'Oh, er... don't worry about it, then.' She stared at William again and said, 'How? I mean, how does a bird like that think he's- she's a chicken?'
'Can happen all too easy, miss,' said Hodgesaargh. 'Thomas Peerless over in Bad Ass pinched an egg and put it under a broody hen, miss. He didn't take the chicken away in time. So William thought if her mum was a chicken, then so was she.'
'Well, that's-'
'And that's what happens, miss. When I raise them from eggs I don't do that. I've got a special glove, miss-'
'That's absolutely fascinating, but I'd better go,' said Agnes, quickly.
'Yes, miss.'
She'd spotted the quarry, walking across the hall.
There was something unmistakable about him. It was as if he was a witch. It wasn't that his black robe ended at the knees and became a pair of legs encased in grey socks and sandals, or that his hat had a tiny crown but a brim big enough to set out your dinner on. It was because wherever he walked he was in a little empty space that seemed to move around him, just like you got around witches. No one wanted to get too close to witches.
She couldn't see his face. He was making a beeline for the buffet table.
'Excuse me, Miss Nitt?'
Shawn had appeared at her side. He stood very stiffly, because if he made any sudden turns the oversized wig tended to spin on his head.
'Yes, Shawn?' said Agnes.
'The Queen wants a word, miss,' said Shawn.
'With me?'
'Yes, miss. She's up in the Ghastly Green Drawing Room, miss.' Shawn swivelled slowly. His wig stayed facing the same way.
Agnes hesitated. It was a royal command, she supposed, even if it was only from Magrat Garlick as was, and as such it superseded anything Nanny had asked her to do. Anyway, she had spotted the priest, and it was not as though he was going to set fire to everyone over the canapes. She'd better go.
A little hatch shot open behind the doleful Igor.
'Why've we stopped this time?'
'Troll'th in the way, marthter.'
'A what?'
Igor rolled his eyes. 'A troll'th in the way,' he said.
The hatch shut. There was a whispered conversation inside the coach. The hatch opened.
'You mean a troll?'
'Yeth, marthter.'
'Run it down!'
The troll advanced, holding a flickering torch above its head. At some point recently someone had said 'This troll needs a uniform' and had found that the only thing in the armoury that would fit was the helmet, and then only if you attached it to his head with string.
'The old Count wouldn't have told me to run it down,' Igor muttered, not quite under his breath. 'But, then, he wath a gentleman.'
'What was that?' a female voice snapped.
The troll reached the coach and banged its knuckles on its helmet respectfully.
'Evenin',' it said. 'Dis is a bit embarrassin'. You know a pole?'