Ankl-Morswine, a thrumming hive of commerce, criminality, venality, venery and magic. A city where chaos was as natural as a street vendor shouting, "Fresh rat pies!", two figures teetered on the edge of an impossibly high tower. It was impossibly high, of course because the only thing holding it up was some moderately awful magic, as illegally cast by Bors, a junior apprentice wizard. He would, if he survived, be in serious trouble with the Guild of Wizards; it is an offence to ‘riotously and with very little to no aforethought, cause dangerous structures to appear without a proper permit’. Suffice it to say then that Bors seemed largely incapable of anything resembling aforethought. He had simply intended to build a hutch for his pet marmoset Matilda.

Be that as it may, The wind howled, swirling dust and odd bits of parchment around, as Bors was frantically flattening himself against the cold stone of the tower wall. His blue robes, two sizes too big, fluttered like a sail in a strong breeze. He wasn’t good with heights. Or, for that matter, with spells. Or courage.

"Take my hand," said Agnes, her voice steady despite the storm whipping around them. Her black robe flapped, cracking like a whip in the wind.

"N-No way!" Bors, replied, clinging on for dear life.

Agnes rolled her eyes in the way only a witch on the verge of losing her temper could. "I’m not trying to marry you," she said dryly, raising an eyebrow, "I’m trying to save your life."

Bors looked down, which everyone knows is both an unfortunate instinct and something to be avoided when clinging on to impossibly high things. He quickly regretted it. The streets of Ankl-Morswine lay miles below, little more than a distant mosaic of dirty rooftops, smoke, and the silvery line of the river winding its garbage-filled way through the town. He swallowed hard.

"This... this isn’t a good time for proposals!" he squeaked, his voice cracking as he clutched the stone tighter. "I can’t afford to sign up for any life-risking on my student loan, Agnes!"

Agnes sighed, her broom hovering patiently. She wondered, not for the first time, why she was even bothering with Bors. He was a bit of a disaster in many ways. He had the magical potential of a soggy biscuit and the looks of gawky beanpole that has left out in the rain. But, as Granny Weatherwax often said, sometimes even the most useless tools could be made to work, although, to be fair, she also insisted that anything useful came usually after a good walloping.

"Look," Agnes said, leaning over by subtly rolling her broom about its longitudinal axis, "either you trust me, or you spend the next three minutes flapping like a fish before you hit the ground like a pink blancmange. It’s your choice."

Bors considered his options. None of them were good. His own broom, which had an even more acute fear of heights the Bors had betrayed him halfway up the tower, which was why he was currently engaged in a mortal struggle with gravity. Still, something in the back of his, admittedly not vast mind, was whispering that taking Agnes’s hand felt like signing a contract with destiny, and destiny was notoriously fickle in this city.

Agnes extended her hand again, this time with a hint of impatience. "Five seconds, Bors, before I leave you here. I’ve got an appointment with the Vice-Chancellor, and I’m never late."

"Wait, oh no, Agnes, what?!"

"Five."

"You . . . .you can’t just leave me . . . .”

"Four."

Bors shut his eyes, feeling the rough stone dig into his palms.

"Three."

The wind picked up, and he swore he heard the faint laughter of someone important echoing up from the city below. Or possibly the wind.

"Two."

"Okay! Okay!" He flung his hand out with all the desperation of a man whose only other option was ungraceful plummeting.

Agnes clasped it, her grip firm and unyielding, and with a single motion, yanked him onto the broom beside her. Bors clung to the wood like it was the only solid thing left in the world - which, at this point, it was.

"You can open your eyes now," Agnes said, guiding the broom away from the tower with ease.

Bors cracked one eye open, then the other. To his immense surprise, they weren’t dead. Not yet, anyway. The city stretched out beneath them, and he could almost see the River Ankl glimmering sluggishly in the distance, though "glimmer" may have been too generous a word for what this particular slurry deluge looked like.

"You were moderately brave all things considered,” Agnes said, trying to make Bors feel a little less fatuous and steering the broom through the city's rooftops, her tone casual, as though she hadn’t just enabled him to evade certain doom.

"I . . .uh . . .thanks?" Bors said, still trembling slightly. He was dimly aware that he aught to say something gallant to recognise that Agnes had, in fact, saved him. But as usual he just flapped his lips like a guppy taking a sunbath.

"Though next time," Agnes added, "I’d recommend less screaming. It would make you look more like a wizard and less like a drowned puppy.”

Agnes bought them in for a very smooth landing, stylishly whipping her broom to oneside and simultaneously straightening her hair. Bors tottered about a bit and then fell on his bottom.

“Ah, Vice-Chancellor,” said Agnes.

“Ah, Agnes,” said the Vice-Chancellor, “on time as always! Good. Good.” The Vice-Chancellor, his eyes cold, black and terrifying looked down at Bors.

“Bors,” said the Vice-Chancellor, his voice as crisp and sharp as a knife edge, “tell me, how is your pet Matilda fairing these days? You really must come along to my office so we can discuss the matter properly. Let’s say 2.30pm sharp shall we? Oh, and do clear up that mess you’ve made in town before you come, wont you?”

The Vice-Chancellor smiled icily and turned to smile warmly at Agnes, “Lunch?” he asked.