented it to her grandfather. “It’s you!”

(picture link) https://cdn.drawception.com/sandbox/745610/1xaJhRtcam.png (incorporate on ao3 somehow?? 

IT IS ME. VERY GOOD.

She pressed the page into his hands. “Take it.” 

 I SHALL HANG IT ON THE FRIDGE, AS IS CUSTOM. 

Susan grinned, Death grinned back. He didn’t have much choice except to grin, being a skull, but something about this one looked real. 

*****

Albert was dusting. Not that any dust dared settle here, but it was the look of the thing. He heard a cough behind him and turned.

The small child looked up at him, and with absolute certainty said, “Albert.”

He nodded. “That’s right.” Something more seemed to be expected of him, but he wasn’t sure what. He’d never been good with children, never really been around them, to tell the truth. He met her gaze and in a way he couldn’t pin down was reminded of the blue glowing eye sockets he’d grown familiar with. Albert shivered. “Did ya need something?” 

“I’m Hungry,” she stated. “Want banana.”

“ ‘Course,” he said gruffly, a faint smile appearing lost on his face, unusual territory for such an expression. 

She lead the way to the kitchen. Somehow she already knew her way around Death’s house, and she walked as if she owned the place. Perhaps, said a small voice in the back of Albert’s mind, one day she will. 

*****

The library was tranquil, barely a sound disturbing the peace. Just as libraries should be. Death relaxed in a big armchair, as much as it was possible to relax your body when you’re a 7-foot skeleton. Susan sat on a pillow in his lap.

In one hand Death held an open book with “Susan Sto Helit” embossed on the cover. A boney finger of his other hand traced the words as they appeared on the page. They read silently together. 

Susan shifted in her seat. The single cushion was NOT enough to soften the hard bones beneath her legs. It was uncomfortable! 

The air of the Library grew awkward as they read and death realized…

SORRY.

“SORRY,” said her grandfather.  

*****

Albert, Ysabel, Mort, Death, and Susan all sat around the Hogswatch tree in the middle of the room. The tall, magnificent pine tree was black. All of the ornaments hanging on it were also black. The Hogfather hat Death was wearing was black. The wrapping paper on all the presents was black with a “jolly” pattern of bones and scythes. It was all rather dark and gloomy. 

Albert was, of course, used to this, to things being ever so slightly wrong when the master tried some new human thing and didn’t really understand it. Susan also didn’t seem to mind. She had asked curiously “why’s it all black?” but had then accepted it in the way only small children can. 

Mort and Ysabell had given each other, Albert, and Death boring parent gifts, like socks and kitchen tools and other useful but uninteresting items. The gifts from Death had all been rather… odd… thus far. Only the gifts for Susan were, in her opinion, worth having. 

Still, Susan was having a great time running around under the tree, picking packages, and bringing them to their recipients. Now she found one decorated with a pattern of grinning skulls and jet black ribbons addressed to Albert from Death. 

Susan grabbed it in her small hands and pulled. It didn’t budge. She frowned and tried again, putting all of her determination behind lifting it. This time she got.

Albert took it from her and raised his eyebrows at the unexpected weight. He shot a look at Death. Consider the other gifts that had been unwrapped this morning, this could be anything. He tore the paper from the rectangle, expecting to find a box holding something heavy. Instead, he found himself holding a brick. It was black. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Nice. Thank you master. I’m sure this will… come in handy.”

YOU’RE WELCOME. Death pointed to another gift under the tree. YOU SHOULD GET THAT ONE NEXT. 

Susan went to it. It was soft and lumpy, and addressed to her “From: Grandfather”.

“What’s that honey?” said Ysabell, sounding slightly worried. Susan held up the package for inspection. She shared a concerned look with Mort. What would Death think a proper present for a child would be?

OPEN IT. He encouraged. 

She did, tearing through the goth paper to find the soft object beneath. It was a plush toy, a familiar white horse. Mort and Ysabell untensed. 

“What is that Father,” Ysabell asked.

YOU SAID SHE WANTED A LITTLE PONY TOY. THIS IS A MY LITTLE BINKY. 

Indeed, on the rump of the toy Binky was a skull and scythe mark, similar, if more macabre, to the marks on the popular brand of kids toys.

Susan beamed and hugged the toy to her chest. “Thank you, granddad! I love it!”

*****

Susan had been given a piggy back ride all through Death’s cottage, perched high up on his shoulders and squealing with delight whenever her head passed through the wall above the doorway. Recognizing her delight, Death had taken them through a number of walls as well.

