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It seemed impossible to be truly unhappy there, with the damp white walls cradling her and the light of the blue day pricking through the briars. Sometimes, when she was much younger, she had seen the ancient fish swimming in and out of the chalk pit, ancient fish from the time when the Chalk was the land under the waves. The water had gone long ago, but the souls of the ghost fish hadn’t noticed. They were as armoured as knights and ancient as the chalk. But she didn’t see them any more. Perhaps your eyesight changes as you get older, she thought. There was a strong smell of garlic. A large part of the bottom of the pit was full of snails. Feegles were walking carefully among them, painting numbers on their shells. Amber was sitting next to the kelda, with her hands clasped round her knees. Seen from above, it looked for all the world like a sheepdog trials, but with less barking and a lot more stickiness. The kelda spotted Tiffany, and raised a tiny finger to her lips, followed by a brief nod at Amber, who was now engrossed in the proceedings. Jeannie patted the space on the other side of her, and said, ‘We are watching the lads putting our brand on the livestock, ye ken. ’ There was a slight touch of strangeness to her voice. It was the kind of voice a grown-up uses when it tells a child ‘We are having fun, aren’t we ?’, in case the child hasn’t reached that conclusion yet. But Amber really did look as if she was enjoying herself. It occurred to Tiffany that being around the Feegles seemed to make Amber happy. She got the impression that the kelda wanted to keep the conversation light, so she simply asked, ‘Why mark them? Who’s going to try to steal them?’ ‘Other Feegles, of course. My Rob reckons they will be queuing up to steal our snails while they are left unprotected, ye ken. ’ Tiffany was mystified. ‘Why would they be unprotected?’ ‘Because my lads, ye ken, will be away stealing their livestock. It’s an old Feegle tradition, it means everyone gets in lots of fighting, rustling and stealing and, of course, the all-time favourite, boozing. ’ The kelda winked at Tiffany. ‘Well, it keeps the lads happy, and stops them fretting and getting under our feet, ye ken. ’ She winked at Tiffany again and patted Amber on the leg, and said something to her in the language that sounded like a very old version of Feegle. Amber answered in the same language. The kelda nodded meaningfully at Tiffany and pointed to the other end of the pit. ‘What did you just say to her?’ said Tiffany, looking back at the girl, who was still watching the Feegles with the same smiling interest. ‘I told her that you and I were going to have a conversation for grown-ups,’ said the kelda, ‘and she just said the boys were very funny, and I don’t know how, but she has picked up the Mother of Tongues. Tiffany, I only use it to a daughter and the gonnagle, 14 ye ken, and I was talking to him on the mound last night when she joined in! She picked it up just by listening! That shouldn’t happen! That’s a rare gift she has, and no mistake. She must ken the meanings in her head, and that’s magic, missy, it’s the pure quill and no mistake. ’ ‘How could it happen?’ ‘Who knows?’ said the kelda. ‘It’s a gift. And if ye take my advice, ye will set this girl to training. ’ ‘Isn’t she a bit too old to be starting?’ said Tiffany. ‘Put her to the craft, or find some channel for her gift. Believe me, my girl, I wouldnae want ye to believe that beating a girl nigh on to death is a good thing, but who kens how our paths are chosen? And so she ended up here, with me. She has the gift of understandin’. Would she have found it else? Ye know full well that the meaning of life is to find your gift. To find your gift is happiness. Never tae find it is misery. Ye said she’s a bit simple: find her a teacher who can bring out the complicated in her. The girl learned a difficult language just by listening to it. The world sore needs folk that can do that. ’ It made sense. Everything the kelda said made sense. Jeannie paused and then said, ‘I am very sorry the Baron is dead. ’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Tiffany said. ‘I meant to tell you. ’ The kelda smiled at her. ‘Do you think a kelda would need to be told something like that, my girl? He was a decent man, and ye did right by him. ’ ‘I’ve got to go and find the new Baron,’ said Tiffany. ‘And I’ll need the boys to help me find him. There’s thousands of people in the city, and the lads are very good at finding things. ’ 15 She glanced up at the sky. Tiffany had never flown all the way to the big city before and didn’t much fancy flying there in the darkness. ‘I shall leave at first light. But first of all, Jeannie, I think I’d better take Amber back home. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Amber,’ she said hopelessly … Three quarters of an hour later, Tiffany flew her stick back down towards the village, the screams still ringing in her head. Amber wasn’t going back. She had, in fact, made her reluctance to leave the mound abundantly clear by bracing her arms and legs in the hole and staying there screaming at the top of her voice every time Tiffany gave a gentle pull; when she let go, the girl went back to sit next to the kelda. So that was that. You try to make plans for people, and the people make other plans. However you looked at it, Amber had parents; pretty awful parents, you might say, and you might add that that was giving them the best of it. At least they had to know that she was safe … And in any case, what possible harm could come to Amber in the care of the kelda? Mrs Petty slammed the door shut when she saw that it was Tiffany on the step, then opened it again almost immediately, in a flood of tears. The place stank, not just of stale beer and bad cooking but also of helplessness and bewilderment. A cat, the mangiest that Tiffany had ever seen, was almost certainly another part of the problem. Mrs Petty was frightened out of whatever wits she had and dropped to her knees on the floor, pleading incoherently. Tiffany made her a cup of tea, which was no errand for the squeamish, given that such crockery as the cottage possessed was piled up in the stone sink, which was otherwise filled with slimy water that occasionally bubbled. Tiffany spent several minutes of heavy scrubbing before she had a cup she’d care to drink from, and even then something was rattling inside the kettle. Mrs Petty sat on the one chair that had all four legs and babbled about how her husband was really a good man provided his dinner was on time and Amber wasn’t naughty. Tiffany had grown used to that sort of desperate conversation when she was ‘going round the houses’ up in the mountains. They were generated by fear – fear of what would happen to the speaker when they were left alone again. Granny Weatherwax had a way of dealing with this, which was to put the fear of Granny Weatherwax into absolutely everyone, but Granny Weatherwax had had years of being, well, Granny Weatherwax. Careful non-aggressive questioning brought news that Mr Petty was asleep upstairs, and Tiffany simply told Mrs Petty that Amber was being looked after by a very kind lady while she healed. Mrs Petty started to cry again. The misery of the place was getting on Tiffany’s nerves too, and she tried to stop herself being cruel; but how hard was it to slosh a bucket of cold water over a stone floor and swoosh it out of the door with a broom? How hard was it to make some soap? You could make quite a serviceable one out of wood ash and animal fat. And, as her mother had said once, ‘No one is too poor to wash a window,’ although her father, just to annoy her mother, occasionally changed it to, ‘No one is too poor to wash a widow. ’ But where could you start with this family? And whatever it was that was in the kettle was still rattling, presumably trying to get out. Most of the women in the villages had grown up to be tough. You needed to be tough to bring up a family on a farm labourer’s wages. There was a local saying, a sort of recipe for dealing with a trouble-some husband.

It was: ‘Tongue pie, cold barn and the copper stick. ’ It meant that a troublesome husband got a nagging instead of his dinner, he would be shoved out to the barn to sleep, and if he raised his hand to his wife, he might get a good wallop from the long stick every cottage had for stirring the washing in the wash-tub. They usually learned the error of their ways before the rough music played. ‘Wouldn’t you like a short holiday away from Mr Petty?’ Tiffany suggested. The woman, pale as a slug and skinny as a broom, looked horrified. ‘Oh no!’ she gasped. ‘He wouldn’t know what to do without me!’ And then … it all went wrong, or rather, a lot more wrong than it was already. And it was all so innocent, because the woman was so downcast. ‘Well, at least I can clean your kitchen for you,’ Tiffany said cheerfully. It would have been fine if she had simply grabbed a broom and got to work but, oh no, she had to go and look up at the grey, cobweb-filled ceiling and say, ‘All right, I know you’re here, you always follow me, so make yourself useful and clean this kitchen thoroughly!’ Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then she heard, because she was listening for it, a muffled conversation from up near the ceiling. ‘Did ye no’ hear that? She kens we is here! How come she always gets it right?’ A slightly different Feegle voice said, ‘It’s because we always follow her, ye wee dafty!’ ‘Oh aye, I ken that well enough, but my point is, did we not promise faithfully not to follow her around any more?’ ‘Aye, it was a solemn oath. ’ ‘Exactly, and so I cannae but be a wee bit disappointed that the big wee hag will nae take heed of a solemn promise. It’s a wee bit hurtful to the feelings. ’ ‘But we have broken the solemn oath; it’s a Feegle thing. ’ A third voice said, ‘Look lively, ye scunners, it’s the tapping o’ the feets!’ A whirlwind hit the grubby little kitchen. 16 Foaming water swirled across Tiffany’s boots, which had indeed been tapping. It has to be said that no one could create a mess more quickly than a party of Feegles, but strangely, they could clean one up as well, without even the help of bluebirds and miscellaneous woodland creatures. The sink emptied in an instant and filled again with soap suds. Wooden plates and tin mugs hummed through the air as the fire burst into life. With a bang bang bang the log box filled. After that, things speeded up, and a fork shuddered in the wall beside Tiffany’s ear. Steam rose like a fog, with strange noises coming out of it; the sunlight flooded in through the suddenly clean window, filling the room with rainbows; a broom shot past pushing the last of the water in front of it; the kettle boiled; a vase of flowers appeared on the table – some of them, admittedly, upside down – and suddenly the room was fresh and clean and no longer smelled of rotted potatoes. Tiffany looked up at the ceiling. The cat was holding onto it by all four paws. It gave her what was definitely a look. Even a witch can be out-looked by a cat that has had it up to here, and is still up here. Tiffany finally located Mrs Petty under the table, with her hands over her head. When she had finally been persuaded to come out and sit down on a nice clean chair in front of a cup of tea from a wonderfully clean mug, she was very keen to agree that there had been a great improvement, although later on Tiffany couldn’t help but admit that Mrs Petty would probably have agreed to absolutely anything if only Tiffany would go away. Not a success, then, but at least the place was a whole lot cleaner and Mrs Petty was bound to be grateful when she’d had time to think about it. A snarl and a thump that Tiffany heard as she was leaving the ragged garden was probably the cat, parting company with the ceiling. Halfway back to the farm, carrying her broomstick over her shoulder, she thought aloud, ‘Perhaps that was a bit stupid. ’ ‘Dinnae fash yourself,’ said a voice. ‘If we had had the time we could have made some bread as well. ’ Tiffany looked down, and there was Rob Anybody, along with half a dozen others known variously as the Nac Mac Feegle, the Wee Free Men and, sometimes, the Defendants, the Culprits, people wanted by the police to help them with their enquiries and sometimes as ‘that one, second on the left, I swear it was him. ’ ‘You keep on following me!’ she complained. ‘You always promise not to and you always do!’ ‘Ah, but ye dinnae take into account the geas that is laid on us, ye ken. Ye are the hag o’ the hills and we must always be ready to protect ye and help ye, no matter what ye say,’ said Rob Anybody stoutly. There was a rapid shaking of heads among the other Feegles, causing a fallout of bits of pencil, rats’ teeth, last night’s dinner, interesting stones with holes in, beetles, promising bits of snot tucked away for leisurely examination later, and snails. ‘Look,’ said Tiffany, ‘you can’t just go around helping people whether they want you to or not!’ Rob Anybody scratched his head, put back the snail that had fallen out and said, ‘Why not, miss? You do. ’ ‘I don’t!’ she said aloud, but inside an arrow struck her heart. I wasn’t kind to Mrs Petty, was I? she thought. Yes, it was true that the woman seemed to have the brains as well as the demeanour of a mouse, but filthy though it was, the stinking house was Mrs Petty’s house, and Tiffany had burst in with a lot of, well, not to put too fine a point on it, Nac Mac Feegles, and just messed it up, even if it was less of a mess than it had been before. I was brusque and bossy and self-righteous. My mother could have handled it better. If it comes to that, probably any other woman in the village could have handled it better, but I am the witch and I blundered in and blundered about and scared the wits out of her. Me, a slip of a girl with a pointy hat. And the other thing she thought about herself was that if she didn’t actually lie down very soon, she was going to fall over. The kelda was right; she couldn’t remember when she’d last slept in a proper bed, and there was one waiting for her at the farm. And, she thought suddenly and guiltily, she still had to let her own parents know that Amber Petty was back with the Feegles … There’s always something, she thought, and then there’s another something on top of the something, and then there is no end to the somethings. No wonder witches were given broomsticks. Feet just couldn’t do it by themselves. * * * Her mother was tending to Tiffany’s brother Wentworth, who had a black eye. ‘He’s been fighting the big boys,’ her mother complained. ‘Got a black eye, didn’t we, Wentworth?’ ‘Yes, but I did kick Billy Teller in the fork. ’ Tiffany tried to starve a yawn. ‘What have you been fighting for, Went? I thought you were more sensible. ’ ‘They said you was a witch, Tiff,’ said Wentworth. And Tiffany’s mother turned with a strange expression on her face. ‘Yes, well, I am,’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s my job. ’ ‘Yeah, but I doubt you do the kind of things they said you was doing,’ said her brother. Tiffany met her mother’s gaze. ‘Were these bad things?’ she said. ‘Hah! That’s not the half of it,’ said Wentworth. Blood and snot covered his shirt, where it had dripped from his nose. ‘Wentworth, you go upstairs to your room,’ Mrs Aching ordered – and probably, Tiffany thought, not even Granny Weatherwax would have been able to speak an order that was so instantly obeyed. And so full of the implicit threat of doomsday if it was not. When the boots of the reluctant boy had disappeared around the staircase, Tiffany’s mother turned to her youngest daughter, folded her arms and said, ‘It’s not the first time he’s been in a fight like this. ’ ‘It’s all down to the picture books,’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m trying to teach people that witches aren’t mad old women who go around putting spells on people. ’ ‘When your dad comes in, I’ll get him to go and have a word with Billy’s dad,’ said her mother. ‘Billy’s a foot taller than Wentworth but your dad … he’s two foot taller than Billy’s dad. There won’t be any fighting. You know your dad. He’s a calm man, your dad.

Never seen him punch a man more than about twice, never has to. He’ll keep people calm. They’ll be calm or else. But something’s not quite right, Tiff. We’re all very proud of you, you know, what you’re doing and everything, but it’s getting to people somehow. They’re saying some ridiculous things. And we’re having difficulties selling the cheeses. And everybody knows you are the best at cheeses. And now, Amber Petty. You think it is right that she is running around there with … them?’ ‘I hope so, Mum,’ said Tiffany. ‘But the girl has a very strong mind of her own and, Mum, when it comes right down to it, all I can do is the best that I can. ’ Later that night, Tiffany, dozing in her ancient bed, could hear her parents talking very quietly in the room below. And although, of course, witches didn’t cry, she had an overwhelming urge to do so. 11 The soil and the salt were an ancient tradition to keep ghosts away. Tiffany had never seen a ghost, so they probably worked, but in any case they worked on the minds of people, who felt better for knowing that they were there, and once you understood that, you understood quite a lot about magic. 12 The Toad had no other name but that of the Toad and had joined the Feegle clan some years previously, and found life in the mound much to be preferred over his former existence as a lawyer or, to be precise, as a lawyer who had got too smart in the presence of a fairy godmother. The kelda had offered several times to turn him back, but he always refused. The Feegles themselves considered him the brains of the outfit since he knew words that were longer than he was. 13 That was to say, from Tiffany’s point of view, that meant a couple of years younger than Tiffany. 14 see Glossary ; page 344. 15 She kept to herself any thought about the fact that what they were most good at finding was things that belonged to other people. It was true, though, that the Feegles could hunt like dogs, as well as drink like fish. 16 Tiffany had earned the admiration of other witches by persuading the Feegles to do chores. The unfortunate fact was that Feegles would do any chore, provided it was loud, messy and flamboyant. And, if possible, included screams. Chapter 6 THE COMING OF THE CUNNING MAN T IFFANY WAS ANGRY at herself for oversleeping. Her mother actually had to bring her up a cup of tea. But the kelda had been right. She hadn’t been sleeping properly and the ancient but homely bed had just closed around her. Still, it could have been worse, she told herself as they set off. For example, there could have been snakes on the broomstick. The Feegles had been only too glad, as Rob Anybody put it, to ‘feel the wind beneath their kilts’. Feegles were probably better than snakes, but that was only a guess. They would do things like run from one side of the stick to the other to look at interesting things they were flying over, and on one occasion she glanced over her shoulder to see about ten of them hanging onto the back of the stick or, to put it more precisely, one of them was hanging onto the back of the stick and then one was hanging onto his heels and one was hanging onto his heels, and so on, all the way to the last Feegle. They were having fun, screaming with laughter, their kilts indeed flapping in the wind. Presumably the thrill of it made up for the danger and the lack of a view, or at least, of a view that anyone else would want to look at. One or two actually did lose their grip on the bristles, floating away and down while waving at their brothers and making Yahoo! noises and generally treating it as a big game. Feegles tended to bounce when they hit the ground, although sometimes they damaged it a little. Tiffany wasn’t worried about their journey home; undoubtedly there would be lots of dangerous creatures prepared to jump out on a little running man, but by the time he got home there would in fact be considerably fewer of them. Actually, the Feegles were – by Feegle standards – pretty well behaved on the flight, and didn’t actually set fire to the broomstick until they were about twenty miles from the city, an incident heralded by Daft Wullie saying ‘Whoops!’ very quietly, and then guiltily trying to conceal the fact that he’d set fire to the bristles by standing in front of the blaze to hide it. ‘You’ve set fire to the broomstick again, haven’t you, Wullie,’ Tiffany stated firmly. ‘What was it that we learned last time? We don’t light fires on the broomstick for no good reason. ’ The broomstick began to shake as Daft Wullie and his brothers tried to stamp out the flames. Tiffany searched the landscape below them for something soft and preferably wet to land on. But it was no use getting angry with Wullie; he lived in a Wullie-shaped world of his own. You had to try thinking diagonally. ‘I just wonder, Daft Wullie,’ she said as the broomstick developed a nasty rattle, ‘if, working together, we might find out why my broomstick is on fire? Do you think it might be something to do with the fact that you are holding a match in your hand?’ The Feegle looked at the match as if he had never seen one before, and then put it behind his back and stared at his feet, which was quite brave of him in the circumstances. ‘Don’t really know, miss. ’ ‘You see,’ said Tiffany as the wind whipped around them, ‘without enough bristles I can’t steer very well, and we are losing height but still regrettably going quite fast. Perhaps you could help me with this conundrum, Wullie?’ Daft Wullie stuck his little finger in his ear and wiggled it about as if rummaging in his own brain. Then he brightened up. ‘Should we no’ land, miss?’ Tiffany sighed. ‘I would like to do that, Daft Wullie, but, you see, we are going quite fast and the ground is not. What we have in those circumstances is what they call a crash. ’ ‘I wasnae considering that ye should land in the dirt, miss,’ said Wullie. He pointed down, and added, ‘I was just considering that ye might like to land on that. ’ Tiffany followed the line of his pointing finger. There was a long white road below them, and on it, not too far ahead, was something oblong, moving almost as fast as the broomstick itself. She stared, listening to her brain calculating, and then said, ‘We will still have to lose some speed …’ And that was how a smouldering broomstick carrying one terrified witch and about two dozen of the Nac Mac Feegles, holding their kilts out to slow themselves down, landed on the roof of the Lancre-to-Ankh-Morpork parcel express. The coach had good springs and the driver got the horses back under control quite quickly. There was silence as he climbed down from his seat, while white dust began to settle back on the road. He was a heavy-looking man who winced at every step, and in one hand he held a half-eaten cheese sandwich and in the other an unmistakable length of lead pipe. He sniffed. ‘My supervisor will have to be told. Damage to paintwork, see? Got to do a report when it’s damage to paintwork. I hate reports, never been a man what words come to with ease. Got to do it, though, when it’s damage to paintwork. ’ The sandwich and, more importantly, the lead pipe disappeared back into his very large overcoat, and Tiffany was amazed at how happy she felt about that. ‘I really am very sorry,’ she said as the man helped her down from the coach roof. ‘It’s not me, you understand, it’s the paintwork. I tell them, look, I tell them there’s trolls, there’s dwarfs, huh, and you know how they drive, eyes half closed most of the time ’cause of them not liking the sun. ’ Tiffany sat still as he inspected the damage and then looked up at her and noticed the pointy hat. ‘Oh,’ he said flatly. ‘A witch. First time for everything, I suppose. Do you know what I’m carrying in here, miss?’ What could be the worst thing? Tiffany thought. She said, ‘Eggs?’ ‘Hah,’ said the man. ‘That we should be so lucky. It’s mirrors, miss. One mirror, in point of fact. Not a flat one, either; it’s a ball, they tell me.

It’s all packed up very snug and sound, or so they say, not knowing that somebody was going to drop out of the sky on it. ’ He didn’t sound angry, just worn out, as if he permanently expected the world to hand him the dirty end of the stick. ‘It was made by the dwarfs,’ he added. ‘They say it cost more than a thousand Ankh-Morpork dollars, and you know what it’s for? To hang up in a dance hall in the city, where they intend to dance the waltz, which a well-brought-up young lady such as you should not know about, on account of the fact, it says in the paper, that it leads to depravity and goings-on. ’ ‘My word!’ said Tiffany, thinking that something like this was expected of her. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and see what the damage is,’ said the driver, laboriously opening the back of the coach. A large box filled quite a lot of the space. ‘It’s mostly packed with straw,’ he said. ‘Give me a hand to get it down, will you? And if it tinkles, we’re both in trouble. ’ It turned out not to be as heavy as Tiffany expected. Nevertheless, they lowered it gently onto the road and the coachman rummaged among the straw inside, bringing out the mirror ball, holding it aloft like a rare jewel which, indeed, it resembled. It filled the world with sparkling light, dazzling the eyes and sending beams of flashing rays across the landscape. And at this point the man screamed in pain and dropped the ball, which shattered into a million pieces, filling the sky just for a moment with a million images of Tiffany, while he, curling up, landed on the road, raising more white dust and making little whimpering noises as the glass dropped around him. In slightly less than an instant, the moaning man was surrounded by a ring of Feegles, armed to whatever teeth they still possessed with claymores, more claymores, bludgeons, axes, clubs and at least one more claymore. Tiffany had no idea where they had been hiding; a Feegle could hide behind a hair. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ she shouted. ‘He wasn’t going to hurt me! He’s very ill! But make yourselves useful and tidy up all this broken glass!’ She crouched down in the road and held the man’s hand. ‘How long have you had jumping bones, sir?’ ‘Oh, I’ve been a martyr to them these past twenty years, miss, a martyr,’ the coachman moaned. ‘It’s the jolting of the coach, you see. It’s the suspenders – they don’t work! I don’t think I get more than just one decent night’s sleep in five, miss, and that’s the truth; I have a little snooze, turn over, like you do, and there’s this little click and then it’s agony, believe me. ’ Except for a few dots on the edge of sight, there was no one else around apart from, of course, for a bunch of Nac Mac Feegles who, against all common sense, had perfected the art of hiding behind one another. ‘Well, I think I may be able to help you,’ Tiffany said. Some witches used a shambles to see into the present, and, with any luck, into the future as well. In the smoky gloom of the Feegle mound, the kelda was practising what she called the hiddlins – the things you did and passed on but, on the whole, passed them on as a secret. And she was acutely aware of Amber watching with clear interest. A strange child, she thought. She sees, she hears, she understands. What would we give for a world full of people like her? She had set up the cauldron 17 and lit a small fire underneath the leather. The kelda closed her eyes, concentrated and read the memories of all the keldas who had ever been and would ever be. Millions of voices floated through her brain in no particular order, sometimes soft, never very loud, often tantalizingly beyond her reach. It was a wonderful library of information, except that all the books were out of order and so were all the pages, and there wasn’t an index anywhere. She had to follow threads that faded as she listened. She strained as small sounds, tiny glimpses, stifled cries, currents of meaning pulled her attention this way and that … And there it was, in front of her as if it had always been there, coming into focus. She opened her eyes, stared at the ceiling for a moment, and said, ‘I look for the big wee hag and what is it that I see?’ She peered forward into the mists of memories old and new, and jerked her head back, nearly knocking over Amber, who said, with interest, ‘ A man with no eyes? ’ ‘Well, I think I may be able to help you, Mr, er …’ ‘Carpetlayer, miss. William Glottal Carpetlayer. ’ ‘Carpetlayer?’ said Tiffany. ‘But you’re a coachman. ’ ‘Yes, well, there’s a funny story attached to that , miss. Carpetlayer, you see, is my family name. We don’t know how we got it because, you see, none of us have ever laid a carpet! ’ Tiffany gave him a kind little smile. ‘And …?’ Mr Carpetlayer gave her a puzzled look. ‘And what? That was the funny story!’ He started to laugh, and screamed again as a bone jumped. ‘Oh yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘Sorry I’m a bit slow. ’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘And now, sir, I will sort out your bones. ’ The coach horses watched with quiet interest as she helped the man up, lending a hand as he took off his huge overcoat (with many a grunt and minor scream) and stood him so that his hands rested on the coach. Tiffany concentrated, feeling the man’s back through his thin vest and – yes, there it was, a jumping bone. She stepped across to the horses, whispering a word into each fly-flicking ear, just to be on the safe side. Then she went back to Mr Carpetlayer, who was waiting obediently, not daring to move. As she rolled up her sleeves, he said, ‘You’re not going to turn me into anything unnatural, are you, miss? I wouldn’t want to be a spider. Mortally afraid of spiders, and all my clothes are made for a man with two legs. ’ ‘Why in the world would you think I’d turn you into anything, Mr Carpetlayer?’ said Tiffany, gently running her hand down his spine. ‘Well, saving your honour’s presence, miss, I thought that’s what witches do, miss – nasty things, miss, earwigs and all that. ’ ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Can’t rightly say,’ said the coachman. ‘It’s just sort of … you know, what everybody knows. ’ Tiffany placed her fingers carefully, found the jumping bone, said, ‘This might smart a little,’ and pushed the bone back into place. The coachman screamed again. His horses tried to bolt, but their legs were not doing business as usual, not with the word still ringing in their ears. Tiffany had felt ashamed at the time, a year ago, when she had acquired the knowing of the horseman’s word; but then again, the old blacksmith she had helped to his death, with kindness and without pain, well, he had felt ashamed that he had nothing with which to pay her for her painstaking work, and you had to pay the witch, the same as you had to pay the ferryman, and so he had whispered into her ear the horseman’s word, which gave you the control of any horse that heard it. You couldn’t buy it, you couldn’t sell it, but you could give it away and still keep it, and even if it’d been made of lead it would have been worth its weight in gold. The former owner had whispered in her ear, ‘I promised to tell no man the word, and I ain’t!’ And he was chuckling as he died, his sense of humour being somewhat akin to that of Mr Carpetlayer. Mr Carpetlayer was also pretty heavy, and had slipped gently down the side of the coach and— ‘ Why are you torturing that old man, you evil witch? Can you not see that he’s in dreadful pain? ’ Where had he come from? A shouting man, his face white with fury, his clothes as dark as an unopened cave or – and the word came to Tiffany suddenly – as a crypt. There had been no one around, she was sure of it, and no one on either side except the occasional farmer watching the stubbles burn as they cleared the land. But his face was now a few inches from hers. And he was real, not some kind of monster, because monsters don’t usually have little blobs of spittle on their lapel. And then she noticed – he stank. She’d never smelled anything so bad. It was physical, like an iron bar, and it seemed to her that she wasn’t smelling it with her nose, but with her mind.

