Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett

I’ll give ’em the satisfaction,” she muttered.
    She sat down in her rocking chair, stood up again so quickly that the chair almost fell over, and went back to the pacing.
    “I mean, I never been the kind of person to put myself forward,” she said to the air. “I’m not the sort to go where I’m not welcome, I’m sure.”
    She went to make a cup of tea, fumbling with the kettle in shaking hands, and dropped the lid on her sugar bowl, breaking it.
    A light caught her eye. The half moon was visible over the lawn.
    “Anyway, it’s not as if I’ve not got other things to do,” she said. “Can’t all be rushing off to parties the whole time…wouldn’t have gone anyway .”
    She found herself flouncing around the corners of the floor again and thought: if I’d found it, the Wattley boy would have knocked at an empty cottage. I’d have gone and enjoyed meself. And John Ivy’d be sitting alone, now…
    “Drat!”
    That was the worst part about being good—it caught you coming and going.
    She landed in the rocking chair again and pulled her shawl around her, against the chill. She hadn’t kept the fire in. She hadn’t expected to be at home tonight.
    Shadows filled the corners of the room, but she couldn’t be bothered to light the lamp. The candle would have to do.
    As she rocked, glaring at the wall, the shadows lengthened.

Agnes followed Nanny down into the hall. She probably wasn’t meant to, but very few people will argue with a hat of authority.
    Small countries were normal along this part of the Ramtops. Every glacial valley, separated from its neighbors by a route that required a scramble or, at worst, a ladder, more or less ruled itself. There seemed to Agnes to be any number of kings, even if some of them did their ruling in the evenings after they’d milked the cows. A lot of them were here, because a free meal is not to be sneezed at. There were also some senior dwarfs from Copperhead and, standing well away from them, a group of trolls. They weren’t carrying weapons, so Agnes assumed they were politicians. Trolls weren’t strictly subjects of King Verence, but they were there to say, in official body language, that playing football with human heads was something no one did anymore, much. Hardly at all, really. Not roun’ here, certainly. Dere’s practic’ly a law against it.
    The witches were ushered to the area in front of the thrones, and then Millie scurried away.
    The Omnian priest nodded at them.
    “Good, um, evening,” he said, and completely failed to set fire to anyone. He wasn’t very old and had a rather ripe boil beside his nose. Inside Agnes, Perdita made a face at him.
    Nanny Ogg grunted. Agnes risked a brief smile. The priest blew his nose noisily.
    “You must be some of these, um, witches I’ve heard so much about,” he said. He had an amazing smile. It appeared on his face as if someone had operated a shutter. One moment it wasn’t there, the next moment it was. And then it was gone.
    “Um, yes,” said Agnes.
    “Hah,” said Nanny Ogg, who could haughtily turn her back on people while looking them in the eye.
    “And I am, I am, aaaa…” said the priest. He stopped, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, I am sorry. the mountain air doesn’t agree with me. I am the Quite Reverend Mightily Oats.”
    “You are?” said Agnes. To her amazement, the man began to redden. The more she looked at him, the more she realized that he wasn’t much older than she was.
    “That is, Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-Exalteth-Om Oats,” he said. “It’s much shorter in Omnian, of course. Have you by any chance heard the Word of Om?”
    “Which one? ‘Fire’?” said Nanny Ogg. “Hah!”
    The nascent religious war was abruptly cut short by the first official royal fanfare to end with a few bars from the “Hedgehog Cakewalk.” The royal couple began to descend the stairs.
    “And we’ll have none of your heathen ways, thank you very much,” muttered Nanny Ogg