Now they were in the field of wheat outside of Death’s garden. Susan surveyed the area from her high vantage point. There was color here, and movement from an unfelt wind. In a way her young mind couldn’t put into words this place felt important.

They stood there in silence for a long moment, just watching. Her small hands clung to the top of his skull as she tried to understand. 

*****

It was a pleasant day in Sto Lat. The family had just returned after a few days visiting Susan’s grandfather, though mysteriously no time seemed to have passed when they got back. 

A state dinner was planned for that evening, and Mort poured over a list of guests. Meanwhile, Susan played with dolls on the floor by his desk. Occasionally he smiled down at her and the drama being enacted with the dolls. 

“Ysabell, dear, do you remember if the mayor of Quirm is coming tonight?” he called down the hall.

Before his wife could answer Susan looked up from her dolls and answered in a quiet, matter of fact voice, “He’s not going to make it here.”

Mort raised his eyebrows. “What’s that sweetheart? Did your mother tell you that?”

She shook her head. “I just know.”

Mort was puzzled but unconcerned. “Ysabell?” he called again. This time she bustled into the office.

“What is it?”

“Is the mayor of Quirm attending the dinner dear?”

“Yes he is, he said-”

“He’s not.” Susan interrupted. “Granddad took him this morning.” 

That got their attention. The color drained from Mort’s face and Ysabell looked alarmed.

“How do you know that Susan?” Mort’s voice cracked.

She shrugged. “Just do.”

There was a fight after that, where her parents thought they were out of Susan’s earshot. And then there were no more visits to Grandad's house.

*****

At least, that was the last visit to her Grandad’s for many years.

But on a dark night when Susan was much older, after that nonsense with “music with rocks in”…

YOU’RE WELCOME TO COME AND VISIT, OF COURSE.

“Thank you.”

 YOU WILL ALWAYS HAVE A HOME THERE, IF YOU WANT IT. 

“Really?”

I SHALL KEEP YOUR ROOM EXACTLY AS YOU LEFT IT. 

“Thank you.” 

A MESS.

*****

Years passed. Time changed things, as it does.  Old relationships rekindled, familial bonds regrowing. Again, almost two decades since the last time, Death and Susan were in the golden fields of wheat outside of his cottage. They stood side by side and watched.

“I remember this,” she mused. “It’s… important. But I’m not sure why.”

Death nodded, remaining silent for a long moment.

IT REMINDS ME.

Susan opened her mouth to ask what it was meant to remind him of, but closed it before speaking. She had a feeling she knew, even if she couldn’t put words to it. It was about life, and change, and the things that made him different from humans. And perhaps more importantly, it was about the ways he was not so different after all. 

They watched in companionable silence, understanding each other completely. 

One Week in Autumn, or No Rest for the Witches

October had descended upon the kingdom of Lancre like a falcon plummeting towards an unlucky sparrow. Summer’s last asters withered overnight. In the frosty dawn, the forested hillsides glittered gold. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the ice melted away, revealing trees blushing orange and carmine.

Today was the day Granny Weatherwax would begin overwintering the bees.

Like any experienced apiarist, her winter preparations actually began in August. Toward summer’s end, she started keeping a closer eye on the frames they’d filled. The troubles at midsummer had disrupted the hive’s usual activity. The bees lost a solid half-month of pollen gathering and had never made up for it. 

Now, their low honey stores were the last remaining trace of the elves. As such, the problem vexed Granny personally.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much she could do. Bees needed honey. They hadn’t made enough. At least a few of the hive boxes were probably going to die.

However, the old witch wasn’t going to let them go without a fight.

Granny Weatherwax began her morning by sweeping up the leaves that had gathered in drifts around the hive boxes. An enormous, yellow maple loomed over the back of her cottage, sheltering the hives from too much sun or rain. Despite the tree’s usefulness in summer, she knew that in colder months, errant leaf-litter could cause damp mold to grow along the boxes. She pushed her small piles briskly to the edge of the clearing.

Once she finished sweeping, she disappeared into her cottage and reemerged holding a hammer, a box of nails, and several squares of woven wire mesh. The wire had come from Ankh-Morpork: a gift from King Verence. Lately, Verence had been sending Shawn on errands to give her all sorts of odd things. Granny firmly believed that generosity toward witches was sensible kingly behavior. 

She approached the nearest hive and set her tools down beside it. A few bees hovered around the hive entrances. As she drew close beside each box, she could hear the steady, strong hum from inside. She slid a square of mesh over the little hole in the bottom box from which bees came and went.