A foulness that made the average privy as fragrant as a rose. ‘I’m asking you politely to step back, please,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think you might have got hold of the wrong idea. ’ ‘ I assure you, fiendish creature, that I have only the right idea! And that is to return you to the miserable and stinking hell from which you spawned! ’ All right, a madman, thought Tiffany, but if he— Too late. The man’s waggling finger got too close to her nose, and suddenly the empty road contained a lifetime’s supply of Nac Mac Feegles. The man in black flailed at them, but that sort of thing does not work very well with a Feegle. He did manage, despite the Feegle onslaught, to shout, ‘ Be gone, nefarious imps! ’ Every Feegle head turned hopefully when they heard this. ‘Oh aye,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘If there’s any imps aboot, we are the boys to deal with them! Your move, mister!’ They leaped at him and ended up in a heap on the road behind him, having passed straight through. They automatically punched one another as they staggered up, on the basis that if you’re having a good fight you don’t want to spoil the rhythm. The man in black glanced at them and then paid them no attention whatsoever. Tiffany stared down at the man’s boots. They gleamed in the sunlight, and that was wrong. She had been standing in the dust of the road for only a few minutes and her boots were grey. And there was the ground that the man was standing on, and that was wrong too. Very wrong, on a hot, cloudless day. She glanced at the horses. The word was holding them, but they were trembling with fear, like rabbits in the gaze of a fox. Then she closed her eyes and looked at him with First Sight, and saw. And said, ‘You cast no shadow. I knew something wasn’t right. ’ And now she looked directly into the man’s eyes, almost hidden under the wide hat brim and … he … had … no eyes. The understanding dawned on her like ice melting … No eyes at all, not ordinary eyes, not blind eyes, no eye sockets … just two holes in his head: she could see right through to the smouldering fields beyond. She didn’t expect what happened next. The man in black glared at her again and hissed, ‘ You are the witch. You are the one. Wherever you go, I will find you. ’ And then he vanished, leaving only a pile of fighting Feegles in the dust. Tiffany felt something on her boot. She looked down, and a hare, which must have fled the burning stubbles, stared back at her. They held each other’s gaze for a second, and then the hare jumped into the air like a leaping salmon and headed off across the road. The world is full of omens and signs; and a witch did indeed have to pick the ones that were important. Where could she begin here? Mr Carpetlayer was still slumped against the coach, totally ignorant of what had just happened. So was Tiffany in a way, but she would find out. She said, ‘You can get up again now, Mr Carpetlayer. ’ He did so very gingerly, grimacing as he waited for the lightning strokes of agony all down his back. He shifted experimentally, and gave a little jump in the dust, as if he was squashing an ant. That seemed to work, and he tried a second jump and then, throwing his arms out wide, he shouted ‘Yippee!’ and spun like a ballerina. His hat fell off and his hobnailed boots smacked into the dust and Mr Carpetlayer was a very happy man as he twirled and hopped, very nearly turned a cartwheel, and when it turned out to be about half a cartwheel, he rolled back onto his feet, picked up the astonished Tiffany and danced her along the road, shouting, ‘One two three, one two three, one two three,’ until she managed to shake herself loose, laughing. ‘Me and the wife is going to go out tonight, young lady, and we are going to go waltzing!’ ‘But I thought that led to depraved behaviour?’ said Tiffany. The coachman winked at her. ‘Well, we can but hope!’ he said. ‘You don’t want to overdo it, Mr Carpetlayer,’ she warned. ‘As a matter of fact, miss, I rather think I do, if it’s all the same to you. After all the creaking and groaning and not sleeping hardly at all, I think I would like to overdo it a little, or if possible a lot! Oh, what a good girl to think of the horses,’ he added. ‘That shows a kind nature. ’ ‘I am pleased to see you in such fine spirits, Mr Carpetlayer. ’ The coachman did a little twirl in the middle of the road. ‘I feel twenty years younger!’ He beamed at her, and then his face clouded just a little. ‘Er … how much do I owe you?’ ‘How much will the damage to the paintwork cost me?’ said Tiffany. They looked at one another, and then Mr Carpetlayer said, ‘Well, I can’t ask you for anything, miss, given that it was me that busted the mirror ball. ’ A little tinkling sound made Tiffany look behind them, where the mirror ball, apparently unharmed, was spinning gently and, if you looked carefully, just above the dirt. She knelt down on a road totally free of broken glass and said, apparently to nothing at all, ‘Did you stick it back together again?’ ‘Oh aye,’ said Rob Anybody happily from behind the ball. ‘But it was smashed to smithereens!’ ‘Oh aye, but a smithereen is easy, ye ken. See, the tinier bits are, the more they all fit together again. Ye just hae to give them a little push and the wee molly cules remembers where they should be and they sticks together again, nae problemo! Ye dinnae have to act surprised, we dinnae just smash things. ’ Mr Carpetlayer stared at her. ‘Did you do that, miss?’ ‘Well, sort of,’ said Tiffany. ‘Well I should say so!’ said Carpetlayer, all smiles. ‘So I says quid pro quo , give and take, knock for knock, tit for tat, one thing for another, an eye for an eye and me for you. ’ He winked. ‘I’ll say it worked out even, and the company can put their paperwork where the monkey put his jumper – what you say to that, eh?’ He spat on his hand and held it out. Oh dear, thought Tiffany, a handshake with spit seals an unbreakable accord; thank goodness I have a reasonably clean handkerchief. She nodded speechlessly. And there had been a broken ball, and now it appeared to have mended itself. The day was hot, a man with holes where his eyes should be had vanished into nothing … Where would you even begin? Some days you trimmed toenails, removed splinters and sewed up legs, and some days were days like this. They shook hands, rather damply, the broomstick was shoved among the bundles behind the driver, Tiffany climbed up alongside him, and the journey continued, dust rising up from the road as it passed and forming strangely unpleasant shapes until it settled down again. After a while Mr Carpetlayer said, in a careful kind of voice, ‘Er, that black hat you’ve got on, are you going to carry on wearing it?’ ‘That’s right. ’ ‘Only, well, you are wearing a nice green dress and, if I may say so, your teeth are lovely and white. ’ The man seemed to be wrestling with a problem. ‘I clean them with soot and salt every day. I can recommend it,’ said Tiffany. It was turning into a difficult conversation. The man seemed to reach a conclusion. ‘So you are not really a witch then?’ he said hopefully. ‘Mr Carpetlayer, are you scared of me?’ ‘That’s a scary question, miss. ’ Actually it is, Tiffany thought. Aloud, she said, ‘Look, Mr Carpetlayer, what’s this all about?’ ‘Well, miss, since you ask, there have been some stories lately. You know, about babies being stolen, that sort of thing. Kids running off and that. ’ He brightened up a bit. ‘Still, I expect those were wicked old … you know, with, like, hooked noses, warts and evil black dresses – not nice girls like you. Yes, that’s just the sort of thing they would do!’ Having sorted out that conundrum to his satisfaction, the coachman said little for the rest of the journey, although he did whistle a lot. Tiffany, on the other hand, sat quietly. For one thing, she was now very worried, and for another thing she could just about hear the voices of the Feegles back among the mail bags, reading other people’s letters to each other. 18 She had to hope that they were putting them back in the right envelopes.

The song went: ‘ Ankh-Morpork! It’s a wonderful town! The trolls are up and the dwarfs are down! Slightly better than living in a hole in the ground! Ankh-Morpork! It’s a wonderfuuuuuulllll townnn! ’ It wasn’t, really. Tiffany had only been there once before and didn’t like the big city very much. It stank, and there were too many people, and far too many places. And the only green was on the surface of the river, which could only be called mud because a more accurate word would not have been printable. The coachman pulled up outside one of the main gates, even though they were open. ‘If you take my advice, miss, you’ll take your hat off and walk in by yourself. That broomstick looks like firewood now, in any case. ’ He gave her a nervous grin. ‘Best of luck, miss. ’ ‘Mr Carpetlayer,’ she said loudly, aware of people around her. ‘I do hope that when you hear people talk about witches, you will mention that you met one and she made your back better – and, may I suggest, saved your livelihood. Thank you for the ride. ’ ‘Oh well, I’ll definitely tell people I met one of the good ones,’ he said. With her head held high, or at least as high as is appropriate when you are carrying your own damaged broomstick over your shoulder, Tiffany walked into the city. The pointy hat got one or two glances, and perhaps a couple of frowns, but mostly people didn’t look at her at all; in the country, everyone you meet is someone you know or a stranger worth investigating, but here it seemed there were so many people that it was a waste of time even to look at them at all, and possibly dangerous in any case. Tiffany bent down. ‘Rob, you know Roland, the Baron’s son?’ ‘Ach, the wee streak o’ nothing,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Well, nevertheless,’ said Tiffany, ‘I know you can find people and I would like you to go and find him for me now please. ’ ‘Would you no’ mind if we had just the one wee drink while we are looking?’ said Rob Anybody. ‘A man could drown o’ thirst around here. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t bogging for a wee dram or ten. ’ Tiffany knew that it would be foolish to say either yes or no and settled for, ‘Just the one then. When you’ve found him. ’ There was the faintest of whooshing noises behind her, and no more Feegles. Still, they would be easy to find; you just had to listen for breaking glass. Oh yes, breaking glass that repaired itself. Another mystery: she had looked at the mirror ball very carefully as they put it back in its box, and there hadn’t been even a scratch on it. She glanced up at the towers of Unseen University, crammed with wise men in pointy hats, or at least men in pointy hats, but there was another address, well known to witches, which was in its own way just as magical: Boffo’s Joke Emporium, number four, Tenth Egg Street. She had never been there, but she did get a catalogue occasionally. People started to notice her more when she got off the main streets and made her way through the neighbourhoods, and she could feel eyeballs on her as she walked over the cobbles. People weren’t angry or unfriendly as such. They were just … watching, as if wondering what to make of her, and she had to hope that it was not, for example, stew. There wasn’t a bell on the door of Boffo’s Joke Emporium. There was a whoopee cushion, and for most of the people who came to buy things in the emporium, a whoopee cushion, perhaps in conjunction with a generous dollop of fake sick, was the last word in entertainment, which indeed it is, unfortunately. But real witches often needed boffo too. There were times when you had to look like a witch, and not every witch was good at it and was just too busy to get her hair in a mess. So Boffo’s was where you bought your fake warts and wigs, stupidly heavy cauldrons and artificial skulls. And, with any luck, you might get the address of a dwarf who could help you repair your broomstick. Tiffany stepped inside and admired the deep-throated farting of the whoopee cushion, pushed her way round and more or less through a ludicrous fake skeleton with glowing red eyes, and reached the counter, at which point somebody blew a squeaker at her. It disappeared, to be replaced by the face of a small, worried-looking man, who said, ‘Did you by any chance find that even remotely amusing?’ His voice suggested that he expected the answer to be ‘no’ and Tiffany saw no reason to disappoint him. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said. The man sighed and pushed the unfunny squeaker down the counter. ‘Alas, no one ever does,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I’m doing something wrong somewhere. Oh well, what can I do for you, miss—Oh – you are a real one, aren’t you? I can always tell, you know!’ ‘Look,’ said Tiffany, ‘I’ve never ordered anything from you, but I used to work with Miss Treason, who …’ But the man wasn’t listening to her. Instead he was shouting at a hole in the floor. ‘Mother? We’ve got a real one!’ A few seconds later, a voice by Tiffany’s ear said, ‘Derek is sometimes mistaken and you might have found the broomstick. You are a witch, aren’t you? Show me!’ Tiffany vanished. She did it without thinking – or, rather, thinking so fast that her thoughts had no time to wave to her as they flashed by. Only when the man, who was apparently Derek, was staring open-mouthed at nothing at all did she realize that she had faded into the foreground so quickly because disobeying that voice behind her would definitely be an unwise thing to do. A witch was standing behind her: most definitely a witch, and a skilled one too. ‘ Very good,’ said the voice approvingly. ‘Very good indeed, young woman. I can still see you, of course, because I was watching very carefully. My word, a real one. ’ ‘I’m going to turn round, you know,’ Tiffany warned. ‘I don’t recall saying that you couldn’t, my dear. ’ Tiffany turned round and was faced with the witch of nightmares: battered hat, wart-encrusted nose, claw-like hands, blackened teeth and – Tiffany looked down – oh yes, big black boots. You did not have to be very familiar with Boffo’s catalogue to see that the speaker was wearing the full range of cosmetics in the ‘Hag in a Hurry’ range (‘ Because you’re Worthless ’ ). ‘I think we should continue this conversation in my workshop,’ said the horrible hag, disappearing into the floor. ‘Just stand on the trapdoor when it comes back up, will you? Make some coffee, Derek. ’ When Tiffany arrived in the basement, the trapdoor working wonderfully smoothly, she found what you would expect in the workshop of the company that made everything needed by a witch who felt she needed some boffo in her life. Rows of rather scary hag masks were hanging on a line, benches were full of brightly coloured bottles, racks of warts had been laid out to dry, and various things that went bloop were doing so in a big cauldron by the fireplace. It was a proper cauldron too. 19 The horrible hag was working at a bench, and there was a terrible cackle. She turned round, holding a small square wooden box with a piece of string sticking out of it. ‘First-class cackle, don’t you think? A simple thread and resin arrangement with a sounding board because, quite frankly, cackling is a bit of a pain in the neck, don’t you think? I believe I can make it work by clockwork too. Let me know when you’ve seen the joke. ’ ‘Who are you?’ Tiffany burst out. The hag had put the box on her workbench. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘where are my manners?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Tiffany, who was getting a bit fed up. ‘Perhaps the clockwork has run down?’ The hag grinned a black-toothed grin. ‘Ah, sharpness. I like that in a witch, but not too much. ’ She held out a claw. ‘Mrs Proust. ’ The claw was less clammy than Tiffany had expected. ‘Tiffany Aching,’ she said. ‘How do you do?’ Feeling that something further was expected of her, Tiffany added, ‘I used to work with Miss Treason. ’ ‘Oh yes, a fine witch,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘And a good customer. Very keen on her warts and skulls, as I recall. ’ She smiled.

‘And since I doubt that you want to get hagged up for a girls’ night out, I must assume you need my help? The fact that your broomstick has about half the bristles needed for aerodynamic stability confirms my initial surmise. Incidentally, have you seen the joke yet?’ What should she say? ‘I think so …’ ‘Go on then. ’ ‘I’m not going to say until I’m sure,’ said Tiffany. ‘Very wise,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Well, let’s get your broomstick mended, shall we? It will mean a little stroll, and if I was you I would leave your black hat behind. ’ Instinctively Tiffany grabbed at the brim of her hat. ‘Why?’ Mrs Proust frowned, causing her nose to very nearly catch her chin. ‘Because you might find … No, I know what we can do. ’ She rummaged on the workbench and, without asking any permission, stuck something on Tiffany’s hat, right at the back. ‘There,’ she said. ‘No one will take any notice now. Sorry, but witches are a little bit unpopular at the moment. Let’s get that stick of yours repaired as soon as possible, just in case you need to leave in a hurry. ’ Tiffany pulled off her hat and looked at what Mrs Proust had stuck in the hat band. It was a brightly coloured piece of cardboard on a string and it said: Apprentice witch hat with evil glitter. Size 7. Price: AM$2. 50. Boffo! A name to conjure with!!! ‘What’s all this?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve even sprinkled evil glitter on it. ’ ‘It’s a disguise,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘What? Do you think any self-respecting witch would walk down the street wearing a hat like this?’ said Tiffany angrily. ‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘The best disguise for a witch is a rather cheap witch’s outfit! Would a real witch buy clothes from a shop that also does a pretty good trade in naughty Fido jokes, indoor fireworks, laughable pantomime wigs and – our best and most profitable line – giant inflatable pink willies, suitable for hen nights? That would be unthinkable! It’s boffo, my dear, pure, unadulterated boffo! Disguise, subterfuge and misdirection are our watchwords. All watchwords. And, Amazing value for money , they’re our watchwords too. No refunds under any circumstances , they’re important watchwords. As is our policy of dealing terminally with shoplifters. Oh, and we also have a watchword about people smoking in the shop, although that’s not a very important word. ’ ‘What?’ said Tiffany who, out of shock, had not heard the list of watchwords because she was staring at the pink ‘balloons’ hanging from the ceiling. ‘I thought they were piglets!’ Mrs Proust patted her hand. ‘Welcome to life in the big city, my dear. Shall we go?’ ‘Why are witches so unpopular at the moment?’ asked Tiffany. ‘It’s amazing the ideas people get into their heads sometimes,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Generally speaking, I find it best just to keep your head down and wait until the problem goes away. You just need to be careful. ’ And Tiffany thought that she did indeed need to be careful. ‘Mrs Proust,’ she said. ‘I think I know the joke by now. ’ ‘Yes, dear?’ ‘I thought you were a real witch disguising herself as a fake witch …’ ‘Yes, dear?’ said Mrs Proust, her voice like treacle. ‘Which would be quite amusing, but I think there’s another joke, and it’s not really very funny. ’ ‘Oh, and what would that be, dear?’ said Mrs Proust in a voice which now had sugary gingerbread cottages in it. Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘That really is your face, isn’t it? The masks you sell are masks of you. ’ ‘Well spotted! Well spotted, my dear! Only, you didn’t spot it exactly, did you? You felt it, when you shook hands with me. And—But come on now, we’ll get your broomstick over to those dwarfs. ’ When they stepped outside, the first thing Tiffany saw was a couple of boys. One of them was poised to throw a stone at the shop window. He spotted Mrs Proust and a sort of dreadful silence descended. Then the witch said, ‘Throw it, my lad. ’ The boy looked at her as if she was mad. ‘I said throw it, my lad, or the worst will happen. ’ Clearly assuming now that she was mad, the boy threw the stone, which the window caught and threw back at him, knocking him to the ground. Tiffany saw it. She saw the glass hand come out of the glass and catch the stone. She saw it throw the stone back. Mrs Proust leaned over the boy, whose friend had taken to his heels, and said, ‘Hmm, it will heal. It won’t if I ever see you again. ’ She turned to Tiffany. ‘Life can be very difficult for the small shopkeeper,’ she said. ‘Come on, it’s this way. ’ Tiffany was a bit nervous about how to continue the conversation and so she opted for something innocent, like, ‘I didn’t know there were any real witches in the city. ’ ‘Oh, there’s a few of us,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Doing our bit, helping people when we can. Like that little lad back there, who will now have learned to mind his own business and it does my heart good to think that I may have dissuaded him from a lifetime of vandalism and disrespect for other people’s property that would, you mark my words, have resulted in him getting a new collar courtesy of the hangman. ’ ‘I didn’t know you could be a witch in the city,’ said Tiffany. ‘I was told once that you need good rock to grow witches, and everyone says the city is built on slime and mud. ’ ‘And masonry,’ said Mrs Proust gleefully. ‘Granite and marble, chert and miscellaneous sedimentary deposits, my dear Tiffany. Rocks that once leaped and flowed when the world was born in fire. And do you see the cobbles on the streets? Surely every single one of them, at some time, has had blood on it. Everywhere you look, stone and rock. Everywhere you can’t see, stone and rock! Can you imagine what it feels like to reach down with your bones and feel the living stones? And what did we make from the stone? Palaces, and castles and mausoleums and gravestones, and fine houses, and city walls, oh my! Not just in this city either. The city is built on itself, all the cities that came before. Can you imagine how it feels to lie down on an ancient flagstone and feel the power of the rock buoying you up against the tug of the world? And it’s mine to use, all of it, every stone of it, and that’s where witchcraft begins. The stones have life, and I’m part of it. ’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘I know. ’ Suddenly Mrs Proust’s face was a few inches from hers, the fearsome hooked nose almost touching her own, the dark eyes ablaze. Granny Weatherwax could be fearsome, but at least Granny Weatherwax was , in her way, handsome; Mrs Proust was the evil witch from the fairy stories, her face a curse, her voice the sound of the oven door slamming on the children. The sum of all night-time fears, filling the world. ‘Oh, you know, do you, little witch in your jolly little dress? What is it that you know? What is it that you really know ?’ She took a step back, and blinked. ‘More than I suspected, as it turns out,’ she said, relaxing. ‘Land under wave. In the heart of the chalk, the flint. Yes, indeed. ’ Tiffany had never seen dwarfs on the Chalk, but up in the mountains they were always around, generally with a cart. They bought, and they sold, and for witches they made broomsticks. Very expensive broomsticks. On the other hand, witches seldom ever bought one. They were heirlooms, passed down the generations from witch to witch, sometimes needing a new handle, sometimes needing new bristles, but, of course, always remaining the same broomstick. Tiffany’s stick had been left to her by Miss Treason. It was uncomfortable and not very fast and had the occasional habit of going backwards when it rained, and when the dwarf who was in charge of the clanging, echoing workshop saw it, he shook his head and made a sucking noise through his teeth, as if the sight of the thing had really spoiled his day, and he might have to go away and have a little cry. ‘Well, it’s elm, isn’t it,’ he said to an uncaring world in general. ‘It’s a lowland wood, your elm, heavy and slow, and of course there’s your beetles to consider. Very prone to beetles, your elm. Struck by lightning, was it? Not a good wood for lightning, your elm.

Attracts it, so they say. Tendency to owls as well. ’ Tiffany nodded and tried to look knowledgeable; she had made up the lightning strike, because the truth, while a valuable thing, was just too stupid, embarrassing and unbelievable. Another, and almost identical, dwarf materialized behind his colleague. ‘Should have gone for ash. ’ ‘Oh yes,’ said the first dwarf gloomily. ‘Can’t go wrong with ash. ’ He prodded Tiffany’s broomstick and sighed again. ‘Looks like it’s got the start of bracket fungus in the base joint,’ the second dwarf suggested. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised at anything, with your elm,’ said the first dwarf. ‘Look, can you just patch it up enough to get me home?’ Tiffany asked. ‘Oh, we don’t “patch things up”,’ said the first dwarf loftily or, rather, metaphorically loftily. ‘We do a bespoke service. ’ ‘I just need a few bristles,’ said Tiffany desperately, and then, because she forgot she hadn’t been going to admit to the truth, ‘Please? It wasn’t my fault the Feegles set fire to the broomstick. ’ Up until that point, there had been quite a lot of background noises in the dwarf workshop as dozens of dwarfs had been working away on their own benches and not taking much heed of the discussion, but now there was a silence, and in that silence a single hammer dropped to the floor. The first dwarf said, ‘When you say Feegles, you don’t mean Nac Mac Feegles , do you, miss?’ ‘That’s right. ’ ‘The wild ones? Do they say … Crivens ?’ he asked very slowly. ‘Practically all the time,’ said Tiffany. She thought she ought to make things clear and added, ‘They are my friends. ’ ‘Oh, are they?’ said the dwarf. ‘And are any of your little friends here at this moment?’ ‘Well, I told them to go and find a young man of my acquaintance,’ said Tiffany, ‘but they are probably in a pub by now. Are there many pubs in the city?’ The two dwarfs looked at one another. ‘About three hundred, I should say,’ said the second dwarf. ‘That many?’ said Tiffany. ‘Then I don’t expect they’ll come looking for me for at least half an hour. ’ And suddenly the first dwarf was all frantic good humour. ‘Well, where are our manners?’ he said. ‘Anything for a friend of Mrs Proust! Tell you what: it will be our pleasure to give you our express service gratis and for nothing, including free bristles and creosote at no charge whatsoever!’ ‘Express service meaning you leave straight away afterwards,’ said the second dwarf flatly. He took off his iron helmet, wiped the sweat off the inside with his handkerchief and put it back on his head quickly. ‘Oh yes, indeed,’ said the first dwarf. ‘Right away; that’s what express means. ’ ‘Friends with the Feegles, are you?’ said Mrs Proust as the dwarfs hurried to deal with Tiffany’s broomstick. ‘They don’t have many, I understand. But talking of friends,’ she continued in a suddenly chatty tone, ‘you did meet Derek, didn’t you? He’s my son, you know. I met his father in a dance hall with very bad lighting. Mr Proust was a very kind man who was always gracious enough to say that kissing a lady without warts was like eating an egg without salt. He passed on twenty-five years ago, of the crisms. I am very sorry I couldn’t help him. ’ Her face brightened. ‘But I’m glad to say that young Derek is the joy of my’ – she hesitated – ‘middle age. A wonderful lad, my dear. It’s going to be some lucky girl who takes her chance on young Derek, I can tell you. He’s totally devoted to his work and pays such attention to detail. Do you know, he tunes all the whoopee cushions every morning and frets if any of them are wrong. And conscientious? When we were developing our forth-coming “Pearls of the Pavement” hilarious artificial dog poo collection, he must have spent weeks following just about every type of dog in the city with a notebook, a scoop and a colour chart, just to get everything exactly right. A very meticulous lad, clean in his ways, with all his own teeth. And very careful about his company …’ She gave Tiffany a hopeful but rather sheepish look. ‘This isn’t working, is it?’ ‘Oh dear, did it show?’ said Tiffany. ‘I heard the spill words,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘What’s a spill word?’ ‘You don’t know? A spill word is a word that somebody almost says, but doesn’t. For a moment they hover in the conversation but aren’t spoken – and may I say that in the case of my son Derek, it is as well that you didn’t say them aloud. ’ ‘I’m really very sorry,’ said Tiffany. ‘Yes, well, be told,’ said Mrs Proust. Five minutes later, they walked out of the workshop with Tiffany towing a fully functional broomstick behind her. ‘Actually,’ said Mrs Proust as they walked, ‘now I come to think about it, your Feegles remind me a lot of Wee Mad Arthur. Tough as nails and about the same size. Haven’t heard him say “Crivens”, though. He’s a policeman in the Watch. ’ ‘Oh dear, the Feegles really don’t like policemen,’ said Tiffany, but she felt she ought to balance this somewhat, so she added, ‘But they are very loyal, mostly helpful, good-natured in the absence of alcohol, honourable for a given value of honour and, after all, they did introduce the deep-fried stoat to the world. ’ ‘What’s a stoat?’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Well, er … you know a weasel? It’s very much like a weasel. ’ Mrs Proust raised her eyebrows. ‘My dear, I treasure my ignorance of stoats and weasels. Sounds like countryside stuff to me. Can’t abide countryside. Too much green makes me feel bilious,’ she said, giving Tiffany’s dress a shuddering glance. At which point, on some celestial cue, there was a distant cry of ‘Crivens!’ followed by the ever-popular sound, at least to a Feegle, of breaking glass. 17 A message from the author: not all cauldrons are metal. You can boil water in a leather cauldron, if you know what you are doing. You can even make tea in a paper bag if you are careful and know how to do it. But please don’t, or if you do, don’t tell anyone I told you. 18 Jeannie, a modern kelda, had encouraged literacy among her sons and brothers. With Rob Anybody’s example to follow, they had found the experience very worthwhile, because now they could read the labels on bottles before they drank them, although this didn’t make too much of a difference, because unless there was a skull and crossbones on it, a Feegle would probably drink it anyway, and even then it would have to be a very scary skull and crossbones. 19 Most people who cook with cauldrons use them as a kind of double boiler, with small saucepans filled with water around the edge, picking up the heat of the big cauldron into which perhaps you might put a leg of pork weighted down, and possibly a few dumplings in a bag. This way, quite a large meal for several people can be cooked quite cheaply all in one go, including the pudding. Of course, it meant you had to stomach a lot of boiled food – but eat it up, it’s good for you! Chapter 7 SONGS IN THE NIGHT W HEN TIFFANY AND Mrs Proust got to the source of the shouting, the street was already covered with a rather spectacular layer of broken glass, and worried-looking men with armour and the kind of helmet that you could eat your soup out of in an emergency. One of them was putting up barricades. Other watchmen were clearly unhappy about being on the wrong side of the barricades, especially since at that moment an extremely large watchman came flying out of one of the pubs that occupied almost all of one side of the street. The sign on it proclaimed it to be the King’s Head, but by the look of it, the King’s Head now had a headache. The watchman took what remained of the glass with him, and when he landed on the pavement, his helmet, which could have held enough soup for a large family and all their friends, rolled off down the street making a gloing! gloing! noise. Tiffany heard another watchman shout, ‘They got Sarge!’ As more watchmen came running from both ends of the street, Mrs Proust tapped Tiffany on the shoulder and said sweetly, ‘Tell me again about their good points, will you?’ I’m here to find a boy and tell him that his father is dead, said Tiffany to herself.

