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Magrat didn't like cats and hated the idea of mousetraps. She'd always felt that it should be possible to come to some sort of arrangement with creatures like mice so that all available food was rationed in the best interest of all parties. This was a very humanitarian outlook, which is to say that it was not a view shared by mice, and therefore her moonlit kitchen was alive.
When there was a knocking at the door the entire floor appeared to rush towards the walls.
After a few seconds the knocking came again.
There'Sorry, sire. Forgot myself.'
'Try the latch.'
There was the sound of someone being extremely hesitant. was another pause. Then the knocking rattled the door on its hinges, and a voice cried, 'Open in the name of the king!'A second voice said, in hurt tones, 'You don't have to shout like that. Why did you shout like that? I didn't order you to shout like that. It's enough to frighten anybody, shouting like that.''Sorry, sire! It goes with the job, sire!''Just knock again. A bit more gently, please.'The knocking might have been a bit softer. Magrat's apron dropped off its hook on the back of the door.'Are you sure I can't do it myself?''It's not done, sire, kings knocking at humble cottage doors. Best leave it to me. OPEN IN THE—''Sergeant!'
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