The bees that bobbed near the entrance gently bobbed to either side. The swarm’s mood was easygoing. As always, Granny took care to wear gloves and a dress with long sleeves, but she had never bothered with smoke to calm them. 

She reached down to pick up the hammer and nails, and began to pin the edges of the mesh over the hive entrance. The weave was wide enough that bees could pass through freely, but the mesh made for an excellent mouse guard. Now that the weather had cooled, little creatures would be on the lookout for a warm, dry place to rest. A determined mouse could devastate honey stores given only a few days.

She stuck her tongue between her teeth as she worked. Her manner was deliberate. She moved from box to box, much like the bees themselves had moved between flowers in the summer. The day was warm and breezy. To Granny, it felt like the first warning of a mother calling for her children: pleasant for now, but with an inevitable edge. 

The final nail was tapped into place, the final mesh piece afixed. Granny stepped back and surveyed her six hives, nodding to herself with satisfaction. 

As the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, she went inside her cottage, lit a fire beneath her kettle, and slipped into her favorite chair. Eyes-half closed, she savored the tick of her timeless clock and the crackle of the stove fire.

She wondered if the village of Bad Ass was enjoying a reprieve. Nobody had been by her cottage in two days. 

---

Granny Weatherwax quietly operated a still. She made liquor for medicinal purposes. The liquor began its life as plums and ended its life as a moonshine that could be charitably described as brandy. Currently, however, it was in an unruly teenage phase.

Granny knelt on her shed’s dirt floor, watching closely as clear liquid trickled from a spout at the base of the copper still. It had nearly filled the bucket below. The drip from the early stage of distillation could chase infection from a wound or be used to strip stubborn paint. The fumes made her eyes water. She pushed a fresh bucket in place of the full one under the spout, and moved the first bucket just outside the open door. From beside it, she picked up two small logs and fed them into the stove.

She stepped outside the shed and watched grey smoke curl from the chimney. Puffy clouds dotted the bright sky. A half-hour would pass before she had to add more fuel.

Granny crossed the clearing over to the hives again. She’d been fretting a bit over the arrangement of the frames. Not only were the bees low on honey, but in a few boxes, they’d placed it poorly. She approached one hive and watched as the activity quieted around its mesh-covered entrance.

Her crabbed, gloved fingers curled around the wooden lid. Bees coated the underside as she lifted, crawling across one another. Beneath the lid, the box was filled with frames arranged in files. For whatever reason, they had been building honeycomb only on the left side. Granny gently pulled the golden frames free from the box and rearranged them, making sure that the cluster could find food in any direction. 

There was a creak from her front gate. Her head shot up as her eyes narrowed, shaded from the sun by the brim of her hat. “Come ‘round back here,” Granny called, affecting irritability from the get-go. The next remark she sighed to herself. “What’s today’s trouble?” She replaced the lid atop the hive.

No one appeared behind the cottage. Granny stepped away from the hives and peered around the cottage’s cornerstones. The gate swung on its hinge in a merry gust. Nobody was there. She trudged over to latch it shut. Despite herself, she raised her chin and squinted down the path into the woods. The leaves piled deep where they’d fallen, undisturbed by visitors. She shook herself and went back to her work.

The second and third buckets came away from the still smelling more sweetly of plums and oak. As the fourth bucket began to collect, Granny briefly held a jar beneath the spout, then gave it an experimental sniff. She tilted the jar back and allowed a sip to reach her tongue. Her mouth curled upwards in a puckered, appraising smile.

Between pulling buckets, she worked with the bees. More frames were rearranged, then each hive was topped with sawdust-filled quilt boxes. These would keep the colonies warmer and absorb some dampness.

The day wore on. The clouds thickened. She went indoors a little earlier and put too many twigs in the stove fire. 

A thump against her door made her leap up from her chair. She winced as the sensation hit her knees. These days, she was too old to do much leaping up. Leave the leaping to young people.

She steaded herself on the arm of her chair. “Come in,” she called. “Got the kettle on.” 

She mentally prepared a “what ails you my child?” but the door stayed shut. Seized with paranoia, she commanded her knees to obey her. When she opened the door, she saw a dry branch lying across her doorstep. It must have blown loose from a tree. Brown leaves still clung to the ends of its twigs.

Granny picked up the branch and tossed it, with some effort, into the brush.

She shut the door. She swept her dirt floor with quick, agitated movements. She made a second pot of tea. 