Not to pull the Feegles out of yet another scrape! ‘Their hearts are in the right place,’ she said. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Mrs Proust, who looked as though she was enjoying herself no end, ‘but their arses are on a pile of broken glass. Oh, here come the reinforcements. ’ ‘I don’t think they will do much good,’ said Tiffany – and to her surprise turned out to be wrong. The guards were fanning out now, leaving a clear path to the pub entrance; Tiffany had to look hard to see a small figure walking purposely along it. It looked like a Feegle, but it was wearing … She stopped and stared … Yes, it was wearing a watchman’s helmet slightly bigger than the top of a salt cellar, which was unthinkable. A legal Feegle? How could there be such a thing? Nevertheless, it reached the doorway of the pub and shouted, ‘You scunners are all under arrest! Now this is how it’s going to go, ye ken: ye can hae it the hard way, or …’ He paused for a moment. ‘No, that’s about it, aye,’ he finished. ‘I don’t know any other way!’ And with that he sprang through the doorway. Feegles fought all the time. For them, fighting was a hobby, exercise and entertainment all combined. Tiffany had read in Professor Chaffinch’s famous book on mythology that many ancient peoples thought that when heroes died they went to some kind of feasting hall, where they would spend all eternity fighting, eating and boozing. Tiffany thought that this would be rather boring by about day three, but the Feegles would love it, and probably even the legendary heroes would throw them out before eternity was half done, having first shaken them down to get all the cutlery back. The Nac Mac Feegle were indeed ferocious and fearsome fighters, with the minor drawback – from their point of view – that seconds into any fight, sheer enjoyment took over, and they tended to attack one another, nearby trees and, if no other target presented itself, themselves. The watchmen, after reviving their sergeant and finding his helmet for him, sat down to wait for the noise to die away, and it seemed that it was after only a minute or two that the tiny watchman came back out of the stricken building, dragging by one leg Big Yan, a giant among Feegles and now, it appeared, fast asleep. He was dropped, the policeman went back in again and came out with an unconscious Rob Anybody over one shoulder, and Daft Wullie over the other. Tiffany stared, with her mouth open. This could not be happening. The Feegles always won! Nothing beats a Feegle! They were unstoppable ! But there they were: stopped, and stopped by a creature so small that he looked like one half of a salt and pepper set. When he had run out of Feegles, the little man ran back into the building and came out very quickly, carrying a turkey-necked woman who was trying to hit him with her umbrella, a fruitless endeavour since he was balancing her carefully over his head. She was followed by a trembling young maidservant, clutching a voluminous carpet bag. The little man put the woman down neatly alongside the pile of Feegles, and while she screamed at the watchmen to arrest him, went back inside and came out again, balancing three heavy suitcases and two hat boxes. Tiffany recognized the woman, but not with any pleasure. She was the Duchess, the mother of Letitia, and fairly fearsome. Did Roland really understand what he was letting himself in for? Letitia herself was all right, if you liked that kind of thing, but her mother apparently had so much blue blood in her veins that she ought to explode, and right now looked as if that was going to happen. And how appropriate that the Feegles should have trashed the very building that the nasty old baggage was staying in. How lucky could one witch get? And what would the Duchess think about Roland and his watercolour-painting wife-to-be being left in the building unchaperoned? This question was answered by the sight of the little man dragging both of them out of the building by some very expensive clothing. Roland was wearing a dinner jacket slightly too big for him, while Letitia’s apparel was simply a mass of flimsy frills upon frills, in Tiffany’s mind not the clothing of anyone who was any use whatsoever. Hah. Still more watchmen were turning up, presumably because they had dealt with Feegles before and had had the sense to walk, not run, to the scene of the crime. But there was a tall one – more than six feet in height – with red hair and wearing armour so polished that it blinded, who was taking a witness statement from the owner; it sounded like a long-drawn-out scream to the effect that the watchmen should make this terrible nightmare not have happened. Tiffany turned away and found herself staring directly into the face of Roland. ‘ You? Here? ’ he managed. In the background, Letitia was bursting into tears. Hah, just like her! ‘Look, I have to tell you something very—’ ‘The floor fell in,’ said Roland before she could finish, like someone still in a dream. ‘The actual floor actually fell in!’ ‘Look, I must—’ she began again, but this time Letitia’s mother was suddenly in front of Tiffany. ‘I know you! You’re his witch girl, yes? Don’t deny it! How dare you follow us here!’ ‘How did they make the floor fall in?’ Roland demanded, his face white. ‘How did you make the floor fall in? Tell me!’ And then the smell came. It was like being hit, unexpectedly, with a hammer. Under her bewilderment and horror Tiffany sensed something else: a stink, a stench, a foulness in her mind, dreadful and unforgiving, a compost of horrible ideas and rotted thoughts that made her want to take out her brain and wash it. That’s him: the man in black with no eyes! And the smell! A toilet for sick weasels couldn’t smell worse! I thought it was bad last time, but that was a bed of primroses! She looked around desperately, hoping against hope not to see what she was looking for. Letitia’s sobs were getting louder, and mixing very badly with the sounds of the Feegles groaning and swearing as they started to wake up. The mother-in-law-to-be grabbed Roland by his jacket. ‘Come away from her right now; she is nothing but a—’ ‘ Roland, your father is dead! ’ That silenced everybody, and Tiffany was suddenly in a thicket of stares. Oh dear, she thought. It shouldn’t have happened like this. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed in the accusing silence. ‘There was nothing I could do. ’ She saw colour flow into his face. ‘But you were looking after him,’ said Roland, as if trying to work out a puzzle. ‘Why did you stop keeping him alive?’ ‘All I could do was take the pain away. I’m so very sorry, but that’s all I could do. I’m sorry. ’ ‘But you’re a witch! I thought you were good at it, you’re a witch! Why did he die?’ What did the bitch do to him? Do not trust her! She is a witch! Do not suffer a witch to live! Tiffany didn’t hear the words; they seemed to crawl across her mind like some kind of slug, leaving slime behind it, and later she wondered how many other minds it had crawled across, but now she felt Mrs Proust grip her by the arm. She saw Roland’s face contort into fury, and she remembered the screaming figure on the road, shadowless in full sunlight, delivering abuse as if it was vomit and leaving her with a sick feeling that she would never be able to get clean again. And the people around her had a worried, hunted look, like rabbits who have smelled a fox. Then she saw him. Hardly visible, at the edge of the crowd. There they were, or rather there they weren’t. The two holes in the air staring at her just for a moment, before vanishing. And not knowing where they had gone made them worse. She turned to Mrs Proust. ‘What is that ?’ The woman opened her mouth to answer, but the tall watchman’s voice said, ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, or rather just one gentleman in fact. I am Captain Carrot, and since I am the duty officer this evening, the doubtful pleasure of dealing with this incident falls to me, and so …’ He opened his notebook, pulled out a pencil, and gave them a confident smile.

‘Who is going to be the first to help me unravel this little conundrum? To begin with, I would very much like to know what a bunch of Nac Mac Feegle are doing in my city, apart from recovering?’ The glint off his armour hurt the eyes. And also he smelled strongly of soap, and that was good enough for Tiffany. She began to raise her hand, but Mrs Proust grabbed it and held it firmly. This caused Tiffany to shake off Mrs Proust even more firmly and then say in a voice firmer than the grip, ‘That would be me, Captain. ’ ‘And you would be … ?’ Running away as soon as possible, Tiffany said to herself, but spoke up with, ‘Tiffany Aching, sir. ’ ‘Off to a hen night, are you?’ ‘No,’ said Tiffany. ‘Yes!’ said Mrs Proust quickly. The captain put his head on one side. ‘So only one of you is going? That doesn’t sound like much fun,’ he said, with his pencil poised over the page. This was clearly too much for the Duchess, who pointed an accusing finger at Tiffany; it trembled with anger. ‘It is as clear as the nose on your face, Officer! This … this … this witch knew we were travelling down to the city in order to buy jewellery and gifts, and clearly, I repeat clearly , conspired with her imps to rob us!’ ‘I never did!’ Tiffany yelled. The captain held up a hand, as if the Duchess was a line of traffic. ‘Miss Aching, did you indeed encourage Feegles into the city?’ ‘Well, yes, but I didn’t really intend to. It was a sort of spur-of-themoment thing. I didn’t intend—’ The captain held up his hand again. ‘Stop talking, please. ’ He rubbed his nose. Then he sighed. ‘Miss Aching, I’m arresting you on suspicion of … well, I’m just feeling suspicious. Besides, I am well aware that it is impossible to lock up a Feegle who doesn’t want to be locked up. If they are friends of yours, I trust ’ – he looked around meaningfully – ‘they will not do anything to get you into further trouble and, with luck, all of us will be able to get a decent night’s sleep. My fellow officer, Captain Angua, will escort you down to the Watch House. Mrs Proust, would you be so good as to go along with them and explain the way of the world to your young friend?’ Captain Angua stepped forward; she was female and beautiful and blonde – and … odd. Captain Carrot turned to her ladyship. ‘Madam, my officers will be happy to escort you to any other hotel or inn of your choice. I see that your maidservant is holding a rather strong-looking bag. Would this be containing the jewellery of which you spoke? In which case, can we ascertain that it has not been stolen?’ Her ladyship was not happy about this, but the captain cheerfully did not notice, in that very professional way policemen have of not seeing things they don’t want to see. And there was a definite sense that he wouldn’t have paid much attention in any case. It was Roland who opened the bag and held the purchase up to the light. The tissue paper was carefully pulled off, and in the light of the lamps something sparkled so brilliantly that it seemed not only to reflect the light but to generate it too, somewhere inside its glowing stones. It was a tiara. Several of the watchmen gasped. Roland looked smug. Letitia looked objectionably winsome. Mrs Proust sighed. And Tiffany … went back in time, just for a second. But in that second she was a little girl again, reading the well-thumbed book of fairy stories that all her sisters had read before her. But she had seen what they had not seen; she had seen through it. It lied. No, well, not exactly lied, but told you truths that you did not want to know: that only blonde and blue-eyed girls could get the prince and wear the glittering crown. It was built into the world. Even worse, it was built into your hair colouring. Redheads and brunettes sometimes got more than a walk-on part in the land of story, but if all you had was a rather mousy shade of brown hair you were marked down to be a servant girl. Or you could be the witch. Yes! You didn’t have to be stuck in the story. You could change it, not just for yourself, but for other people. You could change the story with a wave of your hand. She sighed anyway, because the jewelled headdress was such a wonderful thing. But the sensible witch part of her said, ‘How often would you wear it, miss? Once in a blue moon? Something as expensive as that will spend all its time in a vault!’ ‘Not stolen then,’ said Captain Carrot happily. ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Miss Aching, I suggest you tell your little chums to follow you quietly, yes?’ Tiffany looked down at the Nac Mac Feegle, who were silent, as if in shock. Of course, when about thirty deadly fighters found themselves being beaten into submission by one tiny man, it takes a while to come up with a face-saving excuse. Rob Anybody looked up at her with a very rare expression of shame. ‘Sorry, miss. Sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘We just had considerably too much of the booze. And ye ken, the more ye have of the booze, you ken ye want to have even more of the booze, until ye falls over, which is when ye know ye’ve had enough of the booze. By the way, what the heel is crème-de-menthe ? A nice green colour, ye ken, I must have drunk a bucket of that stuff! I suppose there is no point in saying we are verrae sorry? But ye ken, we did find the useless streak of rubbish for ye. ’ Tiffany looked up at what remained of the King’s Head. Flickering in the torchlight it looked like some kind of skeleton of a building. Even as she watched, a large beam began to creak and dropped apologetically onto a pile of broken furniture. ‘I told you to find him; I didn’t tell you you were supposed to pull the doors off,’ she said. She folded her arms, and the little men huddled even closer together; the next stage of female anger would be the tapping o’ the feets, which generally led them to burst into tears and walk into trees. Now, though, they formed up neatly behind her and Mrs Proust and Captain Angua. The captain nodded at Mrs Proust and said, ‘I’m sure we can all agree that handcuffs won’t be necessary – yes, ladies?’ ‘Oh, you know me, Captain,’ said Mrs Proust. Captain Angua’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, but I don’t know anything about your little friend. I would like you to carry the broomstick, Mrs Proust. ’ Tiffany could see there was no point in arguing, and handed the stick over without complaining. They walked on in silence apart from the muted mumbling of the Nac Mac Feegles. After a while the captain said, ‘Not a good time to be wearing pointy black hats, Mrs Proust. There’s been another case, out on the plains. Some dead and alive hole you would never go to. They beat up an old lady for having a book of spells. ’ ‘No!’ They turned to look at Tiffany, and the Feegles walked into her ankles. Captain Angua shook her head. ‘Sorry, miss, but it’s true. Turned out to be a book of Klatchian poetry, you know. All that wiggly writing! I suppose it looks like a spell book for those inclined to think that way. She died. ’ ‘I blame The Times ,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘When they put that sort of thing in the paper, it gives people ideas. ’ Angua shrugged. ‘From what I hear the people who did it weren’t much for reading. ’ ‘You’ve got to stop it!’ said Tiffany. ‘How, miss? We are the City Watch. We don’t have any real jurisdiction outside the walls. There are places out there in the woods that we probably haven’t even heard of. I don’t know where this stuff comes from. It’s like some mad idea dropping out of the air. ’ The captain rubbed her hands together. ‘Of course, we don’t have any witches in the city,’ she said, ‘although there are quite a lot of hen nights, eh, Mrs Proust?’ And the captain winked. She really winked, Tiffany was certain of it, in the same way she had been certain that Captain Carrot really did not like the Duchess very much. ‘Well, I think real witches would soon stop it,’ Tiffany said. ‘They certainly would in the mountains, Mrs Proust. ’ ‘Oh, but we don’t have real witches in the city. You heard the captain. ’ Mrs Proust glared at Tiffany and then hissed, ‘We do not argue around the normal people.

It makes them jittery. ’ They stopped outside a large building with blue lamps on either side of the doors. ‘Welcome to the Watch House, ladies,’ said Captain Angua. ‘Now, Miss Aching, I shall have to lock you in a cell, but it will be a clean one – no mice, hardly at all – and if Mrs Proust will keep you company, then, shall we say, I might be a bit forgetful and leave the key in the lock, do you understand? Please do not leave the building, because you will be hunted. ’ She looked directly at Tiffany and added, ‘And no one should be hunted. It is a terrible thing, being hunted. ’ She led them through the building and down to a row of surprisingly cosy-looking cells, gesturing for them to go inside one of them. The door of the cell clanged behind her and they heard the sound of her boots as she went back down the stone corridor. Mrs Proust walked over to the door and reached through the bars. There was a tinkle of metal and her hand came back in with the key in it. She put it in the keyhole on this side, and turned it. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now we are doubly safe. ’ ‘Och, crivens!’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Will ye no’ look at us? Slammed up in the banger!’ ‘Again!’ said Daft Wullie. ‘I dinnae ken if I will ever look m’self in the face. ’ Mrs Proust sat back down and stared at Tiffany. ‘All right, my girl, what was that we saw? No eyes, I noticed. No windows into the soul. No soul, perhaps?’ Tiffany felt wretched. ‘I don’t know! I met him on the road here. The Feegles walked right through him! He seems like a ghost. And he stinks. Did you smell it? And the crowd were turning on us! What harm were we doing?’ ‘I’m not certain he’s a him,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘He might even be an it. Could be a demon of some sort, I suppose … but I don’t know much about them. Small-trade retail is more my forte. Not that that can’t be a bit demonic at times. ’ ‘But even Roland turned on me,’ said Tiffany. ‘And we’ve always been … friends. ’ ‘Ah-ha,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Don’t you ah-ha me,’ snapped Tiffany. ‘How dare you ah-ha me. At least I don’t go around making witches look ridiculous !’ Mrs Proust slapped her. It was like being hit with a rubber pencil. ‘You’re a rude slip of a girl, you young hussy. And I go around keeping witches safe. ’ Up in the shadows of the ceiling, Daft Wullie nudged Rob Anybody and said, ‘We cannae let somebody smack oor big wee hag, eh, Rob?’ Rob Anybody put a finger to his lips. ‘Ah weel, it can be a wee bit difficult with womenfolk arguing, ye ken. Keep right oot of it, if ye’ll tak’ ma advice as a married man. Any man who interferes in the arguin’ of women is gonnae find both of them jumping up and doon on him in a matter o’ seconds. I’m nae talkin’ about the foldin’ of the arms, the pursin’ of the lips and the tappin’ of the feets. I’m talking about the smacking around with the copper stick. ’ The witches stared at one another. Tiffany felt suddenly disorientated, as if she had gone from A to Z without passing through the rest of the alphabet. ‘Did that just happen, my girl?’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Yes, it did,’ said Tiffany sharply. ‘It still stings. ’ Mrs Proust said, ‘Why did we do it?’ ‘To tell the truth, I hated you,’ said Tiffany. ‘Just for a moment. It frightened me. I just wanted to be rid of you. You were just—’ ‘All wrong?’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s right!’ ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Discord. Turning on the witch. Always blame the witch. Where does it start? Perhaps we have found out. ’ Her ugly face stared at Tiffany, then she said, ‘When did you become a witch, my girl?’ ‘I think it was when I was about eight,’ said Tiffany. And she told Mrs Proust the story about Mrs Snapperly, the witch in the hazel woods. The woman listened carefully and settled down on the straw. ‘We know it happens sometimes,’ she said. ‘Every few hundred years or so, suddenly everyone thinks witches are bad. No one knows why it is. It just seems to happen. Have you been doing anything lately that might attract attention? Any especially important piece of magic or something?’ Tiffany thought back and then said, ‘Well, there was the hiver. But he wasn’t all that bad. And before that there was the Queen of the Fairies, but that was ages ago. It was pretty awful too, but generally speaking, I think hitting her over the head with a frying pan was the best thing I could have done at the time. And, well, I suppose I’d better say that a couple of years ago, I did kiss the winter …’ Mrs Proust had been listening to this with her mouth open, and now she said, ‘That was you ?’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘Are you sure?’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Yes. It was me. I was there. ’ ‘What was it like?’ ‘Chilly, and then damp. I didn’t want to have to do it. I’m sorry, OK?’ ‘About two years ago?’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s interesting. The trouble seemed to start around then, you know. Nothing particularly major; it was just as though people didn’t respect us any more. Just something in the air, you might say. I mean, that kid with the stone this morning. Well, he would never have dared try that a year ago. People always gave me a nod when I passed by in those days. And now they frown. Or they make some little sign, just in case I bring bad luck. The others have told me about this too. What’s it been like where you are?’ ‘Can’t really say,’ said Tiffany. ‘People were a bit nervous of me, but on the whole I suppose I was related to a lot of them. But everything felt odd. And I thought that was how it had to feel. I’d kissed the winter, and everybody knew it. Honestly, they do go on about it. I mean, it was only once. ’ ‘Well, people are packed a little more closely together around here. And witches have long memories. I mean, not individual witches, but all the witches put together can remember the really bad times. When wearing a pointy hat got a stone thrown at you, if not something worse. And when you go back further than that … It’s like a disease,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘It sort of creeps up. It’s in the wind, as if it goes from person to person. Poison goes where poison’s welcome. And there’s always an excuse, isn’t there, to throw a stone at the old lady who looks funny. It’s always easier to blame somebody. And once you’ve called someone a witch, then you’d be amazed how many things you can blame her for. ’ ‘They stoned her cat to death,’ said Tiffany, almost to herself. ‘And now there’s a man without a soul who’s following you. And the stink of him makes even witches hate witches. You don’t feel inclined to set fire to me, by any chance, Miss Tiffany Aching?’ ‘No, of course not,’ said Tiffany. ‘Or press me flat on the ground with lots of stones on me?’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘It wasn’t just stones,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘You hear people talk about witches being burned, but I don’t reckon many real witches ever did get burned unless they were tricked in some way; I think it was mostly poor old women. Witches are mostly too soggy, and it was probably a wicked waste of good timber. But it’s very easy to push an old lady down to the ground and take one of the doors off the barn and put it on top of her like a sandwich and pile stones on it until she can’t breathe any more. And that makes all the badness go away. Except that it doesn’t. Because there are other things going on, and other old ladies. And when they run out, there are always old men. Always strangers. There’s always the outsider. And then, perhaps, one day, there’s always you. That’s when the madness stops. When there’s no one left to be mad. Do you know, Tiffany Aching, that I felt it when you kissed the winter? Anyone with an ounce of magical talent felt something. ’ She paused and her eyes narrowed. Now she was staring at Tiffany. ‘What did you wake up, Tiffany Aching? What rough thing opened the eyes that it had not got and wondered who you were? What have you brought upon us, Miss Tiffany Aching? What have you done? ’ ‘You think that …’ Tiffany hesitated and then said, ‘That he is after me ?’ She closed her eyes so that she couldn’t see the accusing face, and remembered the day she had kissed the winter.

There had been terror, and dreadful apprehension, and the strange feeling of being warm whilst surrounded by ice and snow. And as for the kiss, well, it had been as gentle as a silk handkerchief falling on a carpet. Until she had poured all the heat of the sun into the lips of winter and melted him into water. Frost to fire. Fire to frost. She’d always been good with fire. Fire had always been her friend. It wasn’t as if the winter had ever died; there had been other winters since, but not so bad, never so bad. And it hadn’t just been a snog. She had done the right thing at the right time. It was what you did. Why had she had to do it? Because it was her fault; because she had disobeyed Miss Treason and joined in a dance that wasn’t just a dance but the curving of the seasons and the turning of the year. And, with horror, she wondered: Where does it end? You do one foolish thing and then one thing to put it right, and when you put it right something else goes wrong. Where did it ever stop? Mrs Proust was watching her as though fascinated. ‘All I did was dance,’ said Tiffany. Mrs Proust put a hand on her shoulder. ‘My dear, I think you will have to dance again. Could I suggest you do something very sensible at this point, Tiffany Aching?’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘Listen to my advice,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘I don’t usually give things away, but I feel quite chipper about catching that lad who kept breaking my windows. So I’m in the mood for a good mood. There is a lady who I am sure would be very keen to talk to you. She lives in the city, but you’ll never find her no matter how hard you try. She will find you, though, in the blink of a second, and my advice is that when she does, you listen to everything she might tell you. ’ ‘So how do I find her?’ said Tiffany. ‘You’re feeling sorry for yourself and not listening,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘She will find you. You’ll know it when she does. Oh my word, yes. ’ She reached into a pocket and produced a small round tin, the lid of which she flicked open with a black fingernail. The air suddenly felt prickly. ‘Snuff ?’ she said, offering the tin to Tiffany. ‘Dirty habit, of course, but it clears the tubes and helps me think. ’ She took a pinch of the brown powder, tipped it onto the back of the other hand and sniffed it up with a sound like a honk in reverse. She coughed and blinked once or twice and said, ‘Of course, brown bogeys are not to everybody’s liking, but I suppose they add to that nasty witch look. Anyway, I expect they’ll soon give us dinner. ’ ‘They’re going to feed us?’ said Tiffany. ‘Oh yes, they’re a decent bunch, although the wine last time was a bit off in my opinion,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘But we’re in prison. ’ ‘No, my dear, we’re in the police cells. And, though nobody’s saying it, we’re locked in here for our protection. You see, everyone else is locked out , and although they sometimes act dumb, policemen can’t help being clever. They know that people need witches; they need the unofficial people who understand the difference between right and wrong, and when right is wrong and when wrong is right. The world needs the people who work around the edges. They need the people who can deal with the little bumps and inconveniences. And little problems. After all, we are almost all human. Almost all of the time. And almost every full moon Captain Angua comes to me to make up a prescription for her hardpad. ’ The snuff tin was produced again. After a while Tiffany said, ‘Hardpad is a disease of dogs. ’ ‘And werewolves,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Oh. I thought there was something odd about her. ’ ‘She stays on top of it, mind you,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘She shares lodgings with Captain Carrot and doesn’t bite anybody – although, come to think about it, she possibly bites Captain Carrot, but least said soonest mended, I’m sure you will agree. Sometimes what is legal isn’t what is right, and sometimes it needs a witch to tell the difference. And sometimes a copper too, if you have the right kind of copper. Clever people know this. Stupid people don’t. And the trouble is, stupid people can be oh so very clever. And by the way, miss, your boisterous little friends have escaped. ’ ‘Yes,’ Tiffany said. ‘I know. ’ ‘Isn’t that a shame, despite the fact that they faithfully promised the Watch to stay?’ Mrs Proust evidently did like to retain a reputation for nastiness. Tiffany cleared her throat. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose Rob Anybody would tell you that there are times when promises should be kept and times when promises should be broken, and it takes a Feegle to know the difference. ’ Mrs Proust grinned hugely. ‘You could almost be from the city, Miss Tiffany Aching. ’ If you needed to guard something that didn’t need guarding, possibly because no one in their right mind would want to steal it, then Corporal Nobbs of the City Watch was, for want of a better way of describing him, and in the absence of any hard biological evidence to the contrary, your man. And now he stood in the dark and crunching ruins of the King’s Head, smoking a horrible cigarette made by rolling up all the stinking butts of previously smoked cigarettes into some fresh cigarette paper and sucking the horrible mess until some kind of smoke appeared. He never noticed the hand that lifted his helmet off, hardly even felt the forensic blow to the head, and certainly did not feel the calloused little hands that placed the helmet back on his head as they lowered his sleeping body to the ground. ‘OK,’ said Rob Anybody in a hoarse whisper, looking around at the blackened timbers. ‘Now, we don’t have much time, ye ken, so—’ ‘Well, well, I just knew that you wee scunners would come back here if I waited long enough for ye,’ said a voice in the dark. ‘As a dog returneth to his vomit and a fool to his folly, so the criminal returns to the scene of his crime. ’ The watchman known as Wee Mad Arthur struck a match, which was, for a Feegle, a pretty good torch. There was a clink as something that was the size of a shield for a Feegle, but would have been a badge for a human policeman, landed on the floor in front of him. ‘That’s tae show you wee fools that I’m nae on duty, OK? Cannae be a policeman withoot a badge, ain’t that so? I just wanted tae see why ye wee deadbeats talks properly, like what I do, because ye ken, I’m no’ a Feegle. ’ The Feegles looked at Rob Anybody, who shrugged and said, ‘What the heel do you think ye are, then?’ Wee Mad Arthur ran his hands through his hair, and nothing fell out. ‘Well, my ma an’ poppa told me I was a gnome, like them—’ He stopped talking because the Feegles were hooting and slapping their legs with mirth, which tends to go on for a long time. Wee Mad Arthur watched for a little while before shouting, ‘I do not find this funny!’ ‘Will ye no’ listen to yourself?’ said Rob Anybody, wiping his eyes. ‘Ye are speaking Feegle, sure enough! Did yer mammy and yer pappy nae tell ye? We Feegles are born knowing how to speak! Crivens! It’s just like a dog knowing how to bark! Ye cannae tell me ye are a gnome! Ye’ll be telling me ye are a pixie next!’ Wee Mad Arthur looked down at his boots. ‘My dad made me these boots,’ he said. ‘I couldnae bring mesel’ to tell him I didnae like boots on my feet. The whole family had been making and repairing shoes for hundreds of years, ye ken, and I wasnae good at the cobbling at all, and then one day all the elders of the tribe called me together and told me I was a lost foundling. They was moving to a new camp, and they ha’ found me, a tiny wee bairn, greeting by the road, right next to a sparrowhawk that I had strangled to death after it had snatched me from me cradle; they reckoned it was taking me home to feed me tae its chicks. And the old gnomes put their hats together, and said that while they were very happy to let me stay, what with being able to bite foxes to death and everything, it might be time for me to go out into the big world and find out who my people were. ’ ‘Well, laddie, ye have found them,’ said Rob Anybody, slapping him on the back.

