Equal Rites (Terry Pratchett)

“Pray have another cup of tea, Mrs. Weatherwax?” said Mrs. Whitlow.

“Mistress,” said Granny.

“Pardon?”

“It’s Mistress Weatherwax,” said Granny. “Three sugars, please.”

Mrs. Whitlow pushed the bowl toward her. Much as she looked forward to Granny’s visits it came expensive in sugar. Sugar lumps never seemed to last long around Granny.

“Very bad for the figure,” she said. “And the teeth, so Aye hear.”

“I never had a figure to speak of and my teeth take care of themselves,” said Granny. It was true, more’s the pity. Granny suffered from robustly healthy teeth, which she considered a big drawback in a witch. She really envied Nanny Annaple, the witch over the mountain, who managed to lose all her teeth by the time she was twenty and had real crone-credibility. It meant you ate a lot of soup, but you also got a lot of respect. And then there was warts. Without any effort Nanny managed to get a face like a sockful of marbles, while Granny had tried every reputable wart-causer and failed to raise even the obligatory nose wart. Some witches had all the luck.

“Mmph?” she said, aware of Mrs. Whitlow’s fluting.

“Aye said,” said Mrs. Whitlow, “that young Eskarina is a real treasure. Quate the little find. She keeps the floors spotless, spotless. No task too big. Aye said to her yesterday, Aye said, that broom of yours might as well have a life of its own, and do you know what she said?”

“I couldn’t even venture a guess,” said Granny, weakly.

“She said the dust was afraid of it! Can you imagine?”

“Yes,” said Granny.

Mrs. Whitlow pushed her teacup toward her and gave her an embarrassed smile.

Granny sighed inwardly and squinted into the none-too-clean depths of the future. She was definitely beginning to run out of imagination.