Nobody had been by her cottage in three days. 

---

Nobody had been by her cottage in four days. 

The cottage, always tidy, was now immaculate. The dirt floor was practically polished. Her kettle, pots, and most of her silverware had been polished. She’d already fussed with the honey frames again and it wasn’t yet noon. It pained her to admit it, but Granny was running out of things to do.

When had she last had so much time to herself? Sometimes, a couple days would pass when she’d be out borrowing, but generally someone did come around. Hence the need for the sign.

Perhaps, said a dark part of her, her time for being useful was coming to a close. Perhaps she was too old. She certainly felt old. Something about how the cold stayed in her bones, even when she was moving about or drinking scalding tea.

Perhaps they went to other witches. Perhaps she’d been standoffish and unpleasant for long enough that they sought out someone else to help their cow give milk, or to ease their gout, or to comfort their dying relatives. Perhaps other witches knew something she didn’t. 

“Heh! That one’s easy to rule out, at least,” she muttered.

Talking to yourself! Well, there was a sign of senility. Suppose someone did come by, they mustn’t hear her talking to herself, like some kind of old person.

She considered going into the village of Bad Ass but this felt somehow desperate. What was she going to do? Just hang around and wait for someone to ask for something? 

Perhaps something horrible had happened. She would be the last to know, living as she did at the edge of town.

Granny’s bed was stiff as she lay down atop it, still wearing her dress and heavy boots. Her hat, she’d unpinned and placed on the nightstand. Sunlight shone in dusty shafts from her open window onto the cardboard sign she held in her hands.

She closed her eyes.

---

Mrs. Scorbic, the formidable cook of Lancre castle, had been banished from the kitchens. In her usual place stood Queen Magrat Garlick. Ingredients and implements for baking lay on the table in front of her, in this case, like torturers’ instruments. She hummed a tuneless tune as she grated zucchini over a large bowl.

Nanny Ogg stood beside her, looking from the woodcut picture in the open cookbook to the ingredients on the table. She elbowed Magrat helpfully. “Looks like you’re missing a few bits. I’ll just nip ‘round to the cellar and find some eggs and butter - ”

“Actually,” said Magrat, “It’s a cake with no dairy. It’s Better For You.”

“Fancy that! What holds it together?”

“Applesauce,” Magrat said proudly.

Nanny Ogg regarded her with the same suspicion she’d employ investigating a crime scene. “And it’s full of vegetables? I can see you’ve got carrots and zucchini - ”

“And honey-lemon icing.” Magrat beamed.

“Lovely of you to think of Esme,” Nanny said diplomatically, “But she doesn’t go in much for birthdays.” And Nanny suspected that poisoning her wouldn’t endear her further to the idea.

Magrat sighed. In the tradition of families everywhere, when Magrat moved away and they stopped spending too much time together, her relationship with Granny had improved immensely. Especially since midsummer, Granny had seemed more powerful but also more… finite. The young queen found herself awkwardly looking for ways to express gratitude.

Magrat said, “I know the cake might be a stretch. But that isn’t all I’m doing. I have asked,” she gave what she thought was a conspiratorial smile, “For the people of her village to give her a break.”

“What was that, my girl?”

“Not to ask her for anything for a week. I could have commanded, being queen now, but that didn’t feel right.”

“Oh dear.” Nanny was suddenly wringing her hands. “Oh dear, oh dear. That’ll be the last thing she needs. She’ll go mad if folk don’t come ‘round asking her for things.”

“But she always complains! Always says how she wants to be left alone.”

“Oh, she thinks she likes to be left alone. Alone in moderation, sure,” Nanny said. “But she likes to be needed, because she likes being a witch.” 

Magrat continued grating zucchini, somewhat miserably. “I sent Shawn over with stern words for everyone about how they weren’t to ask her for anything. For a week!”

“You’ve still got a lot to learn about how she works.” Nanny patted her shoulder amiably. “Not to worry. We’ll just send someone her way. Who needs something?”

Magrat sagged with relief. She turned to open a sack of flour sitting on the ground, measuring out scoopfuls into a bowl. “I offered to do some witching to pick up the slack, but there’s too much. Weaver the thatcher wanted a spell to stop it from raining until he finished getting his hay into the barn. Sarah Tockley asked me to divine the best day to cut the pumpkins from the fields, and also, could I make them grow any bigger? And I haven’t even started making that poultice for Baker the weaver’s ankle - ”

“That’s a good one,” Nanny interrupted, “Start there. When Baker the weaver comes by, tell him you’re fresh out of poultice and that he should pay Esme a visit.” 