‘Ye did well to listen to a load of old cobblers. That was wisdom they told you, sure enough. ’ He hesitated for a moment, and then went on, ‘However, it’s a wee bitty difficult that ye are – no offence meant – a policeman. ’ He jumped back slightly, just in case. ‘Granted,’ said Wee Mad Arthur with satisfaction. ‘Whereas ye are a bunch of thieving drunken reprobates and scoff-laws with no respect for the law whatsoever!’ The Feegles nodded happily, although Rob Anybody said, ‘Would you no’ mind adding the words drunk and disorderly? We wouldnae want to be sold short here. ’ ‘And what about the snail-rustling, Rob?’ said Daft Wullie happily. ‘Weel,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘in actual point of fact, the snailrustling is still in the early stages of development at this time. ’ ‘Have you no good points?’ said Wee Mad Arthur desperately. Rob Anybody looked puzzled. ‘We kind of thought them is our good points, but if you want to get picky, we never steal from them as has nae money, we has hearts of gold, although maybe – OK, mostly – somebody else’s gold, and we did invent the deep-fried stoat. That must count for something. ’ ‘How is that a good point?’ said Arthur. ‘Weel, it saves some other poor devil having tae do it. It’s what ye might call a taste explosion; ye take a mouthful, taste it, and then there is an explosion. ’ Despite himself, Wee Mad Arthur was grinning. ‘Have you boys got no shame?’ Rob Anybody matched him grin for grin. ‘I couldnae say,’ he replied, ‘but if we have, it probably belonged tae somebody else. ’ ‘And what about the poor wee big lassie locked up and down in the Watch House?’ said Wee Mad Arthur. ‘Oh, she’ll bide fine till the morning,’ said Rob Anybody, as loftily as he could in the circumstances. ‘She is a hag o’ considerable resource. ’ ‘Ye think so? You wee scunners punched an entire pub to death! How can anyone put that right?’ This time Rob Anybody gave him a longer, more thoughtful look before saying, ‘Well, Mr Policeman, it seems ye are a Feegle and a copper. Well, that’s the way the world spins. But the big question for the pair of ye is: are you a sneak and a snitch?’ In the Watch House the shift was changing. Somebody came in and shyly handed Mrs Proust quite a large plate of cold meats and pickles, and a bottle of wine with two glasses. After a nervous look at Tiffany, the watchman whispered something to Mrs Proust, and in one movement she’d taken a small packet out of her pocket and shoved it into his hand. Then she came back and sat down on the straw again. ‘And I see he’s had the decency to open the bottle and let the wine breathe for a while,’ she said, and added, when she saw Tiffany’s glance, ‘Lance Constable Hopkins has a little problem that he’d rather his mother never found out about and I make a rather helpful ointment. I don’t charge him, of course. One hand washes the other, although in the case of young Hopkins I hope he scrubs it first. ’ Tiffany had never drunk wine before; at home you drank small beer or small cider, which had just enough alcohol to kill off the nasty invisible tiny biting things, but not enough alcohol to make you more than a bit silly. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I never thought prison would be like this!’ ‘Prison? I told you, my dear girl, this isn’t prison! If you want to know what a prison is like, visit the Tanty! That’s a dark place if you like! In here the watchmen don’t gob in your grub – at least when you’re watching, and certainly never in mine, you can be sure of that. The Tanty is a tough place; they like to think that anyone who gets put in there will think more than twice before doing anything that will get them put in there again. And they’ve tidied it up a bit these days, and not everybody who goes in comes out in a pine box, but the walls still scream silently to those with hearing. I hear them. ’ She opened her snuffbox with a click. ‘And worse than the screaming is the sound of the canaries in D wing, where they lock up the men who they don’t dare hang. They bang up each one by himself in a little room, and they give him a canary as company. ’ At this point Mrs Proust took a pinch of snuff, at such speed and volume that Tiffany was surprised that it didn’t come out of her ears. The box’s lid snapped back down. ‘Those men, mark you, are not your average murderer – oh no, they killed people for a hobby, or for a god or for something to do, or because it wasn’t a very nice day. They did worse things than just murder, but murder was how it always ended. I see you haven’t touched your beef …? Oh well, if you’re quite sure …’ Mrs Proust paused with rather a large piece of heavily pickled lean beef on her knife and went on: ‘Funny thing, though, these cruel men used to look after their canaries, and cried when they died. The warders used to say it was all a sham; they said it gave them the creeps, but I’m not sure. When I was young, I used to run errands for the warders and I would look at those great heavy doors and I would listen to the little birds, and I would wonder what it is that makes the difference between a good man and a man so bad that no hangman in the city – not even my dad, who could have a man out of his cell and stone-cold dead in seven and a quarter seconds – would dare to put a rope round his neck in case he escaped from the fires of evil and came back with a vengeance. ’ Mrs Proust stopped there and shivered, as if shaking off the memories. ‘That’s life in the big city, my girl; it’s not an easy bed of sweet primroses, like in the country. ’ Tiffany wasn’t very happy with being called a girl again, but that wasn’t the worst of it. ‘Sweet primroses?’ she said. ‘It wasn’t sweet primroses the other day when I had to cut down a hanged man. ’ And she had to tell Mrs Proust all about Mr Petty and Amber. And about the bouquet of nettles. ‘And your dad told you about the beatings?’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Sooner or later, it’s all about the soul. ’ The meal had been tasty, and the wine surprisingly strong. And the straw was a lot cleaner than you might have expected. It had been a long day, piled on top of other long days. ‘Please,’ Tiffany said, ‘can we get some sleep? My father always says that things will look better in the morning. ’ There was a pause. ‘Upon reflection,’ Mrs Proust said, ‘I think your father will turn out to be wrong. ’ Tiffany let the clouds of tiredness take her. She dreamed about canaries singing in the dark. And perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she woke up for a moment and saw the shadow of an old lady looking at her. It certainly wasn’t Mrs Proust, who snored something terrible. The shape was there for a moment, and then it vanished. Tiffany remembered: the world is full of omens, and you picked the ones you liked. Chapter 8 THE KING’S NECK I FFANY WAS WOKEN by the squeak of the cell door opening. She sat up and looked around. Mrs Proust was still asleep, and snoring so hard that her nose wobbled. Correction: Mrs Proust appeared to be asleep. Tiffany liked her, in a wary kind of way, but could she trust her? Sometimes she seemed to almost … read her mind. ‘I don’t read minds,’ said Mrs Proust, turning over. ‘Mrs Proust!’ Mrs Proust sat up and started to pull bits of straw off her dress. ‘I don’t read minds,’ she said, flicking the straw onto the floor. ‘I really have keen, but not supernatural, skills which I have honed to the sharpest of edges, and don’t you forget it, please. I hope to goodness they’re going to give us a cooked breakfast. ’ ‘No problem there – what would ye like us to fetch for ye?’ They looked up to see the Feegles sitting on the beam overhead, and dangling their feet happily. Tiffany sighed. ‘If I asked you what you were doing last night, would you lie to me?’ ‘Absolutely not, on our honour as Feegles,’ said Rob Anybody, with his hand on where he thought his heart was. ‘Well, that seems conclusive,’ said Mrs Proust, standing up. Tiffany shook her head and sighed again. ‘No, it’s not quite as simple as that.

’ She looked up at the beam and said, ‘Rob Anybody, was the answer you gave me just then truthful? I’m asking you as the hag o’ the hills. ’ ‘Oh aye. ’ ‘And that one?’ ‘Oh aye. ’ ‘And that one?’ ‘Oh aye. ’ ‘And that one?’ ‘Oh … well, only a tiny wee lie, ye ken, hardly a lie, just something that it wouldnae be good for ye tae know. ’ Tiffany turned to Mrs Proust, who was grinning. ‘The Nac Mac Feegles feel that the truth is so precious that it shouldn’t be waved about too much,’ she said apologetically. ‘Ah, people after my own heart,’ said Mrs Proust, and then, remembering herself, she added, ‘If I had one, that is. ’ There was a sound of heavy boots, which got nearer and no less heavy very quickly, and turned out to belong to a tall and skinny watchman, who touched his helmet politely to Mrs Proust and gave Tiffany a nod. ‘Good morning, ladies! My name is Constable Haddock and I have been told to tell you that you’ve been let go with a warning,’ he said. ‘Although I have to tell you that no one quite knows what to warn you about, as far as I can tell, so if I was you, I’d consider myself generally in the situation of being warned, as it were, in a general and generically non-specific way, and hopefully slightly chastened by the experience, no offence meant, I’m sure. ’ He coughed, and went on, after giving Mrs Proust a nervous look, ‘And Commander Vimes has asked me to make it clear that the individuals known jointly as the Nac Mac Feegle are to be out of this city by sunset. ’ There was a chorus of complaints from the Feegles on the beam, who in Tiffany’s opinion were as good at astonished indignation as they were at drunkenness and thievery: ‘Och, ye wouldnae pick on us if we was big!’ ‘It wasnae us! A big boy did it and ran awee!’ ‘I wasnae there! Ye can ask them! They wasnae there either!’ And otherrr excuses o’ that ilk, ye ken. Tiffany banged her tin plate on the bars until they subsided into silence. Then she said, ‘Excuse me, please, Constable Haddock. I’m sure they’re all very sorry about the pub—’ she began, and he waved a hand at her. ‘If you’ll take my advice, miss, you would just leave quietly and not talk to anybody about pubs. ’ ‘But look … we all know that they smashed up the King’s Head, and—’ The constable stopped her again. ‘I went past the King’s Head this morning,’ he said, ‘and it was very definitely not smashed up. In fact, there were crowds of people there. Everyone in the city is going to have a look at it. The King’s Head is just like it’s always been, as far as I can see, with just the one tiny little detail which is, to wit, that it is now back to front. ’ ‘What do you mean, “back to front”?’ said Mrs Proust. ‘I mean that it is the wrong way round,’ said the policeman patiently, ‘and when I was over there just now, you can bet they weren’t calling it the King’s Head any more. ’ Tiffany’s forehead wrinkled. ‘So … they’re calling it the King’s Neck ?’ Constable Haddock smiled. ‘Well, yes, I can see you are a well-brought-up young lady, miss, because most of the people out there are calling it the King’s—’ ‘I cannot abide smut!’ said Mrs Proust severely. Really? Tiffany thought. With half a shop window full of pink inflatable wossnames and other mysterious items that I didn’t get a chance to see very clearly? But I suppose it would be a strange world if we were all the same, and especially if we were all the same as Mrs Proust. And overhead she could hear the susurration of the Nac Mac Feegles, with Daft Wullie making more noise than usual. ‘I told ye, didn’t I tell ye, I said this lot is back to front, I said, but no, ye would nae pay heed! I may be daft, but I’m no’ stupid. ’ The King’s Head, or at least whatever part of the king’s anatomy it now was, was not very far away, but the witches had to push their way through the crowds when they were at least a hundred yards away, and many of the people making up the crowd were holding pint mugs in their hands. Mrs Proust and Tiffany both wore hob-nailed boots, a boon to anyone who must get through a crowd in a hurry and there, in front of them was, for want of a better word – although the Feegles would have used a different word, and indeed the Feegles would not have hesitated to use a different word – was, in fact, the King’s Back, which came as a relief. Standing in front of the back door, which was now doing the duty formerly left to the front door, and handing out mugs of beer with one hand while taking money with the other, was Mr Wilkin, the landlord. He looked like a cat on the day it rained mice. Every now and again he managed to find time in this heroic endeavour to say a few words to a skinny but purposeful-looking lady who was writing things down in a notebook. Mrs Proust nudged Tiffany. ‘See her? That’s Miss Cripslock of The Times , and over there’ – she pointed at a tall man in the uniform of the Watch – ‘see there, the man she’s talking to is Commander Vimes of the City Watch. Decent man, always looks grumpy, won’t stand any nonsense. This is going to be interesting, because he doesn’t like kings of any sort; one of his ancestors chopped off the head of the last king we had. ’ ‘That’s dreadful! Did he deserve it?’ Mrs Proust hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Well, if it’s true about what they found in his private dungeon, then the answer is “yes” in great big letters. They put the commander’s ancestor on trial anyway, because chopping heads off kings always causes a certain amount of comment, apparently. When the man stood in the dock, all he said was, “Had the beast a hundred heads I would not have rested until I had slain every last one. ” Which was taken as a guilty plea. He was hanged, and then much later they put up a statue to him, which tells you more about people than you might wish to know. His nickname was Old Stoneface, and as you can see, it runs in the family. ’ Tiffany could, and this was because the commander was moving purposefully towards her, his expression that of a man who had a lot of things to do, all of them more important than what he was having to do right now. He gave a respectful little nod to Mrs Proust, and tried unsuccessfully not to glare at Tiffany. ‘Did you do this?’ ‘No, sir!’ ‘Do you know who did?’ ‘No, sir!’ The commander frowned. ‘Young lady, if a burglar breaks into a house and then comes back later and puts everything back where it was, a crime has still happened, do you understand? And if the building that has been badly damaged, along with its contents, is found next morning looking all shiny and new, albeit facing the wrong way, that too – and therefore those involved – are, nevertheless, still criminals. Except that I have no idea what to call it and quite frankly I would rather be shot of the whole damn business. ’ Tiffany blinked. She hadn’t heard that last sentence, not exactly heard it, but could remember it anyway. They must have been spill words! She glanced at Mrs Proust, who nodded happily, and in Tiffany’s head there was a little spill word that said ‘ yes ’. Out loud, Mrs Proust said, ‘Commander, it seems to me that no real harm has been done, given that, if I’m any judge, Mr Wilkin here is doing a roaring trade in the King’s Back and would probably not welcome it becoming the King’s Head again. ’ ‘Too right!’ said the landlord, who was shovelling money into a bag. Commander Vimes was frowning, and Tiffany caught the words that he was almost but not actually saying: ‘ No king’s coming back while I’m here! ’ Mrs Proust butted in again. ‘How about letting it be called the King’s Neck?’ she suggested.

‘Especially since he appears to have dandruff, greasy hair and a big ripe boil?’ To Tiffany’s delight, the commander’s face stayed as stony as ever, but she caught a tremble of a spill word that was a triumphant ‘ Yes! ’ And at that point Mrs Proust, who believed in securing victory by every means at her disposal, chimed in again with, ‘This is AnkhMorpork, Mr Vimes; in the summer the river catches fire and it has been known to rain fish and bedsteads, so, in the great scheme of things, when you think about it, what’s so wrong about a pub spinning on its axis? Most of its customers do the same! How is your little boy, by the way?’ This innocent enquiry appeared to floor the commander. ‘Oh! He … oh, I … he’s fine. Oh yes, fine. You were right. All he needed was a fizzy drink and a really big burp. Could I have a word with you in private, Mrs Proust?’ The look he gave Tiffany made it quite clear that ‘private’ didn’t include her, so she carefully made her way through the crowds of jolly, and sometimes too jolly, people waiting to have their pictures taken in front of the King’s Neck, and let herself fade into the foreground and listen to Rob Anybody command the troops, who would listen to him when there was nothing better to do. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘which one of you scunners decided to paint a real neck on the sign? I’m sure it’s no’ normally done like that. ’ ‘That was Wullie,’ said Big Yan. ‘He reckoned people would think it had always been like that. He is daft, ye ken. ’ ‘Sometimes daft works,’ said Tiffany. She looked around … And there he was, the man with no eyes, walking through the crowd, walking through the crowd , as if they were ghosts, but she could see that they felt his presence in some way; one man brushed his hand across his face, as if feeling the footsteps of a fly; another one slapped at his own ear. But afterwards they were … changed. When their eyes saw Tiffany they narrowed, and the ghostly man headed towards her and the whole of the crowd became one huge frown. And here came the stench, trailing behind him and turning the daylight grey. It was like the bottom of a pond, where things had died and rotted for centuries. Tiffany looked around desperately. The turning of the King’s Head had filled the street with the curious and the thirsty. People were trying to go about their business, but were being hemmed in by the crowd in front and the crowd behind them and, of course, by the people with trays and little carts who swarmed through the city and would try to sell something to anyone who stood still for more than two seconds. She could feel the menace in the air, but in fact it was more than a menace – it was hatred, growing like a plant after rain, and still the man in black came nearer. It scared her. Of course, she had the Feegles with her, but generally speaking the Feegles got you out of trouble by getting you into a different kind of trouble. The ground moved quite suddenly underneath her. There was a metallic scraping noise, and the bottom dropped out of her world, but only by about six feet. As she staggered in the gloom under the pavement, someone pushed past her with a cheerful ‘Excuse me. ’ There were more inexplicable metal noises and the round hole now above her head vanished in darkness. ‘Real piece of luck there,’ said the polite voice. ‘The only one we’re going to get today, I fancy. Please try not to panic until I have lit the safety lantern. If you want to panic thereafter, that is entirely up to you. Stay close to me and when I say, “Walk as fast as possible while holding your breath,” do so, for the sake of your sanity, your throat, and possibly your life. I don’t care if you understand or not – just do it, because we may not have much time. ’ A match flared. There was a small popping noise and a green-blue glow in the air just in front of Tiffany. ‘Only a bit of marsh gas,’ said the invisible informant. ‘Not too bad, nothing to worry about yet, but stay close, mind you!’ The green-blue glow began to move very fast, and Tiffany had to walk quickly to keep up, which was no mean feat, because the ground beneath her boots was, by turns, like gravel, mud or occasionally a liquid of some sort but probably not a sort that you would want to know about. Here and there, in the distance, there were tiny little glows of other mysterious lights, like will-o’-the-wisps you sometimes got over marshy ground. ‘Do keep up!’ said the voice ahead of her. Soon Tiffany lost all sense of direction and, for that matter, time. Then there was a click and the figure was outlined against what looked like a perfectly ordinary doorway, except that it was in an arch, and so the door itself came to a point at the top. ‘Please be so good as to wipe your feet very thoroughly on the mat just inside; it pays to take precautions down here. ’ Behind the still shadowy figure, candles were lighting themselves, and now they illuminated someone in heavy, stiff clothing, big boots and a steel helmet on her head – although, as Tiffany watched, the figure carefully lifted the helmet off. She shook out her ponytail, which suggested that she was young, but her hair was white, suggesting that she was old. She was, Tiffany thought, one of those people who picks for themselves a look that suits them and doesn’t get in the way, and never changes it until they die. There were wrinkles too, and Tiffany’s guide had the preoccupied air of somebody who is trying to think of several things at once; and by the look on her face she was trying to think of everything. There was a small table in the room, set with a teapot, cups and a pile of small cupcakes. ‘Do come on in,’ said the woman. ‘Welcome. But where are my manners? My name is Miss … Smith, for the moment. I believe Mrs Proust may have mentioned me? And you are in the Unreal Estate, quite possibly the most unstable place in the world. Would you like some tea?’ Things tend to look better when the world has stopped spinning and you have a warm drink in front of you, even if it’s standing on an old packing case. ‘I’m sorry it’s not a palace,’ said Miss Smith. ‘I never stay here for more than a few days at a time, but I do need to be close to the University, and to have absolute privacy. This was a little cottage outside the University walls, you see, and the wizards just used to chuck all their waste over: after a while, all the different bits of magical rubbish started to react with one another in what I can only call unpredictable ways. Well, what with talking rats, and people’s eyebrows growing up to six feet long, and shoes walking around by themselves, the people that lived nearby ran away, and so did their shoes. And since there was no one complaining any more, the University simply chucked even more stuff over the wall. Wizards are like cats going to the toilet in that respect; once you’ve walked away from it, it isn’t there any more. ‘Of course, it then became a free-for-all, with just about anybody throwing over just about anything and running away very quickly, often pursued by shoes, but not always successfully. Would you like a cupcake? And don’t worry, I bought them off quite a reliable baker tomorrow, so I know they’re fresh, and I pretty much tamed the magic around here a year ago. It wasn’t too hard; magic is largely a matter of balance, but of course you’d know that. Anyway, the upshot is that there is such a magical fog over this place that I doubt if even a god could see into it. ’ Miss Smith delicately ate half a cup-cake, and balanced the other half on her saucer. She leaned closer to Tiffany. ‘How did it feel, Miss Tiffany Aching, when you kissed the winter?’ Tiffany stared at her for a moment. ‘Look, it was just a peck, OK? Certainly no tongues!’ Then she said, ‘You are the person that Mrs Proust said was going to find me, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ said Miss Smith. ‘I would hope that is obvious. I could give you a long, complicated lecture,’ she continued brusquely, ‘but I think it would be better if I told you a story.

I know you have been taught by Granny Weatherwax, and she will tell you that the world is made up of stories. I had better admit that this one is one of the nasty ones. ’ ‘I am a witch, you know,’ said Tiffany. ‘I have seen nasty things. ’ ‘So you may think,’ said Miss Smith. ‘But for now I want you to picture a scene, more than a thousand years ago, and imagine a man, still quite young, and he is a witchfinder and a book-burner and a torturer, because people older than him who are far more vile than him have told him that this is what the Great God Om wants him to be. And on this day he has found a woman who is a witch, and she is beautiful, astonishingly beautiful, which is rather unusual among witches, at least in those days—’ ‘He falls in love with her, doesn’t he?’ Tiffany interrupted. ‘Of course,’ said Miss Smith. ‘Boy meets girl, one of the greatest engines of narrative causality in the multiverse, or as some people might put it, “It had to happen. ” I would like to continue this discourse without interruptions, if you don’t mind?’ ‘But he is going to have to kill her, isn’t he?’ Miss Smith sighed. ‘Since you ask, not necessarily. He thinks that if he rescues her and they can get to the river, then they might have a chance. He is bewildered and confused. He has never had feelings like this before. For the first time in his life, he is really having to think for himself. There are horses not far away. There are a few guards, and some other prisoners, and the air is full of smoke because there is a pile of burning books, which is making people’s eyes water. ’ Tiffany leaned forward in her seat, listening to the clues, trying to work out the ending in advance. ‘There are some apprentices that he is training, and also some very senior members of the Omnian church who have come to watch and bless the proceedings. And finally there are a number of people from the nearby village who are cheering very loudly because it is not them who are going to be killed and generally they don’t get much entertainment. In fact, it’s pretty much another day at the office, except that the girl being tied to the stake by the apprentices has caught his eye and is now watching him very carefully, not saying a word, not even screaming a word, not yet. ’ ‘Does he have a sword?’ asked Tiffany. ‘Yes, he does. May I continue? Good. Now, he walks towards her. She is staring at him, not shouting, just watching, and he is thinking … what is he thinking? He is thinking, “Could I take on both of the guards? Will the apprentices obey me?” And then, as he gets nearer, he wonders if they could make it to the horses in all this smoke. And this is a moment eternally frozen in time. Huge events await his decision. One simple deed either way, and history will be different and you are thinking it depends on what he does next. But you see, what he is thinking doesn’t matter, because she knows who he is and what he has done, and the bad things that he has done and is famous for, and as he walks towards her, uncertain, she knows him for what he is, even if he wishes he wasn’t, and reaches with both hands smoothly through the wicker basket they’ve put around her to keep her upright, and grabs him, and holds him tight as the torch drops down onto the oily wood and the flames spring up. She never takes her eyes off him, and never loosens her grip … Would you like a fresh cup of tea?’ Tiffany blinked away smoke and flames and shock. ‘And how do you know so much about it, please?’ she said. ‘I was there. ’ ‘A thousand years ago?’ ‘Yes. ’ ‘How did you get there?’ ‘I walked,’ said Miss Smith. ‘But that is not the point. The point is that then was the death – and birth – of the thing we call the Cunning Man. And he was still a man, to begin with. He was terribly injured, of course. For quite some time. And witchfinding went on – oh my word, didn’t it just. You couldn’t tell who the other witchfinders feared most: the witches, or the wrath of the Cunning Man if they didn’t find him the witches he demanded and believe me, with the Cunning Man on your heels, you will find as many witches as he wants, oh yes. ‘And the Cunning Man himself could always find witches. It was quite amazing. You would have some quiet little village where everybody got on reasonably well and no one had noticed any witches at all. But when the Cunning Man arrived, suddenly there were witches everywhere, but unfortunately not for very long. He believed that witches were the reason for just about everything bad that happened, and that they stole babies and caused wives to run away from their husbands, and milk to go sour. I think my favourite one was that witches went to sea in eggshells in order to drown honest sailors. ’ At this point Miss Smith held up a hand. ‘No, don’t say that it would be impossible for even a small witch to get inside an eggshell without crushing it, because that is what we in the craft would call a logical argument and therefore no one who wanted to believe that witches sank ships would pay any attention to it. ‘It couldn’t go on, of course. People can be very stupid, and people can be easily frightened, but sometimes you find people who aren’t that stupid and aren’t that fearful, and so the Cunning Man is thrust out of the world. Thrown out like the rubbish he is. ‘But that wasn’t the end of him. So great, so fearsome was his hatred for anything that he thought of as witchcraft that he somehow managed to live on despite finally having no body. Though there was no skin to him, no bone any more, his rage was such that he lived on. As a ghost, perhaps. And, every so often, finding someone who would let him in. There are plenty of people out there whose poisonous minds will open for him. And there are those who would rather be behind evil than in front of it, and one of them wrote for him the book known as The Bonfire of the Witches. ‘But when he takes over a body – and believe me, in the past, there are those unpleasant people who have thought that their terrible ambitions would be furthered by allowing him to do so – the owner of the body soon finds they have no control at all. They become a part of him too. And not until it is too late do they realize that there is no escape, no release. Except death …’ ‘Poison goes where poison’s welcome,’ said Tiffany. ‘But it looks as though it can push its way in, welcome or not. ’ ‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Smith, ‘but I will say “Well done. ” You are as good as they say. There really is nothing physical now to the Cunning Man. Nothing you can see. Nothing you can possess. And while he often kills those who have been so generous in their hospitality, he nevertheless still appears to thrive. Without a body to call his own, he drifts on the wind and, I suppose, sleeps in some way. And if he does, I know what he dreams of. He dreams of a beautiful young witch, the most powerful of all the witches. And he thinks of her with such hatred that, according to elasticated string theory, it goes all the way round the universe and comes back from a different direction so that it seems to be a kind of love. And he wants to see her again. In which case, she will almost certainly die. ‘Some witches – real flesh and blood witches – have tried to fight him and have won. And sometimes they tried, and died. And then one day, a girl called Tiffany Aching, because of her disobedience, kissed the winter. Which, I have to say, no one has ever done before. And the Cunning Man woke up. ’ Miss Smith put down her cup. ‘As a witch, you know you must have no fear?’ Tiffany nodded. ‘Well, Tiffany, you must make a place for fear, fear under control. We think that the head is important, that the brain sits like a monarch on the throne of the body. But the body is powerful too, and the brain cannot survive without it. If the Cunning Man takes over your body, I don’t think you would be able to fight him. He would be like nothing you have met before. To be caught will be, ultimately, to die. What is worse, to be his creature. In which case, death will be a longed-for release.

