As Foyce, her eyes red and smarting from the Trueheart mists that floated above the stream, raged her way back to find the bridge, her father finally woke from his Trueheart sleep. He yawned, and stretched, and stared in astonishment at the chaos in the kitchen. His chair and the table were the only items that remained as he remembered; everything else was upside down or smashed into a thousand pieces. “Gracie!” he yelled. “Foyce!”

There was no answer.

Mange heaved himself onto his feet and staggered across the room. He peered into the darkness of the cellar, but there was no sign of anyone down there. He stumbled up the ramshackle stairs to the two small bedrooms. Nobody there either, but as he moved past the window of the smaller bedroom, something outside caught his eye, and he stopped to look.

A statue?

Since when had there been a statue of a ragged woman on a donkey outside his house?

Mange shook his head and looked again. Now he saw he had been mistaken. It wasn’t a statue after all. The woman was moving, albeit very slowly. She was frowning, and muttering, and peering into some kind of leather pouch.

Mange’s heavy eyes brightened. The woman was old, and she was slow, and she was holding a purse. A large purse. This was a combination he liked. He turned and headed for the stairs.

Lady Lamorna climbed stiffly off the donkey, noticing as she did so that its eyes were frozen open in a look of complete astonishment. The spell was evidently still affecting it, but even as she looked she saw an ear twitch.

“At least I’ll be able to get back to my castle,” she told herself wearily. “But what then? That girl’s long gone. I heard her screeching. Oh, if only I’d turned her to stone . . . If only I’d never seen her . . . If only I’d never had anything to do with the world outside . . .”

Lady Lamorna was stopped in her regrets by the sound of a door opening. A man stepped out of the house, blinking in the bright sunlight. There was something about his shambling gait that reminded her of something. Something familiar. Something familiar, and useful . . .

An idea edged itself into her mind. One glance at his close-set eyes and thin acquisitive nose assured her that he was both mean and ruthless, qualities that were high on Lady Lamorna’s list of essential requirements. He was smiling at her now — at least, she assumed that was what he intended, even though it had more the appearance of a black-toothed leer — and moving toward her. She furtively peeked into her leather pouch.

A pinch of spell powder was all that remained. One pinch only.

It will be enough, Lady Lamorna thought. It’s a long time since I had a human to train. . . . Was Gubble once a human? I don’t remember. It will kill the hours while I think of other ways to pay for my dress. Oh, that dress . . . that beautiful dress!

She took the pinch of spell powder in her skeletal fingers and lifted it high — just as Mange lunged for the purse.

“Be mine!” hissed Lady Lamorna, and sprinkled the powder in the air.

Mange froze for a second, then swore. He swore with eloquence and real venom, and Lady Lamorna smiled more cheerfully than she had for a long time.

“What an ideal servant you will make,” she remarked. “Now the donkey has shaken free of its spell at last. Let us go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mange growled. “Give me my foot back!”

“Certainly not,” his new mistress said. “Your foot will remain a lump of stone until you have served me for at least fifty years. Or, of course, until I’m tired of you.”

Mange gulped. His foot was indeed a lump of stone, and although he could move, it was only with much effort. He was also becoming increasingly aware of a huge power emanating from the old woman that he was totally unable to ignore. Desperately he tried to think of a way to escape his fate. “I’ll give you . . . I’ll give you gold,” he said at last.

“Gold?” If Lady Lamorna had had a heart, it would have leaped. As it was, she stared at Mange, her silver eyes gleaming. “How much gold?”

“Wait!” Mange, dragging his stone foot behind him, half ran, half hobbled into the house. He came back clutching a wooden, brass-bound box and thrust it into Lady Lamorna’s arms. “Now let me go,” he whined. “Give me my foot back. . . .”

Lady Lamorna opened the box very slowly.

Was it possible? Could it really be that, after all her terrible experiences, she was now to be rewarded for her efforts?

As she saw the shining gold she had to bite back a sigh of relief. The dress was hers.

And so was her new servant.

“I will take your gold,” she said graciously. “Perhaps now I will consider letting you go after thirty years — or, then again, perhaps not.” She climbed back on her donkey, the box under her arm. “Come! We will celebrate our new arrangement with cakes and wine!” She did not think it worth mentioning that it would be she who did the celebrating, while Mange fetched and carried.

And Mange Undershaft was unable to refuse. Despite all attempts to stay exactly where he was, his body took not the slightest notice of his wishes. He found himself following the sorceress obediently as she rode slowly away.