While Magrat was turned around, Nanny swiped a discrete finger into the sugary slurry of applesauce and zucchini. Cautiously, she tasted it. 

Not half-bad.

Magrat straightened, clutching her bowl of flour. “But I can do a bit of witching now and again. I’m sure I can manage…”

She withered under a stern look from Nanny Ogg. “You are in the process of baking Esme a cake made from vegetables. Giving her something to do is just as good.” She added mildly, “Probably better.”

Magrat sighed. “You really think so?”

“Haven’t had to think about it at all! I know so.” Nanny smiled, warm and one-toothed. “And speaking of things I know, it’s not too late to add a stick of butter.”

Hidden beside the sack of flour, a mouse gnawed resolutely on some zucchini shavings.

---

It had stormed in the night. Rain battered down the leaves and plastered them against the ground. The maple had been hit hard. Its remaining gold leaves trembled against its wet bark.

Granny trudged out to the hives, her heavy boots sucking in the mud. She walked stiffly, sore from too long laying down. 

No bees hovered outside on this gloomy morning. She approached the nearest box to press her ear against the side. It hummed with a strong, comforting buzz. Her waterproofing, at least, was as good as ever. She crossed the yard to listen at the other hives, nodding to herself.

Behind her, she heard her front gate open with a creak of hinges.

She said, “Morning, Mister Baker.”

“How did you - ”

She turned around to see Baker the weaver frozen with one hand on the gate, eyes wide. 

It was the little things in life.

“Mistress Weatherwax,” he said, pulling off his hat, “I hate to be a bother. It’s my trouble. I wondered if you had something - ”

She moved, businesslike, back toward her cottage. He followed just behind, favoring his right ankle. Once inside, he sat opposite her as she began to pull jars down from a high shelf in the kitchen. 

“Never a moment’s peace ‘round here…” she grumbled.

Baker the weaver stayed silent. If he were forced to describe Granny Weatherwax’s expression, he might have said ‘visible relief.’ 

They didn’t speak much as she worked. She took pinches of herbs from the larger jars and tossed them into a stone bowl. She ground the mixture with a mortar held in her veined hands.

Nevertheless, Granny couldn’t help but prod. “This is more Magrat’s sort of thing, isn’t it?” she asked, with a tone that was striving for ‘innocent’ but was better described as, ‘predator laying in ambush.’

“I did ask her first, Mistress Weatherwax,” he replied cautiously. “Although it’s a bit awkward now that she’s queen and everything. But she told me to go to you.”

“Hmph. Humoring an old woman.”

“What was that?”

“Just… talkin’ to myself,” she said brusquely. Then her frown deepened. She finished without further conversation, pouring the herbs into the small jar and brushing some stray pieces off the table to top it off. As the man departed, he left a soft, knitted scarf folded neatly on her kitchen table. That gesture would be Mrs. Baker’s doing.

She walked him out to the gate, where she was surprised to see Mrs. Tockley striding up the path, looking embarrassed but resolute. She clutched a pumpkin under one arm. 

Despite herself, a bemused smile briefly found its way onto Granny’s face. Then she schooled herself back to brusque irritation.

Once she’s finished imparting squash-related wisdom, Granny walked Mrs. Tockley out to the gate, where they were met by a teenage girl standing just outside the fence. She wanted a magical way to contact her cousin, who’d run away to the next valley over to be with a sweetheart. Granny suggested, rather than magic, borrowing a donkey study enough to make the trip. In the mean time, she made a mental note to find the girl extra hands help with her harvest.

The day continued in a similar fashion. As soon as she resolved one minor ailment, issue, or dispute, another would pop up in its place like a mushroom. Around noon, someone had asked her to fly the short distance to Slice to check on Mary Lester’s chicken, which had laid the same egg three times. When she returned to her cottage, there was a small queue of people hovering around her gate. Granny tried to avoid looking genuinely pleased with herself. Magrat must’ve barely held them at bay.

She treated her visitors with curt exasperation. She helped them all as best she could, most with headology, advice, and simple medicine. In Granny’s experience, doing actual magic was an occasional occupational hazard of witching; most of witching was just showing up for people. 

Of course, to the citizens of Lancre, 'magic' included all the things Granny did.

Late in the afternoon, she finished her conversation with a troll named Alabaster, who had apparently come down from the mountains just to ask her about bridge upkeep. What did she know about bridge upkeep?