And there you have it, Miss Tiffany Aching. He wakes up, he drifts, he looks for her. He looks for you. ’ ‘Well, at least we’ve found her,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘She’s somewhere in that festering midden. ’ The Feegles stood with their mouths open in front of the bubbling, suppurating mess of the Unreal Estate. Mysterious things plopped, spun and exploded under the debris. ‘It will be certain death to go in there,’ said Wee Mad Arthur. ‘Certain death! You’ll be doomed. ’ ‘Oh aye, we’re all doomed sooner or later,’ said Rob Anybody jovially. He sniffed. ‘What the heel is that stink?’ ‘Sorry, Rob, that was me,’ said Daft Wullie. ‘Ach no, I ken your smell,’ Rob said. ‘But I ken I smelled it before. It was that walking gawky that we smelled on the road. Ye ken? All in black. Very lacking in the eyeball department. Bad cess to him, and bad cess he smelled. And I recollect he used very bad words about oor big wee hag. My Jeannie said we must stay close to the big wee hag and I reckon this scunner needs a bath. ’ Wee Mad Arthur precipitated matters. ‘Weel, Rob, ye going in there is against the law, ye ken?’ He pointed to an ancient and half-melted sign on which, just readable, were the words: ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. BY ORDER. Rob Anybody stared at it. ‘Ach, now you give me nae choice at all,’ he said, ‘and you made me remember that we’re all dead already. 20 Charge! ’ There were dozens of questions that Tiffany could ask but the one struggling to the top was: ‘What will happen if the Cunning Man catches up with me?’ Miss Smith stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose from his point of view, it will be rather like a wedding. From your point of view, it will be exactly like being dead. No, worse, because you will be inside, looking out at what he can do with all your powers and all your skills to all the people that you know. Did we have the last cupcake?’ I’m not going to show any fear, said Tiffany to herself. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Miss Smith out loud. Tiffany leaped off the chair in a rage. ‘Don’t you dare do that, Miss Smith!’ ‘I’m sure there was one more cupcake,’ said Miss Smith, and then added, ‘That’s the spirit, Miss Tiffany Aching. ’ ‘You know, I did defeat a hiver. I can look after myself. ’ ‘And your family? And everybody you know? From an attack that they won’t even know is happening? You don’t understand. The Cunning Man isn’t a man, although he was once, and now he’s not even a ghost. He is an idea. Unfortunately he is an idea whose time has come. ’ ‘Well, at least I know when he’s near me,’ Tiffany said thoughtfully. ‘There’s a dreadful stink. Even worse than the Feegles. ’ Miss Smith nodded. ‘Yes, it’s coming from his mind. It’s the smell of corruption – corruption of thinking and of action. Your mind picks it up and doesn’t know what to do with it, so it files it under “stink”. All the magically inclined can smell it; but when people encounter it, it changes them, makes them a little bit like him. And so trouble follows wherever he goes. ’ And Tiffany knew exactly what kind of trouble she meant, even though her memories shot her back in time to before the Cunning Man had woken again. In her mind’s eye she could see the black-edged pieces blowing back and forth in the late-autumn wind, which sighed with despair in her mind’s ear, and worst of all, oh yes, worst of all, her mind’s nose snuffed up the sharp acrid stink of ancient, half-burned paper. In her memory some of the pieces fluttered in the pitiless wind like moths that had been swatted and broken, but were still hopelessly trying to fly. And there were stars on them. People had marched to the rough music and roughly dragged out the cracked old woman whose only crime, as far as Tiffany could see, was that she had no teeth left and smelled of wee. They had thrown stones, they had smashed windows, they had killed the cat, and all this had been done by good people, nice people, people that she knew and met every day, and they had done all these things which, even now, they never talked about. It was a day that somehow had vanished from the calendar. And on that day, with a pocketful of charred stars, not knowing what it was she was doing, but determined to do it, she had become a witch. ‘You said that others have fought him?’ she said now to Miss Smith. ‘How did they manage it?’ ‘That last cupcake was still in the bag with the baker’s name on it, I’m sure of it. You’re not sitting on it, are you?’ Miss Smith cleared her throat and said, ‘By being very powerful witches, by understanding what it means to be a powerful witch, and by taking every chance, using every trick and, I suspect, understanding the Cunning Man’s mind before he understands theirs. I have trudged through a long time to learn about the Cunning Man,’ she added, ‘and the one thing I can tell you for certain is that the way to kill the Cunning Man is with cunning. You will need to be more cunning than he is. ’ ‘He can’t be that cunning if he’s taken all this time to find me,’ said Tiffany. ‘Yes, that puzzles me,’ said Miss Smith. ‘And it should puzzle you. I would have expected it to have taken him a very long time. More than two years, anyway. He’s either been very clever – and frankly he has nothing to be clever with – or somehow something else has drawn you to his attention. Someone magical, I would guess. Do you know any witches who aren’t your friend?’ ‘Certainly not,’ said Tiffany. ‘Are any of the witches who have defeated him still alive?’ ‘Yes. ’ ‘I was wondering, if I found one – perhaps they could tell me how they did it?’ ‘I’ve told you. He’s the Cunning Man. Why should he fall for the same trick twice? You have to find your own way. Those who have trained you would expect nothing less. ’ ‘This isn’t some kind of test, is it?’ said Tiffany, and then felt embarrassed at how lame that sounded. ‘Don’t you remember what Granny Weatherwax always says?’ said Miss Smith. ‘ Everything is a test. ’ They said it together with one voice, looked at one another and laughed. At which point, there was a squawk. Miss Smith opened the door and a small white chicken walked in, looked around curiously and exploded. Where it had been was an onion, fully rigged with mast and sails. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ said Miss Smith. She sighed. ‘Happens all the time, I’m afraid. The Unreal Estate is never static, you see. All the magic, banging together, bits of spells winding themselves around other spells, whole new spells being created that nobody has ever thought of before … it’s a mess. It generates things quite randomly. Yesterday I found a book on growing chrysanthemums, printed in copper on water. You would think it would tend to slosh about a bit, but it all seemed to hang together until the magic ran out. ’ ‘That was bad luck for the chicken,’ said Tiffany nervously. ‘Well, I can guarantee that it wasn’t a chicken two minutes ago,’ said Miss Smith, ‘and now it’s probably enjoying being a seagoing vegetable. Now perhaps you can see why I don’t spend too much time down here. I had an incident with a toothbrush once that I will not forget in a hurry. ’ She pushed open the door still further, and Tiffany saw the shambles. There was no mistaking a shambles. 21 Well, there was at first and she mistook it for a heap of rubbish. ‘It’s amazing what you can find in your pockets if you’re in a magical junk yard,’ said Miss Smith calmly. Tiffany stared at the giant shambles again. ‘Isn’t that a horse’s skull? 22 And isn’t that a bucket of tadpoles?’ ‘Yes. Something alive always helps, don’t you find?’ Tiffany’s eyes narrowed. ‘But that is a wizard’s staff, isn’t it? I thought they stopped working if a woman touched one!’ Miss Smith smiled. ‘Well, I’ve had mine ever since I was in my cradle. If you know where to look, you can see the marks I made when I was teething. It’s my staff and it works, although I have to say it started to work better when I took the knob off the end. It didn’t do anything practical and it upsets the balance.

Now, will you stop standing there with your mouth open?’ Tiffany’s mouth clamped shut, and then sprang open again. A penny had dropped and it felt as if it had dropped from the moon. ‘You’re her, aren’t you? You must be, you’re her! Eskarina Smith, right? The only woman who ever became a wizard!’ ‘Somewhere inside, I suppose so, yes, but it seems such a long time ago, and you know, I never really felt like a wizard, so I never really worried about what anyone said. And anyway, I had the staff, and no one could take that away from me. ’ Eskarina hesitated for a moment, and then went on, ‘That’s what I learned at university: to be me, just what I am, and not worry about it. That knowledge is an invisible magical staff, all by itself. Look, I don’t really want to talk about this. It brings back bad memories. ’ ‘Please forgive me,’ said Tiffany. ‘I just couldn’t stop myself. I’m very sorry if I have dredged up any scary recollections. ’ Eskarina smiled. ‘Oh, the scary ones are never a problem. It’s good ones that can be difficult to deal with. ’ There was a click from the shambles. Eskarina stood up and walked over to it. ‘Oh dear, of course, only the witch that makes it can read her own shambles, but trust me when I say that the way the skull has turned and the position of the pincushion along the axis of the spinning wheel mean that he is very close. Almost right on top of us, in fact. Or the random magic in this place may be confusing him, and you seem to be everywhere and nowhere, so he’ll go away soon and try to pick up the trail somewhere else. And, as I mentioned, somewhere on the trail he will eat. He’ll get into some fool’s head, and some old lady or some girl who is wearing quite dangerous cult symbols without an inkling of what they really mean will suddenly find herself hounded. Let us hope she can run. ’ Tiffany looked around, bewildered. ‘And what happens will be my fault?’ ‘Is that the sarcastic whine of a little girl or the rhetorical question of a witch with her own steading?’ Tiffany began to reply, and then stopped. ‘You can travel in time, can’t you?’ she said. ‘Yes. ’ ‘Then you know what I’m going to answer?’ ‘Well, it’s not quite as simple as that,’ said Eskarina, and looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment, much to Tiffany’s surprise and, it has be said, delight. ‘I know, let me see, there are fifteen different replies you might make, but I don’t know which one it will be until you make it, because of the elasticated string theory. ’ ‘Then all I will say,’ said Tiffany, ‘is thank you very much. I am sorry to have taken up your time. But I need to be getting on; I have so many things to do. Do you know what the time is?’ ‘Yes,’ said Eskarina. ‘It is a way of describing one of the notional dimensions of four-dimensional space. But for your purposes, it’s about ten forty-five. ’ That seemed to Tiffany to be a bafflingly complicated way of answering the question, but as she opened her mouth to say so, the shambles collapsed and the door opened to let in a stampede of chickens – which did not, however, explode. Eskarina grabbed Tiffany’s hand, shouting, ‘He has found you! I don’t know how!’ A chicken half jumped, half flapped and half tumbled onto the wreck of the shambles and crowed! Cock-a-doodle-crivens! Then the chickens exploded; they exploded into Feegles. On the whole there wasn’t a great deal of difference between the chickens and the Feegles, since both run around in circles making a noise. An important distinction, however, is that chickens are seldom armed. The Feegles, on the other hand, are armed all the time, and once they had shaken off the last of their feathers they fell to fighting one another out of embarrassment – and for something to do. Eskarina took one look at them and kicked at the wall behind her, revealing a hole which a person might just be able to crawl through, and snapped at Tiffany: ‘Go! Get him away from here! Get on the stick as soon as you can and go! Don’t worry about me! Don’t be afraid, you will be all right! You just have to help yourself. ’ Heavy, nasty smoke was filling the room. ‘What do you mean?’ Tiffany managed, struggling with the stick. ‘ Go! ’ Not even Granny Weatherwax could command Tiffany’s legs so thoroughly. She went. 20 In truth, the Nac Mac Feegle believe that the world is such a wonderful place that in order to have got into it they must have been very good in another existence and had arrived in, as it were, heaven. Of course, they appeared to die sometimes, even here, but they like to think of it as going off to be born again. Numerous theologians had speculated that this was a stupid idea, but it was certainly more enjoyable than many other beliefs. 21 A witch made a shambles out of anything you happened to have in your pockets, but if you care about appearances, you paid attention to the things you ‘accidentally’ had in your pockets. It wouldn’t make any difference to how the shambles worked, but if there were going to be other people around, then a mysterious nut, or an interesting bit of wood, a piece of lace and a silver pin suggested ‘witch’ rather more flatteringly than did, say, a broken shoelace, a torn piece of paper bag, half a handful of miscellaneous and unspeakable fluff, and a handkerchief which had been used so many times that, dreadfully, it needed both hands to fold it. Tiffany generally kept one pocket just for shambles ingredients, but if Miss Smith had made this shambles the same way, then she had pockets larger than a wardrobe; it nearly touched the ceiling. 22 A horse’s skull always looks scary, even if someone has put lipstick on it. Chapter 9 THE DUCHESS AND THE COOK T IFFANY LIKED FLYING. What she objected to was being in the air, at least at a height greater than her own head. She did it anyway, because it was ridiculous and unbecoming to witchcraft in general to be seen flying so low that her boots scraped the tops off ant hills. People laughed, and sometimes pointed. But now, navigating the stick through the ruined houses and gloomy, bubbling pools, she ached for the open sky. It was a relief when she slid out from behind a stack of broken mirrors to see good clean daylight, despite the fact that she had emerged next to a sign which said: IF YOU ARE CLOSE ENOUGH TO READ THIS SIGN, YOU REALLY, REALLY, SHOULDN’T BE. That was the last straw. She tipped the stick until it was leaving a groove in the mud behind it, and ascended like a rocket, clinging desperately to the strap, which was creaking, to avoid slipping off. She heard a small voice say, ‘We are experiencing some turbulence, ye ken. If ye look to the right and tae the left ye will see that there are no emergency exits—’ The speaker was interrupted by another voice, which said, ‘In point o’ fact, Rob, the stick has got emergency exits all round, ye ken. ’ ‘Oh aye,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘but there is such a thing as style, OK? Just waiting until ye have nearly hit the ground and stepping off makes us look like silly billys. ’ Tiffany hung on, trying not to listen, and also trying not to kick Feegles, who had no sense of danger, feeling as they always did that they were more dangerous than anything else. Finally she had the broomstick flying level and risked a look down. There seemed to be a fight going on outside whatever it was they were going to decide was the new name of the King’s Head, but you couldn’t see any sign of Mrs Proust. The witch of the city was a woman of resource, wasn’t she? Mrs Proust could look after herself. Mrs Proust was looking after herself, by running very fast. She hadn’t waited a second once she sensed the danger, but headed for the nearest alley as the smog rose around her. The city was always full of smokes and smogs and fumes, easy work for a witch who had the knack. They were the breath of the city, and its halitosis, and she could play them like a foggy piano. And now she leaned against a wall and got some breath of her own. She had felt it building up like a thunderstorm in a city that was normally remarkably easy-going.

Any woman who even looked like a witch was becoming a target. She had to hope that old and ugly women everywhere were going to be as safe as she was. A moment later, a couple of men burst out of the smog, one of them holding a large stick; the other one didn’t need a stick, because he was huge and therefore was his own stick. As the man with the stick ran towards her, Mrs Proust tapped her foot on the pavement and the stone under the man’s feet tilted up, tripping him so that he landed safely on his chin with a crack , the stick rolling away. Mrs Proust folded her arms and glared at the heavy man. He wasn’t as stupid as his friend, but his fists were opening and closing and she knew it would only be a matter of time. She tapped her foot on the stones again before he plucked up courage. The big man was trying to work out what might happen next, but didn’t expect the equestrian statue 23 of Lord Alfred Rust – famed for bravely and valiantly losing every military engagement in which he had ever taken part – to gallop out of the fog on bronze hooves and kick him so hard between the legs that he flew backwards and knocked his head on a lamppost before sliding to the ground. Mrs Proust then recognized him as a customer who sometimes bought itching powder and exploding cigars from Derek; it didn’t do to kill customers. She picked him up, groaning, by his hair, and whispered into his ear, ‘You weren’t here. Nor was I. Nothing happened, and you did not see it. ’ She thought for a moment and, because business is business added, ‘And when you next go past Boffo’s Joke Emporium, you will be taken with its range of extremely droll, practical jokes for all the family, and this week’s new “Pearls of the Pavement” naughty Fido jokes for the connoisseur who takes his laughter seriously. I look forward to the pleasure of your custom. P. S. our new range of “thunderbolt” exploding cigars are a laugh a minute, and please do try our hilariously funny rubber chocolate. Take a moment also to browse in our new gentlemen’s necessaries department for all that is best in moustache waxes, moustache cups, cut-throat razors, a range of first-class snuffs, ebony-backed nose-hair clippers and our ever-popular glandular trousers, supplied in a plain wrapper and limited to one pair per customer. ’ Satisfied, Mrs Proust let the head fall backwards and was forced to accept that unconscious people don’t buy anything, so she turned her attention to the previous owner of the stick, who was groaning. Well, yes, it was the fault of the man with no eyes, she thought, and perhaps that might be an excuse, but Mrs Proust wasn’t known for her forgiving nature. ‘Poison goes where poison’s welcome,’ she said to herself. She snapped her fingers, then climbed onto the bronze horse, taking a cold but comfortable seat in the late Lord Rust’s metal lap. Clanking and groaning, the bronze horse walked away into the bank of smog that followed Mrs Proust all the way back to her shop. Back in the alleyway, though, it seemed to be snowing, until you realized that what was falling from the sky onto the unconscious bodies had previously been in the stomachs of the pigeons who were now flocking in from every quarter of the city at Mrs Proust’s command. She heard them and smiled grimly. ‘In this neighbourhood we don’t just watch!’ she said with satisfaction. Tiffany felt better when the reek and smoke of the city was behind them again. How do they live with the smell? she wondered. It’s worse than a Feegle’s spog. 24 But now there were fields below her, and although the smoke from the burning stubbles reached this high, it was a fragrance compared to the world within the city walls. And Eskarina Smith lived there … well, sometimes lived there! Eskarina Smith! She really was real! Tiffany’s mind raced almost as fast as the broomstick itself. Eskarina Smith! Every witch had heard something about her, but no two witches agreed. Miss Tick had said that Eskarina was the girl that got a wizard’s staff by mistake! The first witch ever trained by Granny Weatherwax! Who got her into Unseen University by giving the wizards there a piece of her – that is to say, Granny Weatherwax’s – mind. Quite a large piece, if you listened to some of the stories, which included tales of magical battles. Miss Level had assured Tiffany that she was some kind of fairy story. Miss Treason had changed the subject. Nanny Ogg had tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially and whispered, ‘Least said, soonest mended. ’ And Annagramma had loftily assured all the young witches that Eskarina had existed, but was dead. But there was one story that just would not go away and curled around truth and lies like honeysuckle. It told the world that the young Eskarina had met at the University a young man called Simon who, it seemed, had been cursed by the gods with almost every possible ailment that mankind was prone to. But, because the gods have a sense of humour, even though it’s a rather strange one, they had granted him the power to understand – well – everything. He could barely walk without assistance, but was so brilliant that he managed to keep the whole universe in his head. Wizards with beards that went down to the floor would flock to hear him talk about space and time and magic as if they were all part of the same thing. And young Eskarina had fed him and cleaned him and helped him get about and learned from him – well – everything. And, the rumours went, that she had learned secrets that made the mightiest of magics look like nothing more than conjuring tricks. And the story was true! Tiffany had talked to it and had cupcakes with it, and there really was a woman, then, who could walk through time and make it take orders from her. Wow! Yes, and there was something very strange about Eskarina – a sense not that she wasn’t all there, but that somehow she was everywhere else at the same time; and at this point Tiffany saw the Chalk on the skyline, shadowy and mysterious, like a beached whale. It was still a long way off, but her heart leaped. That was her ground; she knew every inch of it, and part of her was always there. She could face anything there. How could the Cunning Man, some old ghost, beat her on her own ground? She had family there, more than she could count, and friends, more than … well, not so many now that she was a witch, but that was the way of the world. Tiffany was aware of somebody climbing up her dress. This was not the problem it might have been; a witch would not, of course, dream of not wearing a dress, but if you were going to ride on a broomstick you definitely invested in some really tough pants, if possible with some padding. It made your bum look bigger but it also made it warmer, and at a hundred feet above the ground, fashion rather took second place to comfort. She glanced down. There was a Feegle there, wearing a watchman’s helmet, which appeared to have been hammered out of the top of an old salt cellar, an equally small breastplate and, amazingly, trousers and boots. You never normally saw boots on a Feegle. ‘You’re Wee Mad Arthur, aren’t you? I saw you at the King’s Head! You’re a policeman!’ ‘Oh aye. ’ Wee Mad Arthur grinned a grin that was pure Feegle. ‘It’s a grand life in the Watch, and the money is good. A penny goes a lot further when it buys you food for a week!’ ‘So are you coming over here to keep our lads in order? Are you planning to stay?’ ‘Oh no, I dinnae believe so. I like the city, ye ken. I like coffee that is nae made from them wee acorns and I goes to the theatre and the opera and the ballet. ’ The broomstick wobbled a little. Tiffany had heard of ballet, and had even seen pictures in a book, but it was a word that somehow did not fit in any sentence which included the word ‘Feegle’. ‘Ballet?’ she managed.

‘Oh aye, it’s grand! Last week I saw Swan on a Hot Tin Lake , a reworking of a traditional theme by one of our up-and-coming young performance artists; and the day after that, of course, there was a reinterpretation of Die Flabbergast at the Opera House; and ye ken, they had a whole week of porcelain at the Royal Art Museum, with a free thimble of sherry. Oh aye, it’s the city of culture, right enough. ’ ‘Are you sure that you are a Feegle?’ said Tiffany in a fascinated voice. ‘That’s what they tell me, miss. There is nae law says I cannot be interested in culture, is there? I told the lads that when I go back I will take them along to see the ballet for themselves. ’ The stick seemed to fly itself for a while as Tiffany stared at nothing, or rather at a mental picture of Feegles in a theatre. She had never been inside one herself, but she had seen pictures and the thought of Feegles among ballerinas was so unthinkable that it was better to just let her mind boggle and then forget about it. She remembered in time that she had a broomstick to land, and brought it down very neatly near the mound. To her shock there were guards outside it. Human guards. She stared in disbelief. The Baron’s guards never came up onto the downland. Never! It was unheard of! And … she felt the anger rising – one of them was holding a shovel. She jumped off the stick so fast that it was left to skim over the turf, scattering Feegles until it fetched up against an obstruction, shaking off the last few Feegles that had managed to hang on. ‘You hold onto that shovel, Brian Roberts!’ she screamed at the sergeant of the guard. ‘If you let it cut the turf there will be a reckoning! How dare you! Why are you here? And nobody is to cut anybody into pieces, do you all understand?’ This last order was to the Feegles, who had surrounded the men with a ring of small, but ever so sharp, swords. A Feegle claymore was so sharp that a human might not know his legs had been cut off until he tried to walk. The guards themselves suddenly had the look of men who knew they were supposed to be big and strong but were now faced with the realization that ‘big’ or ‘strong’ wouldn’t be nearly enough. They’d heard the stories, of course – oh yes, everyone on the Chalk had heard the stories about Tiffany Aching and her little … helpers. But they had only been stories, hadn’t they? Until now. And they were threatening to run up their trousers. In a shocked silence, Tiffany looked around, panting for breath. Everyone was watching her now, which was better than everyone fighting, wasn’t it? ‘Very well,’ she said like a schoolteacher who is only just satisfied with the naughty class. She added a sniff, which would usually be translated to mean: I’m only just satisfied, mark you. She sniffed again. ‘Very well, then. Is anybody going to tell me what’s going on here?’ The sergeant actually raised his hand. ‘Can I have a word in private, miss?’ Tiffany was impressed that he had even been able to speak, given that his mind was trying to suddenly make sense of what his eyes were telling him. ‘Very well, follow me. ’ She spun round suddenly, causing both guards and Feegles to jump. ‘And nobody, and I mean nobody , is to dig up anybody’s home or cut off anybody’s legs while we are gone, is that understood? I said , is that understood?’ There was a mumbled chorus of yeses and oh ayes, but it didn’t include one from the face she was looking down at. Rob Anybody was trembling with rage and crouching ready to spring. ‘Did you hear me, Rob Anybody?’ He glared at her, eyes ablaze. ‘I will give ye nae promise on that score, miss, hag though you may be! Where is my Jeannie? Where are the others? These scunners hae swords! What were they going to do with them? I will have an answer!’ ‘Listen to me, Rob,’ Tiffany began, but stopped. Rob Anybody’s face was dripping tears, and he was pulling desperately at his beard as he fought the horrors of his own imagination. They were an inch from a war, Tiffany reckoned. ‘Rob Anybody! I am the hag o’ these hills and I put an oath on you not to kill these men until I tell you to! Understand?’ There was a crash as one of the guards fell over backwards in a faint. Now the girl was talking to the creatures! And about killing them! They weren’t used to this sort of thing. Usually the most exciting thing that happened was that the pigs got into the vegetable garden. The Big Man of the Feegles hesitated as his spinning brain digested Tiffany’s order. True, it wasn’t an order to kill anybody right now, but at least it held out the possibility that he might be able to do so very soon, so he could free his head from the terrible pictures in his mind. It was like holding a hungry dog on a leash of cobweb, but at least it bought her time. ‘You will see that the mound has not been touched,’ said Tiffany, ‘so whatever may have been intended has not yet been achieved. ’ She turned back to the sergeant, who had gone white, and said, ‘Brian, if you want your men to live with all their arms and legs, you will tell them right now, and very carefully, to put down their weapons. Your lives depend on the honour of one Feegle and he is driving himself mad with horror. Do it now!’ To Tiffany’s relief he gave the command, and the guards – glad to have their sergeant ordering them to do something that every atom in their bodies was telling them was exactly what they should be doing – dropped their weapons from their shaking hands. One even raised his arms in the universal sign of surrender. Tiffany pulled the sergeant a little way away from the glowering Feegles and whispered, ‘What do you think you are doing, you stupid idiot?’ ‘Orders from the Baron, Tiff. ’ ‘The Baron? But the Baron is—’ ‘Alive, miss. He’s been back for three hours. Drove through the night, they say. And people have been talking. ’ He looked down at his boots. ‘We were … we were, well, we were sent up here to find the girl that you gave to the fairies. Sorry, Tiff. ’ ‘Gave? Gave? ’ ‘I didn’t say it, Tiff,’ said the sergeant, backing away, ‘but, well, you hear stories. I mean, no smoke without fire, right?’ Stories, thought Tiffany. Oh yes, once upon a time there was a wicked old witch … ‘And you think they apply to me, do you? Am I on fire or just smoking?’ The sergeant shifted uneasily and sat down. ‘Look, I’m just a sergeant, OK? The young Baron’s given me orders, yes? And his word is law, right?’ ‘He may be the law down there. Up here, it’s me. Look over there. Yes, there! What do you see?’ The man looked where she pointed and his face paled. The old cast-iron wheels and stove with its short chimney were clearly visible, even though a flock of sheep was happily grazing around them as usual. He leaped to his feet as if he had been sitting on an ant’s nest. ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany with some satisfaction. ‘Granny Aching’s grave. Remember her? People said she was a wise woman, but at least they had the decency to make up better stories about her! Proposing to cut the turf? I’m amazed that Granny doesn’t rise up through the turf and bite your bum! Now take your men down the hill a little way and I will sort this out, you understand? We don’t want anyone to get jumpy. ’ The sergeant nodded. It was not as if he had any other option. As the guards moved away, dragging their unconscious colleague with them and trying not to look like, well, guards who were turning a walk away as closely into a running away as was possible, Tiffany knelt down by Rob Anybody and lowered her voice. ‘Look, Rob, I know about the secret tunnels. ’ ‘What scunner told ye about the secret tunnels?’ ‘I am the hag o’ the hills, Rob,’ said Tiffany soothingly. ‘Shouldn’t I know about the tunnels? You are Feegles, and no Feegle will sleep in a house with only one entrance, right?’ The Feegle was calming down a bit now. ‘Oh aye, ye have a point there. ’ ‘Then can I please suggest you go and fetch young Amber? Nobody is going to touch the mound. ’ After a little hesitation, Rob Anybody sprang into the entrance hole and was gone.