Night fell fast this time of year. As Alabaster sipped his tea, the light dimmed to gold, casting long blue shadows behind the trees. As they stepped outside together, Granny spotted two final figures standing outside her gate.

The first was a bedraggled, straw-haired young woman and a dumpy woman with a face like a grape completing its transition to raisin. Between them hovered a broomstick. Balanced atop the broomstick was a small cardboard box.

“Hullo, Esme,” Nanny Ogg said brightly. “Gracious me, is that a troll?”

The troll inclined his head, which made the ragged moss hanging from his chin briefly brush the ground. He lumbered past them and away down the tree-lined path.

“Evening, Granny,” said Magrat. She took the cardboard box off the broomstick into both of her hands.

Granny approached the fence and leaned on it. “Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself? After the day you saddled me with?”

Magrat sighed. “Pieced that together, did you?” She smiled, fond and a little weary. “I had to fly all around the kingdom to tell them it was alright to bother you.”

Granny fixed her with a glare. “And what makes you assume it was alright for people to bother me?”

“Well, I didn’t want them to keep coming to the castle. And Nanny told me that ah, missing visitors might make you nervous.”

“Nervous?” Granny said sharply, “What would I have to be nervous about? Kingdom can’t get on with me. That’s no surprise.” She eyed the cardboard box suspiciously. “And what have you got there?”

Magrat lifted the lid to reveal a sagging monstrosity of confectionery. Icing sloughed off its uneven sides like a candle facing a strong wind. She looked a little apologetic. “I wanted to wish you a happy b - ”

In the dying evening light, a lone bee emerged from its hive.

“Don’t be soppy.”

“Birthdays aren’t soppy! They just... are.”

While they spoke, the bee drifted toward the cake box and alighted softly atop the icing.

The three witches stared at it.

“Magrat Garlick - ”

“Technically I am queen - ”

“Have you, per chance, got honey in your royal stores? Or have you used it all to make… this.”

Magrat looked bemused. “We’ve got plenty. Huge pots of it in the cellar from last year.”

“Tell you what,” said Granny, who was suddenly smiling in the kind of hard way that made elves nervous, “Keep the cake. But come back tomorrow with six jars of it.”

“What?”

“Humor an old woman, would you?”

“If you’d like,” Magrat said dubiously.

“And you.” Granny turned now to Nanny Ogg, who was now striving to look wide-eyed and innocent. “I knows you know it’s the time of year where I finish my brandy. I remind you again that I don’t make much of it, and it is reserved for medicinal purposes. And we are not celebrating anything tonight.”

Nanny sighed and elbowed Magrat. “It was worth it to try.”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t like us to stay?” Magrat asked. “Just as a bit of company for old time’s sake?”

“After all the company you’ve given me today?” Granny grinned. “No.”

They departed by broomstick, flying up and into the dark sky as the last glimmer of sunlight faded from the horizon. In the dark, Granny walked back to the hives and lay a gloved hand against one box. She hadn’t thought to ask if anyone had spare honey. She's just assumed everyone faced the same shortage as her. Completely daft, when you thought about it.

Six jars would more than cover what the bees needed.

For the second time that day, she pressed her cheek against the hive to hear the gentle roar of its activity. She knew she wouldn’t win every battle, but she was glad to win this one.

Granny Weatherwax went inside her cottage. She lit a fire beneath her kettle, slipped into her favorite chair, and savored the tick of her timeless clock.

About a dozen people had come by her cottage today. But sometimes, people left you marvelously, luxuriously alone.

---

Author’s Note.  I’m so grateful for the extremely charming prompt: “Life isn’t all witching. Sometimes people do leave you alone.” The prompter’s list of favorite themes, including "yearly progression, contentment, victory, and gardening" was perfection. 

In Carpe Jugulum, Granny’s invitation gets stolen by magpies and she’s like, “Well, guess it’s time to for me to go be a hermit in a cave until I die.” I love how stubborn and melodramatic she is, often without a lot of self-awareness! It’s that emotional vibe that led me to think, “If she was lonely, she’d probably have a whole existential crisis about it instead of just going out and talking to someone.”

In real life, you can supplement bees' stores with their own honey or honey from a trusted local souce. But it's not a great idea to use honey of unknown origin to feed a hive. It can transmit bacterial infections. But also, please don't use fanfiction as a reference for practical beekeeping?

While Nanny is famous for brewing her scumble from mostly-apples, Equal Rites does mention Granny distilling her own brandy.

Finally, I want it on the record that I poke fun at vegan baking with only the greatest fondness.