It took some time for him to return – time Tiffany thankfully used by getting the sergeant to come back and help her gather up the guards’ dropped weapons – and when Rob did resurface he was accompanied by a great many more Feegles and the kelda. And also by a rather reluctant Amber, who blinked nervously in the daylight and said, ‘Oh, crivens!’ Tiffany knew that her own smile was false when she said, ‘I’ve come to take you home, Amber. ’ Well, at least I’m not stupid enough to say something like ‘Won’t that be nice?’ she added to herself. Amber glared at her. ‘Ye willnae get me back in that place,’ she announced, ‘and ye can stick it where the monkey put his jumper!’ And I don’t blame you, thought Tiffany, but now I can pass for being a grown-up and I have to say some stupid grown-up things … ‘But you do have a mother and father, Amber. I’m sure they miss you. ’ She winced at the look of scorn the girl gave her. ‘Oh aye, and if the old scunner misses me he’ll aim another blow!’ ‘Maybe we can go together, and help him change his ways?’ Tiffany volunteered, despising herself, but the image of those thick fingers heavy with nettle stings from that awful bouquet wouldn’t go away. This time Amber actually laughed. ‘Sorry, mistress, but Jeannie told me you were clever. ’ What was it that Granny Weatherwax had said once? ‘ Evil begins when you begin to treat people as things. ’ And right now it would happen if you thought there was a thing called a father, and a thing called a mother, and a thing called a daughter, and a thing called a cottage, and told yourself that if you put them all together you had a thing called a happy family. Aloud, she said, ‘Amber, I want you to come with me to see the Baron, so that he knows you are safe. After that, you can do as you please. That’s a promise. ’ Tiffany felt a knocking on her boot, and looked down at the kelda’s worried face. ‘Can I have a wee word with ye?’ said Jeannie. Beside her, Amber was crouching down so that she could hold the kelda’s other hand. Then Jeannie spoke again, if it was speech, and not song. But what could you sing that stayed in the air, so that the next note twisted around it? What could be sung that seemed to be a living sound that sung itself right back to you? And then the song was gone, leaving only a hole and a loss. ‘That’s a kelda song,’ said Jeannie. ‘Amber heard me singing it to the little ones. It’s part of the soothings, and she understood it, Tiffany! I gave her nae help but she understood it! I know the Toad has tol’ ye this. But do ye ken what I am telling ye now? She recognizes meaning, and learns it. She is as close to being a kelda as any human could be. She is a treasure not to be thrown away! ‘ The words came out with unusual force for the kelda, who was usually so softly spoken. And Tiffany recognized it as helpful information that, ever so nicely, was a kind of threat. Even the journey off the downland and into the village had to be negotiated. Tiffany, holding Amber by the hand, walked past the waiting guards and continued on, much to the embarrassment of the sergeant. After all, if you have been sent to bring somebody in, then you are going to look pretty silly if they go and bring themselves in by, as it were, themselves. But on the other hand, if Tiffany and Amber walked behind the guards, it looked as though they were being driven; this was sheep country, after all, and everybody knew, didn’t they, that the sheep walked in front and a shepherd walked behind. Finally they compromised on a rather awkward method where they all moved forward with a certain amount of revolving and shuffling that made it look as if they were travelling by square dance. Tiffany had to spend a lot of the time stopping Amber from giggling. That was the funny part. It would have been nice if the funny part could have lasted longer. ‘Look, I was only told to fetch the girl,’ said the sergeant desperately as they walked through the castle gates. ‘You don’t have to come. ’ He said this in a way which meant: Please, please, don’t barge in and show me up in front of my new boss. But it didn’t work. The castle was what was once called a-bustle, which meant extremely busy, with cross people running around at cross purposes in every direction except straight up. There was going to be a funeral and then there was going to be a wedding, and two big occasions so close together could test the resources of a small castle to the utmost, especially since people who would come a long way for one would probably stay for the other, saving time but causing extra work for everybody. But Tiffany was glad for the absence, now, of Miss Spruce, who had been altogether too unpleasant by half and had never been one to get her hands dirty. And then there would always be the problem of seating. Most of the guests would be aristocrats, and it was vitally important that no one had to sit next to somebody who was related to someone who had killed one of their ancestors at some time in the past. Given that the past is a very big place, and taking into account the fact that everybody’s ancestors were generally trying to kill everybody else’s ancestors, for land, money or something to do, it needed very careful trigonometry to avoid another massacre taking place before people had finished their soup. None of the servants seemed to pay any particular attention to Tiffany, Amber or the guards, though at one point Tiffany thought she saw someone making one of those tiny little signs people make when they think they need protection from evil – here, in her place! – and she had the strong feeling that somehow the people were not paying attention in a very definite way of not paying attention, as if looking at Tiffany might be dangerous to the health. When Tiffany and Amber were ushered into the Baron’s study, it seemed that he was not going to take much notice of them either. He was bent over a sheet of paper that covered the whole of his desk, and was holding in his hand a bundle of different coloured pencils. The sergeant coughed, but even choking to death would not have shaken the Baron’s concentration. Finally, Tiffany shouted ‘Roland!’ quite loudly. He spun round, his face red with embarrassment and a side order of anger. ‘I would prefer “my lord”, Miss Aching,’ he said sharply. ‘And I would prefer “Tiffany”, Roland,’ said Tiffany, with a calmness that she knew annoyed him. He laid down his pencils with a click. ‘The past is past, Miss Aching, and we are different people. It would be just as well if we remembered that, don’t you think?’ ‘The past was only yesterday,’ said Tiffany, ‘and it would be just as well if you remembered that there was a time when I called you Roland and you called me Tiffany, don’t you think?’ She reached up to her neck and pulled off the necklace with the silver horse that he had given her. It felt like a hundred years ago now, but this necklace had been important. She had even stood up to Granny Weatherwax for this necklace! And now she held the necklace like an accusation. ‘The past needs to be remembered. If you do not know where you come from, then you don’t know where you are, and if you don’t know where you are, then you don’t know where you’re going. ’ The sergeant looked from one to the other, and with that instinct for survival that any soldier develops by the time he’s become a sergeant, decided to leave the room before things started getting thrown. ‘I’ll just go and see to the, er … the … things that need seeing to, if that’s OK?’ he said, opening and closing the door so quickly that it slammed back tightly on the last syllable. Roland stared at it for a moment, and then turned. ‘I know where I am, Miss Aching. I am standing in my father’s shoes, and he is dead. I have been running this estate for years, but everything I did, I did in his name. Why did he die, Miss Aching? He wasn’t all that old. I thought you could do magic!’ Tiffany looked down at Amber, who was listening with interest. ‘Is this best discussed later?’ she said.

‘You wanted your men to bring you this girl, and here she is, healthy in mind and body. And I did not, as you say, give her to the fairies: she was a guest of the Nac Mac Feegle, whose help you have had on more than one occasion. And she went back there of her own free will. ’ She looked carefully at Roland’s face, and said, ‘You don’t remember them, do you?’ She could see that he didn’t, but his mind was struggling with the fact that there was definitely something that he should have remembered. He was a prisoner of the Fairy Queen, Tiffany reminded herself. Forgetfulness can be a blessing, but I wonder what horrors were in his mind when the Pettys told him that she had taken their girl to the Feegles. To fairies. How could I imagine what he felt? She softened her voice a little. ‘You remember something vague about fairies, yes? Nothing bad, I hope, but nothing very clear, as if perhaps it was something you read in a book, or a story that somebody told you when you were little. Am I right?’ He glowered at her, but the spill word that he had strangled on his lips told her that she was right. ‘They call it the last gift,’ she said. ‘It’s part of the soothings. It is for when it is best for everybody that you forget things that were too awful, and also the things that were too wonderful. I’m telling you this, my lord , because Roland is still in there somewhere. By tomorrow you will forget even what I have told you. I don’t know how it works, but it works for nearly everybody. ’ ‘You took the child from her parents! They came to see me as soon as I arrived this morning! Everyone came to see me this morning! Did you kill my father? Did you steal money from him? Did you try to throttle old Petty? Did you beat him with nettles? Did you fill his cottage with demons? I can’t believe I just asked you that question, but Mrs Petty appears to think so! Personally, I don’t know what to think, especially since some fairy woman might be messing around with my thoughts! Do you understand me?’ While Tiffany was trying to put together some kind of coherent answer, he flopped down in the ancient chair behind the desk and sighed. ‘I have been told you were standing over my father with a poker in your hand, and that you demanded money from him,’ he said sadly. ‘That’s not true!’ ‘And would you tell me if it was?’ ‘No! Because there never would be a was! I would never do such a thing! Well, perhaps I was standing over him …’ ‘Ah-ha!’ ‘Don’t you dare ah-ha me, Roland, don’t you dare! Look, I know people have been telling you things, but they are not true. ’ ‘But you just admitted that you were standing over him, yes?’ ‘It’s simply that he wanted me to show him how I keep my hands clean!’ She regretted this as soon as she said it. It was true, but what did that matter? It didn’t sound true. ‘Look, I can see that it—’ ‘And you didn’t steal a bag of money?’ ‘No!’ ‘And you don’t know anything about a bag of money?’ ‘Yes, your father asked me to take one out of the metal chest. He wanted to—’ Roland interrupted her. ‘Where is that money now?’ His voice was flat and without expression. ‘I have no idea,’ said Tiffany. And as his mouth opened again, she shouted, ‘No! You will listen, understand? Sit there and listen! I attended your father for the better part of two years. I liked the old man and I would do nothing to hurt him or you. He died when it was his time to die. When that time comes, there is nothing anyone can do. ’ ‘Then what is magic for?’ Tiffany shook her head. ‘Magic, as you call it, kept the pain away, and don’t you dare think that it came without a price! I have seen people die, and I promise you your father died well, and thinking of happy days. ’ Tears were streaming down Roland’s face, and she sensed his anger at being seen like that, stupid anger, as if tears made him less of a man and less of a baron. She heard him mutter, ‘Can you take away this grief?’ ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied quietly. ‘Everyone asks me. And I would not do so even if I knew how. It belongs to you. Only time and tears take away grief; that is what they are for. ’ She stood up and took Amber’s hand; the girl was watching the Baron intently. ‘I’m going to take Amber home with me,’ Tiffany announced, ‘and you look as if you need a decent sleep. ’ This didn’t get a response. He sat there, staring at the paperwork as if hypnotized by it. That wretched nurse, she thought. I might have known she would make trouble. Poison goes where poison’s welcome, and in Miss Spruce’s case, it would have been welcomed with cheering crowds and possibly a small brass band. Yes, the nurse would have invited the Cunning Man in. She was exactly the sort of person who would let him in, give him power, envious power, jealous power, prideful power. But I know I haven’t done anything wrong, she told herself. Or have I? I can only see my life from the inside, and I suppose that on the inside nobody does anything wrong. Oh, blast it! Everybody brings their troubles to the witch! But I can’t blame the Cunning Man for everything people have said. I just wish there was somebody – other than Jeannie – to talk to who would take no notice of the pointy hat. So what do I do now? Yes, what do I do now, Miss Aching? What would you advise, Miss Aching, who is so good at making decisions for other people? Well, I would advise that you get some sleep as well. You didn’t sleep too well last night, what with Mrs Proust being a champion snorer, and an awful lot has happened since then. Also, I cannot remember when you last ate regular meals, and may I also point out that you are talking to yourself? She looked down at Roland slumped in the chair, his gaze far away. ‘I said I am taking Amber home with me for now. ’ Roland shrugged. ‘Well, I can hardly stop you, can I?’ he said sarcastically. ‘You are the witch. ’ * * * Tiffany’s mother uncomplainingly made up a bed for Amber, and Tiffany dropped off to sleep in her own bed at the other end of the big bedroom. She woke up on fire. Flames filled the entire room, flickering orange and red but burning as gently as the kitchen stove. There was no smoke, and although the room felt warm, nothing was actually burning. It was as if fire had just dropped in for a friendly visit, not for business. Its flames rustled. Enthralled, Tiffany held a finger to the flame and raised it as if the little flame was as harmless as a baby bird. It seemed to get colder but she blew on it anyway, and it plopped back into life. Tiffany got carefully out of the burning bed, and if this was a dream it was making a very good job of the tinkles and pings that the ancient bed traditionally made. Amber was lying peacefully on the other bed under a blanket of flame; as Tiffany watched, the girl turned over and the flames moved with her. Being a witch meant that you didn’t simply run around shouting just because your bed was on fire. After all, it was no ordinary fire, a fire that did not harm. So it’s in my head, she thought. Fire that does no harm. The hare runs into the fire … Somebody is trying to tell me something. Silently, the flames went out. There was an almost imperceptible blur of movement in the window and she sighed. The Feegles never gave up. Ever since she was nine years old, she had known that they watched over her at night. They still did, which was why she bathed in a hip-bath behind a sheet. In all probability she hadn’t got anything that the Nac Mac Feegles would be interested in looking at, but it made her feel better. The hare runs into the fire … It certainly sounded like a message that she had to work out, but who from? From the mysterious witch who had been watching her, maybe? Omens were all very well, but sometimes it would help if people just wrote things down! It never paid, though, to ignore those little thoughts and coincidences: those sudden memories, little whims. Quite often they were another part of your mind, trying hard to get a message through to you – one that you were too busy to notice. But it was bright daylight outside and puzzles could wait. Other things couldn’t.

She’d start at the castle. ‘My dad beat me up, didn’t he?’ said Amber in a matter-of-fact voice as they walked towards the grey towers. ‘Did my baby die?’ ‘Yes. ’ ‘Oh,’ said Amber in the same flat voice. ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m sorry. ’ ‘I can sort of remember, but not exactly,’ said Amber. ‘It’s all a bit … fuzzy. ’ ‘That’s the soothings working. Jeannie has been helping you. ’ ‘I understand,’ said the girl. ‘You do?’ said Tiffany. ‘Yes,’ said Amber. ‘But my dad, is he going to get into trouble?’ He would if I told how I found you, Tiffany thought. The wives would see to it. The village people had a robust attitude to the punishing of boys, who almost by definition were imps of mischief and needed to be tamed, but hitting a girl that hard? Not good. ‘Tell me about your young man,’ she said aloud instead. ‘He is a tailor, isn’t he?’ Amber beamed, and Amber could light up the world with a smile. ‘Oh yes! His grandad learned him a lot before he died. He can make just about anything out of cloth, can my William. Everyone around here says he should be put to an apprenticeship and he’d be a master himself in a few years. ’ Then she shrugged. ‘But masters want paying for the learning of the knowing, and his mum is never going to find the money to buy him an indenture. Oh, but my William has wonderful fine fingers, and he helps his mum with the sewing of her corsets and making beautiful wedding dresses. That means working with satins and suchlike,’ said the girl proudly. ‘And William’s mum is much complimented on the fineness of the stitching!’ Amber beamed with second-hand pride. Tiffany looked at the glowing face, where the bruises, despite the kelda’s soothing touch, were still quite plain. So the boyfriend is a tailor, she thought. To big beefy men like Mr Petty, a tailor was hardly a man at all, with his soft hands and indoor work. And if he stitched clothes for ladies too, well, that was even more shame that the daughter would be bringing to the unhappy little family. ‘What do you want to do now, Amber?’ she said. ‘I’d like to see my mum,’ said the girl promptly. ‘But supposing you meet your dad?’ Amber turned to her. ‘Then I’ll understand … please don’t do anything nasty to him, like turn him into a pig or something?’ A day as a pig might help him mend his ways, thought Tiffany. But there was something of the kelda in the way that Amber had said, ‘I’ll understand. ’ A shining light in a dark world. Tiffany had never seen the gates of the castle closed shut except at night. By day it was a mixture of the village hall, a place for the carpenter and the blacksmith to set up shop, a space for the children to play in when it rained and, for that matter, for temporarily storing the harvests of hay and wheat, at those times when the barns alone could not cope. There wasn’t much room in even the biggest cottage; if you wanted a bit of peace and quiet, or somewhere to think, or somebody to talk to, you wandered over to the castle. It always worked. At least by now the shock of the new Baron’s return had worn off, but the place was still humming with activity when Tiffany entered, but it was rather subdued and people were not talking very much. Possibly the reason for this was the Duchess, Roland’s mother-in-law-to-be, who was striding around in the great hall and occasionally prodding people with a stick. Tiffany didn’t believe it the first time that she saw it, but there it was again – a shiny black stick with a silver knob on the end with which she prodded a maid carrying a basket of laundry. It was only at this point that Tiffany noticed, too, the future bride trailing behind her mother as if she was too embarrassed to go much closer to somebody who prodded people with sticks. Tiffany was going to protest, and then felt curious as she glanced around. She stepped back a few paces and let herself disappear. It was a knack and a knack that she was good at. It wasn’t invisibility, just that people didn’t notice you. All unseen, she drifted close enough to hear what the pair of them were saying, or at least what the mother was saying and the daughter was listening to. The Duchess was complaining. ‘Been allowed to go to rack and ruin. Really, it needs a thorough overhaul! You cannot afford to be lax in a place like this! Firmness is everything! Heaven knows what this family thought it was doing!’ Her speech was punctuated by the whack of the stick on the back of another maid who was hurrying, but clearly not hurrying fast enough, under the weight of a basket full of laundry. ‘You must be rigorous in your duty to see that they are equally rigorous in theirs,’ the Duchess went on, scanning the hall for another target. ‘The laxity will stop. You see? You see? They do learn. You must never relax your guard in your pursuit of slovenliness, both in deed and manner. Do not suffer any undue familiarity! And that, of course, includes smiles. Oh, you may think, what could be so bad about a happy smile? But the innocent smile can so easily become a knowing smirk, and suggests perhaps the sharing of a joke. Are you listening to what I’m telling you?’ Tiffany was astonished. Single-handedly the Duchess had made her do something that she never thought she would do, which was to feel sorry for the bride-to-be, who at this point was standing in front of her mother like a naughty child. Her hobby, and quite possibly one activity in life, was painting in watercolours, and although Tiffany was trying, against the worst of her instincts, to be generous to the girl, there was no denying that she looked like a watercolour – and not just a watercolour, but a watercolour painted by someone who had not much colour but large supplies of water, giving her the impression of not only being colourless but also rather damp. You could add, too, that there was so little of her that in a storm it might be quite possible that she would snap. Unseen as she was, Tiffany felt just the tiniest pang of guilt and stopped inventing other nasty things to think. Besides, compassion was setting in, blast it! ‘Now, Letitia, recite again the little poem that I taught you,’ said the Duchess. The bride-to-be, not just blushing but melting in embarrassment and shame, looked around like a stranded mouse on a great wide floor, uncertain of which way to run. ‘ If you ,’ her mother prompted irritably, and gave her a prod with the stick. ‘ If you … ’ the girl managed. ‘ If you … if you grasp the nettle lightly, it will sting you for your pain, but if you grasp the nettle boldly, soft as silk it will remain. So it is with human nature, treat them kindly, they rebel, but if you firmly grasp the nettle, then your bidding they do well. ’ Tiffany realized, as the damp little voice faded away, that there was otherwise absolute silence in the hall and everybody was staring. She rather hoped that somebody might forget themselves sufficiently to start clapping, although that would probably mean the end of the world. Instead, the bride took one look at the open mouths and fled, sobbing, as fast as her very expensive but seriously impractical shoes would carry her; Tiffany heard them clicking madly all the way up the stairs, followed very shortly afterwards by the slamming of a door. Tiffany walked away slowly, just a shadow in the air to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. She shook her head. Why had he done it? Why in the world had Roland done it? Roland could have married anyone! Not Tiffany herself, of course, but why had he chosen that, well – not to be unpleasant – skinny girl? And her father had been a duke, her mother was a duchess and she was a duckling – well, one might try to be charitable, but she did tend to walk like one. Well, she did. If you looked carefully you could see her feet stuck out. And if you cared about these things, the dreadful mother and the soppy daughter outranked Roland! They could officially bully him! The old Baron, now, had been a different sort of person.

Oh yes, he liked it if the children gave a little bow or curtsied if he passed them in the lane, but he knew everybody’s name, and generally their birthdays as well, and he was always polite. Tiffany remembered him stopping her one day and saying, ‘Would you be so kind as to ask your father to come and see me, please?’ It was such a gentle phrase for a man with such power. Her mother and father used to argue about him, when they thought she was safely tucked up in bed. In between the symphony of the bedsprings she often heard them almost, but not exactly, having a row. Her father would say things like: ‘It’s all very well you saying he is generous and all that, but don’t you tell me that his ancestors didn’t get their money by grinding the faces of the poor!’ And her mother would retort: ‘I have never seen him grind anything! Anyway, that was the olden days. You’ve got to have someone to protect us. That stands to reason!’ And her father would come back with something along the lines of: ‘Protect us from who? Another man with a sword? I reckon we could do that by ourselves!’ And around this time the conversation would peter out, since her parents were still in love, in a comfortable type of way, and neither of them really wanted anything to change at all. It seemed to her, looking down the length of the hall, that you didn’t need to grind the faces of the poor if you taught them to do their own grinding. The shock of the thought made her giddy, but it stayed in her mind. The guards were all local boys, or married to local girls, and what would happen if everybody in the village got together and said to the new Baron: ‘Look, we will let you stay here, and you can even sleep in the big bedroom, and of course we’ll give you all your meals and flick a duster around from time to time, but apart from that this land is ours now, do you understand?’ Would it work? Probably not. But she remembered asking her father to get the old stone barn cleaned up. That would be a start. She had plans for the old barn. ‘You there! Yes! You there in the shadows! Are you lollygagging?’ This time she paid attention. All that thinking had meant that she hadn’t paid enough attention to her little don’t-see-me trick. She stepped out of the shadows, which meant that the pointy black hat was not just a shadow. The Duchess glared at it. It was time for Tiffany to break the ice, even though it was so thick as to require an axe. She said politely, ‘I don’t know how to lollygag, madam, but I will do my best. ’ ‘ What? What! What did you call me? ’ The people in the hall were learning fast and they were scuttling as quickly as they could to get out of the place, because the Duchess’s tone of voice was a storm warning, and nobody likes to be out in a storm. The sudden rage overtook Tiffany. It wasn’t as if she had done anything to deserve being shouted at like that. She said, ‘I’m sorry, madam; I did not call you anything, to the best of my belief. ’ This did not do anything to help; the Duchess’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, I know you. The witch – the witch girl who followed us to the city on who knows what dark errand? Oh, we know about witches where I’m from! Meddlers, sowers of doubt, breeders of discontent, lacking all morality, and charlatans into the bargain!’ The Duchess pulled herself right up and glowered at Tiffany as if she had just won a decisive victory. She tapped her cane on the ground. Tiffany said nothing, but nothing was hard to say. She could sense the watching servants behind curtains and pillars, or peering around doors. The woman was smirking, and really needed that smirk removed, because Tiffany owed it to all witches to show the world that a witch could not be treated like this. On the other hand, if Tiffany spoke her mind it would certainly be taken out on the servants. This needed some delicate wording. It did not get it, because the old bat gave a nasty little snigger and said, ‘Well, child? Aren’t you going to try to turn me into some kind of unspeakable creature?’ Tiffany tried. She really tried. But there are times when things are just too much. She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think I shall bother, madam, seeing as you are making such a good job of it yourself!’ The sudden silence was nevertheless peppered with little sounds like a guard behind a pillar sticking his hand over his mouth so that his shocked laughter would not be heard, and a splutter as – on the other side of a curtain – a maid almost achieved the same thing. But it was the tiny little click of a door high above that stayed in Tiffany’s memory. Was that Letitia? Had she overheard? Well, it didn’t matter, because the Duchess was gloating now, with Tiffany safely in the palm of her hand. She shouldn’t have risen to the stupid insults, whoever was listening. And now the woman was going to take terrible delight in making trouble for Tiffany, anyone near to her and quite probably everyone she’d ever known. Tiffany felt chilly sweat running down her back. It had never been like this before – not even with the wintersmith; not even Annagramma being unpleasant on a bad day; not even the Fairy Queen, who was good at spite. The Duchess beat them all: she was a bully, the kind of bully who forces her victim into retaliation, which therefore becomes the justification for further and nastier bullying, with collateral damage to any innocent bystanders who would be invited by the bully to put the blame for their discomfiture onto the victim. The Duchess looked around the shadowy hall. ‘Is there a guard here?’ She waited in delighted malice. ‘I know there is a guard here somewhere !’ There was the sound of hesitant footsteps and Preston, the trainee guard, appeared from out of the shadows and walked a nervous walk towards Tiffany and the Duchess. Of course, it would have to be Preston, Tiffany thought; the other guards would be too experienced to risk a generous helping of the Duchess’s wrath. And he was smiling nervously too, not a good thing to do when dealing with people like the Duchess. At least he had the sense to salute when he reached her, and by the standards of people who had never been told how to salute properly, and in any case had to do so very rarely, it was a good salute. The Duchess winced. ‘Why are you grinning, young man?’ Preston gave the question some serious thought, and said, ‘The sun is shining, madam, and I am happy being a guard. ’ ‘You will not grin at me, young man. Smiling leads to familiarity, which I will not tolerate at any price. Where is the Baron?’ Preston shifted from one foot to the other. ‘He is in the crypt, madam, paying his respects to his father. ’ ‘ You will not call me madam! “Madam” is a title for the wives of grocers! Nor can you call me “my lady”, which is a title for the wives of knights and other riffraff! I am a duchess and am therefore to be addressed as “your grace”. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes … m … your grace!’ Preston threw in another salute in self-defence. For a moment, at least, the Duchess seemed satisfied, but it was definitely among the shorter kinds of moments. ‘Very well. And now you will take this creature’ – she waved a hand towards Tiffany – ‘and lock her in your dungeon. Do you understand me?’ Shocked, Preston looked to Tiffany for guidance. She gave him a wink, just to keep his spirits up. He turned back to the Duchess. ‘Lock her in the dungeon?’ The Duchess glared at him. ‘That is what I said!’ Preston frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘It means taking the goats out. ’ ‘Young man, it is not my concern what you do with the goats! I order you to incarcerate this witch immediately! Now, get on with it, or I will see to it that you lose your position. ’ Tiffany was already impressed with Preston, but now he won a medal. ‘Can’t do that,’ he said, ‘ ‘cause of happy ass. The sergeant told me all about it. Happy ass. Happy ass corp ass. Means you can’t just lock somebody away if they haven’t broken the law. Happy ass corp ass. It’s all written down. Happy ass corp ass,’ he repeated helpfully.

This defiance seemed to push the Duchess beyond rage and into some sort of fascinated horror. This spotty-faced youth in ill-fitting armour was defying her over some stupid words. Such a thing had never happened to her before. It was like finding out that frogs talked. That would be very fascinating and everything, but sooner or later a talking frog has to be squashed. ‘You will hand in your armour and leave this castle forthwith, do you understand? You are sacked. You have lost your position and I will make it my business to see that you never get a job as a guard ever again, young man. ’ Preston shook his head. ‘Can’t happen like that, your lady grace. ’Cause of happy ass corp ass. The sergeant said to me, “Preston, you stick to happy ass corp ass. It is your friend. You can stand on happy ass corp ass. ”’ The Duchess glared at Tiffany, and since Tiffany’s silence appeared to annoy her even more than anything she would have to say, she smiled and said nothing, in the hope that the Duchess might possibly explode. Instead, and as expected, she turned on Preston. ‘How dare you talk back to me like that, you scoundrel!’ She raised the shiny stick with the knob on it. But suddenly, it seemed immovable. ‘You will not hit him, madam,’ said Tiffany in a calm voice. ‘I will see your arm breaks before you strike him. We do not strike people in this castle. ’ The Duchess snarled and tugged at the stick, but neither stick nor arm seemed to want to move. ‘In a moment, the stick will come free,’ said Tiffany. ‘If you attempt to strike anyone with it again, I will break it in half. Please understand that this is not a warning – it is a forecast. ’ The Duchess glared at her, but must have seen something in Tiffany’s face that her own resolute stupidity could worry about. She let go of the stick and it fell to the floor. ‘You have not heard the last of this, witch girl!’ ‘Just witch, madam. Just witch,’ said Tiffany as the woman strutted at speed out of the hall. ‘Are we going to get into trouble?’ said Preston quietly. Tiffany gave a little shrug. ‘I will see to it that you don’t,’ she said. And she thought, And so will the sergeant. I’ll make sure of it. She looked around the hall and saw the faces of the watching servants hurriedly turn away, as if they were afraid. There wasn’t any real magic, she thought. I just stood my ground. You have to stand your ground, because it’s your ground. ‘I was wondering,’ said Preston, ‘if you were going to turn her into a cockroach and stamp on her. I’ve heard that witches can do that,’ he added hopefully. ‘Well, I won’t say that it is impossible,’ said Tiffany, ‘but you won’t see a witch doing it. Besides, there are practical problems. ’ Preston nodded sagely. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘The different body mass for one thing, which would mean you would end up with either one enormous human-sized cockroach, which I think would probably collapse under its own weight, or dozens or even hundreds of people-shaped cockroaches. But the snag there, I think, might be that their brain might work very badly – though, of course, if you had the right spells, I suppose you could magic all the bits of the human that wouldn’t fit into the cockroach into some kind of big bucket so they could use it to get themselves bigger again when they were tired of being small. But the problem there would be what happened if some hungry dog came along when the lid was off. That would be quite bad. Sorry, have I said something wrong?’ ‘Er, no,’ said Tiffany. ‘Er, don’t you think that you’re a bit too smart to be a guard, Preston?’ Preston shrugged. ‘Well, the lads all think that I am useless,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They think that there’s got to be something wrong with someone who can pronounce the word “marvellous”. ’ ‘But, Preston … I know you are very clever and sufficiently erudite to know the meaning of the word “erudite”. Why do you sometimes pretend to be stupid – you know, like “doctrine” and “happy ass corp ass”?’ Preston grinned. ‘I was unfortunately born clever, miss, and I’ve learned that sometimes it’s not such a good idea to be all that clever. Saves trouble. ’ Right now, it seemed to Tiffany that the clever thing would be not to be in the hall any longer. Surely the horrible woman couldn’t do too much damage, could she? But Roland had been so strange, acting as if they had never been friends, sounding as though he believed every complaint against her … He had never been like that before. Oh, yes … he was mourning his father, but he just didn’t seem … himself. And that dreadful old baggage had just bundled off to harry him while he was saying goodbye to his father in the coolness of the crypt, trying to find a way of saying the words that there had never been time for, trying to make up for too much silence, trying to bring back yesterday and nail it firmly to now. Everyone did that. Tiffany had come back from quite a few deathbeds, and some were very nearly merry, where some decent old soul was peacefully putting down the weight of their years. Or they could be tragic, when Death had needed to bend down to harvest his due; or, well, ordinary – sad but expected, one light blinking off in a sky full of stars. And she had wondered, as she made tea, and comforted people, and listened to the tearful stories about the good old days from people who always had words left over that they thought should have been spoken. And she had decided that they weren’t there to be said in the past, but remembered in the here and now. ‘What do you think about the word “conundrum”?’ Tiffany stared at Preston, her mind still full of words people never said. ‘What was that you asked?’ she said, frowning. ‘The word “conundrum”,’ Preston repeated helpfully. ‘When you say the word, doesn’t it look in your head like a copper-coloured snake, curled up asleep?’ Now, Tiffany thought, during a day like this, anyone who wasn’t a witch would dismiss that as a bit of silliness, so that means I shouldn’t. Preston was the worst-dressed guard in the castle; the newest guard always was. To him were given chain-mail trousers that were mostly full of holes 25 and suggested, against everything we know about moths, that moths could eat through steel. To him was given the helmet that, no matter what size your head was, would slide down and make your ears look big; and this was not forgetting that he had also inherited a breastplate with so many holes in it that it might be more useful for straining soup. But his gaze was always alert, to the point where it made people uneasy. Preston looked at things. Really looked at things, so intensely that afterwards they must have felt really looked at. She had no idea what went on in his head, but it was surely pretty crowded. ‘Well, I must say I’ve never thought about that word “conundrum”,’ she said slowly, ‘but it is certainly metallic and slithery. ’ ‘I like words,’ said Preston. ‘“Forgiveness”: doesn’t it sound like what it is? Doesn’t it sound like a silk handkerchief gently falling down? And what about “susurration”? Doesn’t it sound to you like whispered plots and dark mysteries? … Sorry, is something wrong?’ ‘Yes, I think something may be wrong,’ said Tiffany, looking at Preston’s worried face. ‘Susurration’ was her favourite word; she had never met anyone else who even knew it. ‘Why are you a guard, Preston?’ ‘Don’t like sheep very much, not very strong so I can’t be a ploughman, too ham-fisted to be a tailor, too scared of drowning to run away to sea. My mother taught me to read and write, much against my dad’s wishes, and since that meant I was no good for a proper job, I got packed off to be an apprentice priest in the Church of Om. I quite liked that; I learned a lot of interesting words, but they threw me out for asking too many questions, such as, “Is this really true or what?”’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, I quite like the guarding.

’ He reached down and pulled a book out of his breastplate, which in fact could have accommodated a small library, and went on,‘There’s plenty of time for reading if you keep out of sight, and the metaphysics is quite interesting as well. ’ Tiffany blinked. ‘I think you just lost me there, Preston. ’ ‘Really?’ said the boy. ‘Well, for example, when I’m on night duty and somebody comes to the gate, I have to say “Who goes there, friend or foe?” To which, of course, the correct answer is “Yes”. ’ It took Tiffany a moment to work this one out, and she began to have some insight into how Preston might have a problem holding down a job. He continued, ‘The conundrum begins if the person at the gate says “Friend”, since they may well be lying; but the lads who have to go out at night have very cleverly devised their own shibboleth with which to answer my question, and that is: “Get your nose out of that book, Preston, and let us in right now!”‘ ‘“Shibboleth” being …?’ The boy was fascinating. It was not often you found somebody who could make nonsense sound wonderfully sensible. ‘A kind of code word,’ said Preston. ‘Strictly speaking, it means a word that your enemy would be unable to say. For example, in the case of the Duchess, it might be a good idea to choose a word like “please”. ’ Tiffany tried not to laugh. ‘That brain of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, Preston. ’ ‘Well, so long as it’s good for something. ’ There was a scream from the distant kitchen, and one thing that makes humans different from animals is that they run towards a distress call, rather than away from it. Tiffany arrived only seconds behind Preston, and even they weren’t the first. A couple of girls were comforting Mrs Coble the cook, who was sobbing on a chair while one of the girls was wrapping a kitchen towel around her arm. The floor was steaming and a black cauldron was lying on its side. ‘I tell you, they were there!’ the cook managed between sobs. ‘All wriggling. I shall always remember it. And kicking and crying out “Mother!” I shall remember their little faces for as long as I live!’ She began sobbing again, great big sobs that threatened to choke her. Tiffany beckoned to the nearest kitchen maid, who reacted as though she’d been struck and tried to cower back. ‘Look,’ said Tiffany, ‘can someone please tell me what— What are you doing with that bucket?’ This was to another maid, who was dragging a bucket up from the cellar and who, at the sound of a command on top of the turmoil, dropped it. Shards of ice flew across the floor. Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘Ladies, you don’t put ice on a scald, however sensible it seems. Cool some tea – but don’t make it cold – and soak her arm in it for at least a quarter of an hour. Everybody understand? Good. Now, what happened ?’ ‘It was full of frogs!’ the cook screamed. ‘They was puddings and I set them to boiling, but when I opened it up, they was little frogs, all shouting for their mother! I told everyone, I told them! A wedding and a funeral from the same house, that’s bad luck, that is. It’s witchcraft, that’s what it is!’ Then the woman gasped and clamped her free hand over her mouth. Tiffany kept a straight face. She looked in the cauldron, and she looked around on the floor. There was no sign of any frogs anywhere, although there were two enormous puddings, still wrapped in their pudding cloths, at the bottom of the cauldron. When she picked them out, still very hot, and placed them on the table, she couldn’t help noticing that the maids backed away from them. ‘Perfectly good plum duff,’ she said cheerily. ‘Nothing to worry about here. ’ ‘I have often noticed,’ said Preston, ‘that in some circumstances, boiling water can seethe in a very strange way, with water droplets appearing to jump up and down just above the surface, which I might suggest is one reason why Mrs Coble thought she was seeing frogs?’ He leaned closer to Tiffany and whispered, ‘And another reason may quite possibly be that bottle of finest cream sherry I can see on the shelf over there, which appears to be almost empty, coupled with the lone glass noticeable in the washing-up bowl over there. ’ Tiffany was impressed; she hadn’t noticed the glass. Everyone was watching her. Somebody ought to have been saying something, and since nobody was, it had better be her. ‘I’m sure the death of our Baron has upset us all,’ she began, and got no further, because the cook sat bolt upright in the chair and pointed a trembling finger at her. ‘All except you, you creature!’ she accused. ‘I seed you, oh yes, I seed you! Everyone was sobbing and crying and wailing, but not you! Oh no! You were just strutting around, giving orders to your elders and betters! Just like your granny! Everybody knows! You was sweet on the young Baron, and when he chucked you over, you killed the old Baron, just to spite him! You was seen! Oh yes, and now the poor lad is beside himself with grief and his bride is in tears and won’t come out of her room! Oh, how you must be laughing inside! People is saying that the marriage should be put off! I’d bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? That would be a feather in your black hat, and no mistake! I remember when you were small, and then off you went up to the mountains, where the folks are so strange and wild, as everybody knows, and what comes back? Yes, what comes back? What comes back, knowing everything, acting so hoity-toity, treating us like dirt, tearing a young man’s life apart? And that ain’t the worst of it! You just talk to Mrs Petty! Don’t tell me about frogs! I know frogs when I sees them, and that’s what I saw! Frogs! They must—’ Tiffany stepped out of her body. She was good at this now, oh yes. Sometimes she practised the trick on animals, who were generally very hard to fool: even if only a mind seemed to be there, they got nervous and eventually ran away. But humans? Humans were easy to fool. Provided your body stayed where you left it, blinking its eyes, and breathing, and keeping its balance, and all the other little things bodies are good at doing even when you are not there, other humans thought you were. And now she let herself drift towards the drunken cook, while she muttered and shouted and repeated herself, spitting out hurtful idiocies and bile and hatred, and also little flecks of spittle that stayed on her chins. And now Tiffany could smell the stench. It was faint but it was there. She wondered: If I turn round, will I see two holes in a face? No, things weren’t that bad, surely. Perhaps he was just thinking about her. Should she run? No. She might be running to rather than from. He could be anywhere! But at least she could try to stop this mischief. Tiffany was careful not to walk through people; it was possible, but even though she was in theory as insubstantial as a thought, walking through a person was like walking through a swamp – sticky and unpleasant and dark. She had got past the kitchen girls, who seemed hypnotised; time always seemed to pass more slowly when she was out of her body. Yes, the bottle of sherry was almost empty, and there was another empty one just visible behind a sack of potatoes. Mrs Coble herself reeked of it. She had always been partial to a drop of sherry, and possibly another drop as well; it could be a work-related illness among cooks, along with three wobbly chins. But all that foul stuff? Where had that come from? Was it something she’d always wanted to say, or had he put it into her mouth? I have done nothing wrong, she thought again. It might be useful to keep that firmly in mind. But I have been stupid too, and I shall have to remember that as well. The woman, still hypnotising the girls with her ranting, looked very ugly in the slow-motion world: her face was a vicious red, and every time she opened her mouth her breath stank, and there was a piece of food stuck in her uncleaned teeth. Tiffany shifted sideways a little.

Would it be possible to reach an invisible hand into her stupid body and see if she could stop the beating of the heart? Nothing like that had ever occurred to her before, and it was a fact that you could not, of course, pick up anything when you were outside your body, but perhaps it would be possible to interrupt some little flow, some tiny spark? Even a big fat wretched creature like the cook could be brought down by the tiniest of upsets, and that stupid red face would shudder, and that stinking breath would gasp, and that foul mouth would shut— First Thoughts, Second Thoughts, Third Thoughts, and the very rare Fourth Thoughts lined up in her head like planets to scream in chorus: That’s not us! Watch what you are thinking! Tiffany slammed back into her body, nearly losing her balance, and was caught by Preston, who was standing right behind her. Quick! Remember that Mrs Coble had lost her husband only seven months ago, she told herself, and remember that she used to give you biscuits when you were small, and remember that she had a row with her daughter-in-law and doesn’t get to see her grand- children any more. Remember this, and see a poor old lady who has drunk too much and has listened to too much gossip – from that nasty Miss Spruce, for one. Remember this, because if you hit back at her, you will become what he wants you to be! Don’t give him space in your head again! Behind her, Preston grunted, and said, ‘I know it’s not the right thing to say to a lady, miss, but you are sweating like a pig!’ Tiffany, trying to get her shattered thoughts together, muttered, ‘My mother always said that horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies merely glow …’ ‘Is that so?’ said Preston cheerfully. ‘Well, miss, you are glowing like a pig!’ This caused a lot of giggling from the girls, already shaken up by the cook’s ranting, but any laughter would be better than that and, it occurred to Tiffany, maybe Preston had worked that out. But Mrs Coble had managed to get to her feet and waved a threatening finger at Tiffany – although she was swaying so much that for some of the time, depending on which way she was leaning, she was also threatening Preston, one of the girls and a rack of cheeses. ‘You don’t fool me, you evil-looking minx,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows you killed the old Baron! The nurse saw you! How dare you show your face in here? You’ll take us all sooner or later, and I won’t have that! I hope the ground opens up and swallows you!’ the cook snarled. She tottered backwards. There was a heavy thud, a creak and, just for a moment until it was cut off, the beginning of a scream as the cook fell into the cellar. 23 There is a lot of folklore about equestrian statues, especially the ones with riders on. There is said to be a code in the number and placement of the horse’s hooves: if one of the horse’s hooves is in the air, the rider was wounded in battle; two legs in the air means that the rider was killed in battle; three legs in the air indicates that the rider got lost on the way to the battle; and four legs in the air means that the sculptor was very, very clever. Five legs in the air means that there’s probably at least one other horse standing behind the horse you’re looking at; and the rider lying on the ground with his horse lying on top of him with all four legs in the air means that the rider was either a very incompetent horseman or owned a very bad-tempered horse. 24 See Glossary , page 344. 25 In fact, chain-mail trousers are always full of holes, but they shouldn’t be full of holes seven inches wide. Chapter 10 THE MELTING GIRL ‘M ISS A CHING, I must ask you to leave the Chalk,’ said the Baron, his face wooden. ‘I will not!’ The Baron’s expression did not change. Roland could be like that, she remembered, and it was worse now, of course. The Duchess had insisted on being in his office for this interview, and had further insisted on having two of her own guards there, as well as two from the castle. That pretty much filled all the space in the study, and the two pairs of guards glared at each other in all-out professional rivalry. ‘It is my land, Miss Aching. ’ ‘I know I have some rights!’ said Tiffany. Roland nodded like a judge. ‘That is a very important point, Miss Aching, but regrettably you have no rights at all. You are not a leaseholder, you are not a tenant and you own no land. In short, you have nothing on which rights are based. ’ He said all this without looking up from the foolscap paper in front of him. Deftly, Tiffany reached across and snatched it from his fingers, and was back in her chair before the guards could react. ‘How dare you talk like that without looking me in the eye!’ But she knew what the words meant. Her father was a tenant of the farm. He had rights. She did not. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you can’t just turn me out. I’ve done nothing wrong. ’ Roland sighed. ‘I really hoped that you would see reason, Miss Aching, but since you assert total innocence, I must spell out the following facts. Item: you admit that you took the child Amber Petty away from her parents and lodged her with the fairy folk who live in holes in the ground. Did you think this was the right place for a young girl? According to my men, there seemed to be a lot of snails in the vicinity. ’ ‘Now just hold on, Roland—’ ‘You will address my future son-in-law as “my lord”,’ snapped the Duchess. ‘And if I don’t, will you hit me with your stick, your grace? Will you grasp the nettle firmly?’ ‘How dare you!’ the Duchess said, her eyes blazing. ‘Is this how you like your guests to be addressed, Roland?’ At least his bewilderment seemed genuine. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what is being talked about here,’ he said. Tiffany pointed her finger at the Duchess, causing the Duchess’s bodyguards to reach for their weapons, thus causing the castle guards to draw theirs too, so as not to be left out. By the time swords were safely disentangled and put where they belonged, the Duchess was already launching a counter-attack. ‘You should not put up with this insubordination, young man! You are the Baron, and you have given this … this creature notice to leave your lands. She is not conducive to public order, and if she still wilfully insists on not leaving, do I need to remind you that her parents are your tenants?’ Tiffany was already seething because of ‘creature’, but to her surprise the young Baron shook his head and said, ‘No, I cannot punish good tenants for having a wayward daughter. ’ ‘Wayward’? That was worse than ‘creature’! How dare he …! And her thoughts ran together. He wouldn’t dare. He never had dared, not in all the time they’d known each other, all the time when she had been just Tiffany and he had been just Roland. It had been a strange relationship, mostly because it wasn’t a relationship at all. They hadn’t been drawn to one another: they had been pushed towards one another by the way the world worked. She was a witch, which meant that she was automatically different from the village kids, and he was the Baron’s son, which automatically meant he was different from the village kids. And where they had gone wrong was in believing, somewhere in their minds, that because two things were different, they must therefore be alike. Slowly finding out that this wasn’t true hadn’t been nice for either of them and there had been a certain number of things that both of them wished hadn’t been said. And then it wasn’t over, because it had never begun, not really, of course. And so it was best for both of them. Of course. Certainly. Yes. And in all that time he’d never been like this, never so cold, never so stupid in such a meticulous kind of way that you couldn’t blame it all on the wretched Duchess, although Tiffany would have loved to. No, there were other things happening. She had to be on her guard. And there, watching them watching her, she realized how a person could be both stupid and clever. She picked up her chair, placed it neatly in front of the desk, sat down on it, folded her hands and said, ‘I am very sorry, my lord.

’ She turned to the Duchess, bowed her head and said, ‘And to you too, your grace. I temporarily forgot my place. It will not happen again. Thank you. ’ The Duchess grunted. It would have been impossible for Tiffany to have thought any less of her but, well, a grunt? After a climb-down like that? Humbling an uppity young witch deserved a lot better than that – some remark so cutting that it blunted on the bone. Honestly, she might have made an effort. Roland was staring at Tiffany, so nonplussed he was nearly minused. She confused him a little more by handing him the now-crumpled sheet of paper and saying, ‘Do you want to deal with the other matters, my lord?’ He struggled for a moment, managed to flatten the paper on the desk to his satisfaction, smoothed it out and said, ‘There is the matter of the death of my father and the theft of money from his strongbox. ’ Tiffany fixed him with a helpful smile, which made him nervous. ‘Anything else, my lord? I am anxious that everything should be dealt with. ’ ‘Roland, she is up to something,’ said the Duchess. ‘Be on your guard. ’ She waved a hand towards the guards. ‘And you guards should be on your guard as well, mind!’ The guards, having some difficulty with the idea of being even more on their guard when they were already – through nervousness – much further on their guard in any case than they had ever been before, strained to look a bit taller. Roland cleared his throat. ‘Ahem, then there is the matter of the late cook, who fell to her death almost coincidentally with, I believe, insulting you. Do you understand these charges?’ ‘No,’ said Tiffany. There was a moment of silence before Roland said, ‘Er, why not?’ ‘Because they aren’t charges, my lord. You are not declaring outright that you think I stole the money and killed your father and the cook. You are simply sort of waving the idea in front of me in the hope that I will burst into tears, I suppose. Witches don’t cry, and I want something that probably no other witch has ever asked for before. I want a hearing. A proper hearing. And that means evidence. And that means witnesses, and that means that the people who say have to say it in front of everybody. And that means a jury of my peers, which means people like me, and that means habeas corpus , thank you very much. ’ She stood up and turned towards the doorway, which was blocked by a struggling crowd of guards. Now she looked at Roland, and bobbed a little curtsy. ‘Unless you feel entirely confident enough to have me arrested, my lord, I am leaving. ’ They watched with open mouths as she walked up to the guards. ‘Good evening, Sergeant, good evening, Preston, good evening, gentlemen. This won’t take a minute. If you would just excuse me, I am leaving. ’ She saw Preston wink at her as she pushed past his sword, and then she heard the guards suddenly collapse in a heap. She walked along the corridor to the hall. There was a huge fire in the even bigger fireplace, which was large enough to be a room all by itself. The fire was peat. It couldn’t do much to heat most of the hall, which never got warm even in the heart of summer, but it was cosy to be close to, and if you have to breathe smoke, then you can’t do better than peat smoke, which rose up to the chimney and drifted like a warm mist around the sides of bacon, which were hung up there to smoke. It was all going to get complicated again, but for the moment Tiffany sat there simply for a rest and, while she was about it, to shout at herself for being so stupid. How much poison can he seep into their heads? How much does he need to? That was the problem with witchcraft: it was as if everybody needed the witches, but hated the fact that they did, and somehow the hatred of the fact could become the hatred of the person. People then started thinking: Who are you to have these skills? Who are you to know these things? Who are you to think you’re better than us? But Tiffany didn’t think she was better than them. She was better than them at witchcraft, that was true, but she couldn’t knit a sock, she didn’t know how to shoe a horse, and while she was pretty good at making cheese, she had to have three tries to bake a loaf that you could actually bite into with your teeth. Everybody was good at something. The only wicked thing was not finding out in time. There was fine dust on the floor of the fireplace, because there is nothing like peat for dust, and as Tiffany watched, tiny little footprints appeared in it. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘what did you do to the guards?’ A shower of Feegles landed lightly on the seat beside her. ‘Weel,’ Rob Anybody said, ‘personally I would have liked to take them to the cleaners, the mound-digging Cromwells that they are, but I could see where that might make it a wee bit difficult for ye, so we just tied their bootlaces together. Maybe they’ll blame it on the wee mice. ’ ‘Look, you’re not to hurt anybody, all right? The guards have to do what they are told. ’ ‘Nae, they didnae,’ said Rob scornfully. ‘That’s nae errand for a warrior, doing what you’re told. And what would they have done to ye, doing what they were told? That old carlin of a mother-in-law was glaring claymores at ye the whole time, bad cess to her! Hah! Let’s see how she likes her bathwater tonight!’ The edge to his voice put Tiffany on the alert. ‘You are not to hurt anybody, do you understand? Nobody at all, Rob. ’ The Big Man grumbled. ‘Och yes, miss, I’ve taken what you said on board!’ ‘And you promise on your honour as a Feegle not to throw it over the side as soon as my back is turned, do you?’ Rob Anybody started grumbling again, using crackling Feegle words that she had never heard before. They sounded like curses, and once or twice, when he spat them out, smoke and sparks came out with them. He was stamping his feet too, always a sign of a Feegle at the end of his tether. ‘They came arrayed with sharp steel to dig up me home, dig up me clan and dig up me family,’ he said, and his words were all the more menacing because they were so level and quiet. Then he spat a short sentence towards the fire, which burned green for a moment when the words hit the flames. ‘I’ll no’ disobey the hag o’ the hills, ye ken, but I put ye on firm notice that if I can see a shovel near my mound again, the owner will find it shoved up his kilt blunt end first, so that he hurts his hands trying to pull it out. And that will only be the start of his problems! And if there is any clearances here, I swear on my spog that it will be us that is doing the clearing!’ He stamped up and down a bit, and then added: ‘And what is this we are hearing about ye demanding the law? We is nae friends of the law, ye ken. ’ ‘What about Wee Mad Arthur?’ said Tiffany. It was almost impossible to make a Feegle look sheepish, but Rob Anybody looked as if he was about to say ‘Bah’. ‘Oh, it’s a terrible thing them gnomes did to him,’ he said, looking sad. ‘Do ye ken he washes his face every day? I mean, that sort of thing is OK when the mud gets too thick, but every day? I ask ye, how can a body stand it?’ One moment there were the Feegles, and then there was a faint whoosh , followed by a total lack of Feegles, and the next moment there was a more than adequate supply of guards. Fortunately they were the sergeant and Preston, stamping to attention. The sergeant cleared his throat. ‘Am I addressing Miss Tiffany Aching?’ he said. ‘It looks to me as if you are, Brian,’ said Tiffany, ‘but you be the judge. ’ The sergeant looked around quickly and then leaned closer. ‘Please, Tiff,’ he whispered, ‘it’s all gone serious on us. ’ He straightened up quickly and then said, far louder than was necessary, ‘Miss Tiffany Aching! I am commanded by my lord the Baron to inform you that it is his command that you must stay within the irons of the castle—’ ‘The what?’ said Tiffany. Wordlessly, his eyes on the ceiling, the sergeant handed her a piece of parchment. ‘Oh, you mean the environs ,’ she said. ‘That means the castle and the places around it too,’ she told him helpfully.

‘But I thought the Baron wanted me to leave?’ ‘Look, I’m just reading out what it says here, Tiff, and I am ordered to lock your broomstick in the dungeon. ’ ‘That’s an impressive errand that you have there, Officer. It’s leaning against the wall, help yourself. ’ The sergeant looked relieved. ‘You’re not going to make any … trouble?’ he said. Tiffany shook her head. ‘Not at all, Sergeant. I have no quarrel with a man who is only doing his duty. ’ The sergeant walked cautiously up to the broomstick. They all knew it, of course; they had seen it going overhead, and generally only just overhead, practically every day. But he hesitated, with his hand a few inches from the wood. ‘Er, what happens when I touch it?’ he said. ‘Oh, then it’s ready to fly,’ said Tiffany. The sergeant’s hand very slowly drew back from the vicinity, or possibly the environs, of the broomstick. ‘But it won’t fly for me, right?’ he said in a voice full of air-sickness and pleading. ‘Oh, not very far or very high, probably,’ said Tiffany, without looking round. The sergeant was well known to get vertigo simply by standing on a chair. She walked over to him and picked up the stick. ‘Brian, what were your orders if I refused to obey your orders, if you see what I mean?’ ‘I was supposed to arrest you!’ ‘What? And lock me up in the dungeon?’ The sergeant winced. ‘You know I wouldn’t want to do that,’ he said. ‘ Some of us are grateful, and we all knew that poor old Mrs Coble was as drunk as a skunk, poor woman. ’ ‘Then I won’t put you to the trouble,’ said Tiffany. ‘So why don’t I put this broomstick, which you seem so worried about, down in the dungeon and lock it in. Then I won’t be going anywhere, yes?’ Relief flooded the sergeant’s face, and as they walked down the stone steps to the dungeon he lowered his voice and said, ‘It’s not me, you understand, it’s them upstairs. It seems like her grace is calling the shots now. ’ Tiffany hadn’t seen very many dungeons, but people said that the one in the castle was pretty good by dungeon standards and would probably earn at least five ball and chains if anybody ever decided to write a Good Dungeon Guide. It was spacious and well-drained, with a handy gutter right down the middle, which ended up in the inevitable round hole, which did not smell very bad on, as it were, the whole. Neither did the goats, which unfolded themselves from their snug beds in piles of straw and watched her through slot eyes in case she did anything interesting, such as feeding them. They didn’t stop eating, because being goats, they were already eating their dinner for the second time. The dungeon had two entrances. One went straight outdoors: it was probably there to drag the prisoners in by, back in the old days, because that would save having to pull them across the great hall, getting the floor all mucky with blood and mud. These days the dungeon was mostly used as a goat shed and, on racks higher up – high enough to be out of reach of all but the most determined goat – an apple store. Tiffany lifted the broomstick up onto the lowest apple rack, while the sergeant petted one of the goats, taking care not to look up in case it made him feel dizzy. That meant he was entirely unprepared when Tiffany pushed him back out of the doorway, took the keys out of the lock, swung herself back into the dungeon and locked the door on the inside. ‘I’m sorry, Brian, but, you see, it is you. Not just you, of course, and not even mostly you, and it was rather unfair of me to take advantage of you, but if I’m going to be treated like a criminal, I might as well act like one. ’ Brian shook his head. ‘We do have another key, you know. ’ ‘Hard to use it if I blocked the keyhole,’ said Tiffany, ‘but look on the bright side. I’m under lock and key, which I think some people would rather like, so all you are worried about is the fine detail. You see, I think you might be looking at this the wrong way round. I’m safe in a dungeon. I haven’t been locked away from you, the rest of you have been locked away from me. ’ Brian looked as if he was about to cry and she thought, No, I can’t do it. He’s always been decent to me. He’s trying to be decent now. Just because I’m cleverer than he is doesn’t mean that he should lose his job. And besides, I already know the way out of here. That’s the thing about people who have dungeons; they don’t spend enough time in them themselves. She handed the keys back. His face brightened with relief. ‘Obviously we will bring you food and water,’ he said. ‘You can’t live on apples all the time!’ Tiffany sat down on the straw. ‘You know, it’s quite cosy in here. It’s funny how goat burps make everything sort of warm and comfortable. No, I won’t eat the apples, but some of them do need turning or else they will rot, so I will take care of that while I’m in here too. Of course, when I’m locked in here I can’t be out there. I can’t make medicines. I can’t clip toenails. I can’t help. How is your old mum’s leg these days? Still well, I hope? Would you mind leaving now, please, because I’d like to use the hole. ’ She heard his boots on the stairs. It had been a bit cruel, but what else could she have done? She looked around and lifted up a pile of very old and very dirty straw that hadn’t been touched for a long time. All sorts of things crawled, hopped or slithered away. Around her, now that the coast was clear, Feegle heads rose, bits of straw dropping off them. ‘Fetch my lawyer, please,’ Tiffany said brightly. ‘I think he’s going to like working here …’ The Toad turned out to be quite enthusiastic, for a lawyer who knew that he was going to be paid in beetles. ‘I think we will start with wrongful imprisonment. Judges don’t like that sort of thing. If anyone’s going to be put in prison, they like to be the ones who do it. ’ ‘Er, actually I locked myself in,’ said Tiffany. ‘Does that count?’ ‘I wouldn’t worry about that at the moment. You were under duress, your freedom of movement was being curtailed and you were put in fear. ’ ‘I certainly was not! I was extremely angry !’ The Toad slapped a claw down on an escaping centipede. ‘You were interrogated by two members of the aristocracy in the presence of four armed men, yes? Nobody warned you? Nobody read you your rights? And you say the Baron apparently believes on no evidence that you killed his father, and the cook, and stole some money?’ ‘I think Roland’s trying hard not to believe it,’ said Tiffany. ‘Someone has told him a lie. ’ ‘Then we must challenge it, indeed we must. He can’t go around making allegations of murder when they can’t be substantiated. He can get into serious trouble for that!’ ‘Oh,’ said Tiffany, ‘I don’t want any harm to come to him!’ It is hard to see when the Toad is smiling, so Tiffany had to take a guess. ‘Did I say something funny?’ ‘Not funny at all, not really, but in its way rather sad and rather droll,’ said the Toad. ‘Droll, in this case, meaning somewhat bittersweet. This young man is making accusations against you which could, if true, lead to you being executed in many places in this world, and yet you do not wish him to be put to any inconvenience?’ ‘I know it’s soppy, but the Duchess is pushing him all the time, and the girl he’s going to marry is as wet as—’ She stopped. There were footfalls on the stone stairs that led from the hall to the dungeon, and they certainly did not have the heavy ring of guards’ hobnails. It was Letitia, the bride-to-be, all in white and all in tears. She reached the bars of Tiffany’s cell, hung onto them, and carried on crying: not big sobs, but just an endless snivelling, nose-dripping, fumbling-in-the-sleeve-for-the-lace-hanky-that-is-already-totally-soaking-wet kind of tears. The girl didn’t really look at Tiffany, just sobbed in her general direction. ‘I’m so sorry! I really am very sorry! What can you think of me?’ And there, right there, was the drawback of being a witch. Here was a person whose mere existence had led Tiffany, one evening, to wonder about that whole business of sticking pins into a wax figure.

She hadn’t actually done it, because it was something that you shouldn’t do, something that witches greatly frowned on, and because it was cruel and dangerous, and above all because she hadn’t been able to find any pins. And now the wretched creature was in some kind of agony, so distraught that modesty and dignity were all being washed away in a rolling flood of gummy tears. How could they not wash away hatred as well? And, in truth, there had never been all that much hatred, more of a kind of miffed feeling. She’d known all along that she’d never be a lady, not without the long blonde hair. It was totally against the whole book of fairytales. She just hadn’t liked being rushed into accepting it. ‘I really never wanted things to happen like this!’ gulped Letitia. ‘I really am very, very sorry, I don’t know what I could’ve been thinking about!’ And so many tears, rolling down that silly, lacy dress and – oh no, there was a perfect snot balloon on a perfect nose. Tiffany watched in fascinated horror as the weeping girl had a great bubbling blow and – oh no, she wasn’t going to, was she? Yes, she was. Yes. She squeezed out the dripping handkerchief onto the floor, which was already wet from the incessant crying. ‘Look, I’m sure things can’t be as bad as all that,’ said Tiffany, trying not to hear the ghastly blobby noises on the stone. ‘If you would only stop crying for a moment, I’m sure everything can be sorted out, whatever it is. ’ This caused more tears and some actual, genuine, old-fashioned sobs, the kind you never heard in real life – well, at least, up until now. Tiffany knew that when people cried, they said boo-hoo – or at least, that’s how it was written down in books. No one said it in real life. But Letitia did, while projectile crying all over the steps. There was something else there too, and Tiffany caught the spill words as they were well and truly spilled, and read them as, somewhat soggy, they landed in her brain. She thought, Oh, really? But before she could say anything, there was a clattering on the steps again. Roland, the Duchess, and one of her guards came hurrying down, followed by Brian, who had clearly been getting very annoyed about other people’s guards clattering on his home cobbles, and so was making sure that whenever a clattering was taking place, he was fully involved. Roland skidded on the damp patch, and threw his arms protectively around Letitia, who squelched and oozed slightly. The Duchess loomed over the pair of them, which left little looming space available for the guards, who had to put up with looking angrily at one another. ‘What have you done to her?’ Roland demanded. ‘How did you lure her down here?’ The Toad cleared his throat and Tiffany gave him an undignified nudge with her boot. ‘Don’t you say a word, you amphibian,’ she hissed. He might be her lawyer, but if the Duchess saw a toad acting as her legal counsel, then it could only make things worse. As it happens, her not seeing the Toad did make things worse, because the Duchess screamed, ‘Did you hear that? Is there no end to her insolence? She called me an amphibian. ’ Tiffany was about to say, ‘I didn’t mean you, I meant the other amphibian,’ but stopped herself in time. She sat down, one hand shovelling straw over the Toad and turned to Roland. ‘Which question would you like me not to answer first?’ ‘My men know how to make you talk!’ said the Duchess over Roland’s shoulder. ‘I already know how to talk, thank you,’ said Tiffany. ‘I thought that maybe she had come to gloat, but things seem to be more … afloat. ’ ‘She can’t get out, can she?’ said Roland to the sergeant. The sergeant saluted smartly and said, ‘No, sir. I have the keys to both doors firmly in my pocket, sir. ’ He gave a smug look to the Duchess’s guard when he said this, as if to say: Some people get asked important questions and come back with accurate and snappy answers around here, thank you so very much! This was rather spoiled by the Duchess saying, ‘He twice called you “sir” instead of “my lord”, Roland. You must not let the lower orders act so familiarly to you. I have told you this before. ’ Tiffany would cheerfully have kicked Roland for not coming back sharply on that one. Brian had taught him to ride a horse, she knew, and taught him how to hold a sword and how to hunt. Perhaps he should have taught him manners too. ‘Excuse me,’ she said sharply. ‘Do you intend to keep me locked up for ever? I wouldn’t mind some more socks and couple of spare dresses, and, of course, some unmentionables if that is going to be the case. ’ Possibly the mention of the word ‘unmentionables’ was what flustered the young Baron. But he rallied quite quickly and said, ‘We, er … that is to say, I, er … feel we should perhaps keep you carefully but humanely where you can do no mischief until after the wedding. You do seem to be the centre of a lot of unfortunate events recently. I’m sorry about this. ’ Tiffany didn’t dare say anything, because it isn’t polite to burst out laughing after such a solemn and stupid sentence as that. He went on, trying to smile, ‘You will be made comfortable, and of course we will take the goats out, if you wish. ’ ‘I’d like you to leave them in here, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Tiffany. ‘I am beginning to enjoy the pleasure of their company. But may I ask a question?’ ‘Yes, of course. ’ ‘This is not going to be about spinning wheels, is it?’ Tiffany asked. Well, after all, there was only one way this stupid reasoning could be taking them. ‘What?’ said Roland. The Duchess laughed triumphantly. ‘Oh yes, it would be just like the saucy and all-too-confident young madam to taunt us with her intentions! How many spinning wheels do we have in this castle, Roland?’ The young man looked startled. He always did when his future mother-in-law addressed him. ‘Er, I don’t really know. I think the housekeeper has one, my mother’s wheel is still in the high tower … there’s always a few around. My father likes – liked – to see people busy with their hands. And … really, I don’t know. ’ ‘I shall tell the men to search the castle and destroy every single one of them!’ said the Duchess. ‘I shall call her bluff ! Surely everyone knows about spiteful witches and spinning wheels? One little prick upon the finger and we’ll all end up going to sleep for a hundred years!’ Letitia, who had been standing in a state of snuffle, managed to say, ‘Mother, you know you’ve never let me touch a spinning wheel. ’ ‘And you never will touch a spinning wheel, ever , Letitia, never in your life. Such things are there for the labouring classes. You are a lady. Spinning is for servants. ’ Roland had gone red. ‘My mother used to spin,’ he said in a deliberate kind of way. ‘I used to sit up in the high tower when she was using it sometimes. It was inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Nobody is to touch it. ’ It seemed to Tiffany, watching through the bars, that only someone with half a heart, very little kindness and no common sense at all would have said anything at this point. But the Duchess had no common sense, probably because it was, well, too common. ‘I insist—’ she began. ‘No,’ said Roland. The word wasn’t loud, but it had a quietness that was somehow louder than a shout, and undertones and overtones that would have stopped a herd of elephants in their tracks. Or, in this case, one Duchess. But she gave her son-in-law a look which promised him a hard time when she could be bothered to think of one. Out of sympathy, Tiffany said, ‘Look, I only mentioned about the spinning wheels to be sarcastic. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen any more. I’m not sure that it ever did. I mean, people going to sleep for a hundred years while all the trees and plants grow up over the palace? How is that supposed to work? Why weren’t the plants sleeping as well? Otherwise you would get brambles growing up people’s nostrils, and I bet that would wake up anybody.

And what happened when it snowed?’ As she said this she fixed her attention on Letitia, who was almost screaming a very interesting spill word, which Tiffany had noted for later consideration. ‘Well, I can see that a witch causes disruption wherever she walks,’ said the Duchess, ‘and so you will stay here, being treated with more decency than you deserve, until we say so. ’ ‘And what will you tell my father, Roland?’ said Tiffany sweetly. He looked as if he’d been punched, and probably he would be if Mr Aching got wind of this. He’d need an awful lot of guards if Mr Aching found out that his youngest daughter had been locked up with goats. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Tiffany. ‘Why don’t we say that I am staying in the castle to deal with important matters? I’m sure the sergeant here can be trusted to take a message to my dad without upsetting him?’ She made this into a question and saw Roland nod, but the Duchess couldn’t help herself. ‘Your father is a tenant of the Baron and will do what he is told!’ Now Roland was trying not to squirm. When Mr Aching had worked for the old Baron, they had, as men of the world, reached a sensible arrangement, which was that Mr Aching would do whatever the Baron asked him to do. Provided the Baron asked Mr Aching to do what Mr Aching wanted to do and needed to be done. That was what loyalty meant, her father had told her one day. It meant that good men of all sorts worked well when they understood about rights and duties and the dignity of everyday people. And people treasured that dignity all the more because that was, give or take some bed linen, pots and pans and a few tools and cutlery, more or less all they had. The arrangement didn’t need to be talked about, because every sensible person knew how it worked: while you’re a good master, I will be a good worker. I will be loyal to you, while you are loyal to me, and while the circle is unbroken, this is how things will continue to be. And Roland was breaking the circle, or at least allowing the Duchess to do it for him. His family had ruled the Chalk for a few hundred years, and had pieces of paper to prove it. There was nothing to prove when the first Aching had set foot on the Chalk; no one had invented paper then. People weren’t happy about witches right now – they were upset and confused – but the last thing Roland could do with was Mr Aching seeking an answer. Even with some grey in his hair Mr Aching could ask some very hard questions. And I need to stay here now, Tiffany thought. I’ve found a thread, and what you do with threads is pull them. Aloud, she said, ‘I don’t mind staying here. I’m sure we don’t want any little problems. ’ Roland looked relieved about this but the Duchess turned to the sergeant and said, ‘Are you sure she’s locked in?’ Brian stood up straight; he’d been standing up straight already, and was probably now on tiptoe. ‘Yes, m— your graceship, like I said, there’s only one key to fit both the doors, and I have them in my pocket right here. ’ He slapped his right-hand pocket, which jingled. Apparently, the jingle was enough to satisfy the Duchess, who said, ‘Then I think we might rest a little happier in our beds tonight, Sergeant. Come, Roland, and do take care of Letitia. I fear she needs her medicine again – goodness knows what the wretched girl said to her. ’ Tiffany watched them go, all except Brian, who had the decency to look embarrassed. ‘Could you come over here please, Sergeant?’ Brian sighed, and walked a little nearer to the bars. ‘You’re not going to make trouble for me, are you, Tiff?’ ‘Certainly not, Brian, and I hope and trust that you will not try to make trouble for me. ’ The sergeant shut his eyes and groaned. ‘You’re planning something, aren’t you? I knew it!’ ‘Let me put it like this,’ said Tiffany, leaning forward. ‘How likely is it, do you think, that I’m going to stay in the cell tonight?’ Brian went to pat his pocket. ‘Well, don’t forget I’ve got the—’ It was terrible to see his face crumple up like a little puppy that’s been given a sharp telling-off. ‘You picked my pocket!’ He looked at her pleadingly, like a little puppy who was now expecting much worse than a telling-off. To the sergeant’s shock and awe, Tiffany handed the keys back to him again, with a smile. ‘You surely don’t think a witch needs keys? And I promise you that I will be back in here by seven o’clock in the morning. I think you will agree, in the circumstances, that this is very good deal, especially since I will find some time to change the bandage on your mother’s leg. ’ The look on his face was enough. He grabbed the keys thankfully. ‘I suppose it’s no good me asking you how you intend to get out?’ he said hopefully. ‘I don’t think you ought to ask that question in the circumstances, do you, Sergeant?’ He hesitated, and then smiled. ‘Thank you for thinking about my mother’s leg,’ he said. ‘It’s looking a bit purple at the moment. ’ Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘The trouble is, Brian, you and I are the only ones thinking about your mother’s bad leg. There’s old folks out there who need someone to help them in and out of the bathtub. There’s pills and potions that need making and taking to people in the hard-to-get-to places. There is Mr Bouncer, who can hardly walk at all unless I give him a good rubbing of embrocation. ’ She pulled out her diary, held together with bits of string and elastic bands, and waved it at him. ‘This is full of things for me to do, because I am the witch. If I don’t do them, who will? Young Mrs Trollope is due to have twins soon, I’m sure of it, I can hear the separate heartbeats. First-time births too. She is already scared stiff, and the nearest other midwife is ten miles away and, I have to say, a bit short-sighted and forgetful. You are an officer, Brian. Officers are supposed to be men of resource, so if the poor young mother comes looking for help, I am sure you will know what to do. ’ She had the pleasure of seeing his face go very nearly white. Before he could stutter a reply she continued, ‘But I can’t help, you see, because the wicked witch must be locked up in case she gets her hands on a loaded spinning wheel! Locked up for a fairy story! And the trouble is, I think somebody might die. And if I let them die, then I am a bad witch. The trouble is, I am a bad witch anyway. I must be, because you have locked me up. ’ She did actually feel sorry for him. He hadn’t become a sergeant to deal with things like this; most of his tactical experience lay in catching escaped pigs. Should I blame him for what he’s been ordered to do? she wondered. After all, you can’t blame the hammer for what the carpenter does with it. But Brian has got a brain, and the hammer hasn’t. Maybe he should try to use it. Tiffany waited until the sound of his boots indicated that the sergeant had decided quite correctly that it might be a good idea to have a plausible distance between the cell and himself that evening, and also perhaps a little think about his future. Besides, the Feegles began to appear from every crevice, and they had a wonderful instinct for not getting spotted. ‘You shouldn’t have pick-pocketed his keys,’ she said as Rob Anybody spat out a piece of straw. ‘Aye? He wants to keep you locked up!’ ‘Well, yes, but he’s a decent person. ’ She knew that sounded stupid, and Rob Anybody must have known that too. ‘Oh aye, sure, a decent person who will lock you up at the bidding of that snotty old carlin?’ he snarled. ‘And what about that big wee strip o’ dribbling in the white dress? I was reckoning we’d have to build guttering in front of her. ’ ‘Was she one o’ them water nymphs?’ said Daft Wullie, but the majority view was that the girl was somehow made of ice and had been melting away. Lower down the steps, a mouse was swimming to safety. Almost without her knowing it, Tiffany’s left hand slid into her pocket and pulled out a piece of string, which was temporarily dropped onto Rob Anybody’s head.

The hand went back into her pocket and came back out with one interesting small key she had picked up by the side of the road three weeks ago, an empty packet that had once contained flower seeds, and a small stone with a hole in it. Tiffany always picked up small stones with holes in them, because they were lucky; she kept them in her pocket until the stone wore through the cloth and fell out, leaving only the hole. That was enough to make an emergency shamble, except that you usually needed something alive, of course. The Toad’s dinner of beetles had entirely disappeared, mostly into the Toad, so she picked him up and tied him gently into the pattern, paying no attention to his threats of legal action. ‘I don’t know why you don’t use one of the Feegles,’ he said. ‘They like this sort of thing!’ ‘Yes, but half the time the shamble ends up pointing me to the nearest pub. Now, just hang on, will you?’ The goats carried on chewing as she moved the shamble this way and that, searching for a clue. Letitia had been sorry, deeply damply sorry. And that last set of spill words was a set of words she wasn’t brave enough to say but not quick enough to stop. They were: ‘I didn’t mean it!’ No one knew how a shamble worked. Everybody knew that it did. Perhaps all it did do was make you think. Maybe what it did do was give your eyes something to look at while you thought, and Tiffany thought: Someone else in this building is magical. The shamble twisted, the Toad complained and the silver thread of a conclusion floated across Tiffany’s Second Sight. She turned her eyes towards the ceiling. The silver thread glittered, and she thought: Someone in this building is using magic. Someone who is very sorry that they did. Was it possible that the permanently pale, permanently damp and irrevocably watercolouring Letitia was actually a witch ? It seemed unthinkable. Well, there was no sense in wondering what was happening when you could simply go and find out for yourself. It was nice to think that the barons of the Chalk had got along with so many people over the years that they’d forgotten how to lock anybody up. The dungeon had become a goat shed, and the difference between a dungeon and a goat shed is that you don’t need a fire in a goat shed, because goats are pretty good at keeping themselves warm. You do need one in a dungeon, however, if you want to keep your prisoners nice and warm, and if you really don’t like your prisoners then you’ll need a fire to get them nasty and warm. Terminally hot. Granny Aching had told Tiffany once that when she was a girl there had been all kinds of horrible metal things in the dungeon, mostly for taking people apart a little bit at a time, but as it turned out there was never a prisoner bad enough to use them on. And, if it came to that, no one in the castle wanted to use any of the things, which often trapped your fingers if you weren’t careful, so they were all sent down to the blacksmith for turning into more sensible things like shovels and knives, except for the Iron Maiden, which had been used as a turnip clamp until the top fell off. And so, because nobody in the castle had ever been very enthusiastic about the dungeon, everybody had forgotten that it had a chimney. And that is why Tiffany looked up and saw, high above her, that little patch of blue which a prisoner calls the sky , but which she, as soon as it was dark enough, intended to call the exit. It turned out to be a little more tricky to use than she had hoped; it was too narrow for her to go up sitting on the stick, so she had to hang onto the bristles and let the broomstick drag her up while she fended herself off the walls with her boots. At least she knew her way around up there. All the kids did. There probably wasn’t a boy growing up in the Chalk who hadn’t scratched his name in the lead on the roof, quite probably alongside the names of his father, grandfathers, great-grandfathers and even great-great-grandfathers, until the names got lost in the scratches. The whole point about a castle is that nobody should get in if you don’t want them to, and so there were no windows until you got nearly to the top, where the best rooms were. Roland had long ago moved into his father’s room – she knew that because she had helped him move his stuff in when the old Baron had finally accepted that he was too sick to manage the stairs any longer. The Duchess would be in the big guestroom, halfway between that room and the Maiden Tower – which really was its name – where Letitia would be sleeping. No one would draw attention to this, but the arrangement meant that the bride’s mother would be sleeping in the room between the groom and the bride, possibly with her ears highly tuned at all times for any sound of hanky or even panky. Tiffany crept quietly through the gloom and stepped neatly into an alcove when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. They belonged to a maid, carrying a jug on a tray, which she very nearly spilled when the door to the Duchess’s room was flung open and the Duchess herself was glaring at her, just to check nothing was going on. When the maid moved on again, Tiffany followed her, silently and, as she had the trick of it, invisibly too. The guard sitting by the door looked up hopefully when the tray arrived, and was told sharply to go downstairs and get his own supper; then the maid stepped into the room, the tray was placed beside the big bed, and the maid left, wondering for a moment whether her eyes had been playing tricks on her. Letitia looked as though she was sleeping under freshly fallen snow, and it rather spoiled the effect when you realized that mostly it was screwed-up tissue paper. Used tissue paper, at that. It was very rare indeed on the Chalk, because it was quite expensive, and if you had any, it was not considered bad manners to dry it out in front of the fire for re-use later on. Tiffany’s father said that when he was a little boy he had to blow his nose on mice, but this was probably said in order to make her squeal. Right now, Letitia blew her nose with an unladylike honking noise and, to Tiffany’s surprise, looked suspiciously around the room. She even said, ‘Hello? Is there anybody there?’ – a question which, considered sensibly, is never going to get you anywhere. Tiffany pulled herself further into a shadow. She could sometimes fool Granny Weatherwax on a good day, and a soppy princess had no business sensing her presence. ‘I can scream, you know,’ said Letitia, looking around. ‘There’s a guard right outside my door!’ ‘Actually, he’s gone down to get his dinner,’ said Tiffany, ‘which frankly I call very unprofessional. He should have waited to be relieved by another guard. Personally, I think your mother is more worried about how her guards look than about how they think. Even young Preston guards better than they do. Sometimes people never know he’s there until he taps them on the shoulder. Did you know that people very seldom start screaming while someone is still talking to them? I don’t know why. I suppose it’s because we are brought up to be polite. And if you think you’re going to do so now, I would like to point out that if I was planning to do anything nasty I would have done so already, don’t you think?’ The pause was rather longer than Tiffany liked. Then Letitia said, ‘You have every right to be angry. You are angry, aren’t you?’ ‘Not at the moment. By the way, aren’t you going to drink your milk before it gets cold?’ ‘Actually, I always tip it down the privy. I know that it’s a wicked waste of good food and that there are a lot of poor children who would love a nightcap of warm milk, but they don’t deserve mine because my mother makes the maids put a medicine in it to help me sleep. ’ ‘Why?’ said Tiffany incredulously. ‘She thinks I need it. I don’t, really. You have no idea what it’s like. It’s like being in prison. ’ ‘Well, I think I know what that’s like now,’ said Tiffany. The girl in the bed started to cry again, and Tiffany hushed her into silence.

‘I didn’t mean it to get that bad,’ said Letitia, blowing her nose like a hunting horn. ‘I just wanted Roland not to like you so much. You can’t imagine what it’s like, being me! The most I’m allowed to do is paint pictures, and only watercolours at that. Not even charcoal sketches!’ ‘I wondered about that,’ said Tiffany absent-mindedly. ‘Roland once used to write to Lord Diver’s daughter, Iodine, and she used to paint watercolours all the time too. I wondered if it was some kind of punishment. ’ But Letitia wasn’t listening. ‘ You don’t have to just sit and paint pictures. You can fly around all the time,’ she was saying. ‘Order people about, do interesting things. Hah, I wanted to be a witch when I was little. But just my luck, I had long blonde hair and a pale complexion and a very rich father. What good was that? Girls like that can’t be witches!’ Tiffany smiled. They were getting to the truth, and it was important to stay helpful and friendly before the dam broke again and they were all flooded. ‘Did you have a book of fairy stories when you were young?’ Letitia blew her nose again. ‘Oh, yes. ’ ‘Was it the one with a very frightening picture of the goblin on page seven by any chance? I used to shut my eyes when I came to that page. ’ ‘I scribbled all over him with a black crayon,’ said Letitia in a low voice, as if it was a relief to tell somebody. ‘You didn’t like me. And so you decided to do some magic against me …’ Tiffany said it very quietly, because there was something brittle about Letitia. In fact the girl did reach for some more tissue but appeared to have run out of sobs for a moment – as it turned out, only for a moment. ‘I am so sorry! If only I had known, I would never have—’ ‘Perhaps I should tell you,’ Tiffany went on, ‘that Roland and I were … well, friends. More or less the only friend the other one had. But in a way, it was the wrong kind of friendship. We didn’t come together; things happened that pushed us together. And we didn’t realize that. He was the Baron’s son, and once you know that you’re the Baron’s son and all the kids have been told how to act towards the Baron’s son, then you don’t have many people you can talk to. And then there was me. I was the girl smart enough to be a witch and I have to say that this is not a job which allows you to have that much of a social life. If you like, two people who were left out thought they were the same kind of person. I know that now. Unfortunately Roland was the first to realize that. And that’s the truth of it. I am the witch, and he is the Baron. And you will be the Baroness, and you should not worry if the witch and the Baron – for the benefit of everybody – are on good terms. And that is all there is to is, and in fact there isn’t even an it, just the ghost of an it. ’ She saw relief travel across Letitia’s face like the rising sun. ‘And that’s the truth from me, miss, so I would like the truth from you. Look, can we get out of here? I’m afraid that some guards might rush in at any moment and try and put me in a place I can’t get out of. ’ Tiffany managed to get Letitia onto the broomstick with her. The girl fidgeted, but simply gasped as the stick sailed down gently from the castle battlements, drifted over the village and touched down in a field. ‘Did you see those bats?’ said Letitia. ‘Oh, they often fly around the stick if you don’t move very fast,’ said Tiffany. ‘You’d think they would avoid it, really. And now, miss, now we’re both far from any help, tell me what you did that made people hate me. ’ Panic filled Letitia’s face. ‘No, I’m not going to hurt you,’ said Tiffany. ‘If I was going to, I would have done it a long time ago. But I want to clean up my life. Tell me what you did. ’ ‘I used the ostrich trick,’ said Letitia promptly. ‘You know, it’s called unsympathetic magic: you make a model of the person and stick them upside down in a bucket of sand. I really am very, very sorry …’ ‘Yes, you already said so,’ said Tiffany, ‘but I’ve never heard of this trick. I can’t see how it could work. It doesn’t make sense. ’ But it worked on me, she thought. This girl isn’t a witch, and whatever she tried wasn’t a real spell, but it worked on me. ‘It doesn’t have to make sense if it’s magic,’ said Letitia hopefully. ‘It has to make some sense somewhere,’ said Tiffany, staring up at the stars that were coming out. ‘Well,’ said Letitia, ‘I got it out of Spells for Lovers by Anathema Bugloss, if that’s any help. ’ ‘That’s the one with the picture of the author sitting on a broomstick, isn’t it?’ said Tiffany. ‘Sitting on it the wrong way round, I might add. And it hasn’t got a safety strap. And no witch I’ve ever met wears goggles. And as for having a cat on it with you, that doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s a made-up name too. I’ve seen the book in the Boffo catalogue. It’s rubbish. It’s for soppy girls who think all you need to do to make magic is buy a very expensive stick with a semiprecious stone glued on the end, no offence meant. You might as well pick a stick out of the hedge and call it a wand. ’ Without saying anything, Letitia walked a little way down to the hedge that lay between the field and the road. There’s always a useful stick under a hedge if you poke around enough. She waved it vaguely in the air, and it left a light blue line after it. ‘Like this?’ she said. For quite a while, there was no sound apart from the occasional hoot of an owl and, for the really good of hearing, the rustling of the bats. ‘I think it’s time we had a proper little chat, don’t you?’ said Tiffany. Chapter 11 THE BONFIRE OF THE WITCHES ‘I TOLD YOU I ALWAYS wanted to be a witch,’ said Letitia. ‘You don’t know how hard that can be when your family lives in a great big mansion and is so old that the coat of arms has even got a few legs on it as well. All that gets in the way and, if you excuse me, I really wish that I had been born with your disadvantages. I only found out about the Boffo catalogue when I heard two of the maids giggling over it when I went into the kitchen one day. They ran away, still giggling, I might add, but they left it behind. I can’t order as much stuff as I would want to, because my maid spies on me and tells Mother. But the cook is a decent sort, so I give her money and the catalogue numbers and they get delivered to her sister in Ham-on-Rye. I can’t order anything very big, though, because the maids are always dusting and cleaning everywhere. I would really like one of the cauldrons that bubble green, but from what you tell me it’s just a joke. ’ Letitia had taken a couple of other sticks from the hedge and stuck them in the ground in front of her. There was a blue glow on the tip of each one. ‘Well, for everybody else it’s a joke,’ Tiffany said, ‘but for you I expect it would produce fried chickens. ’ ‘Do you really think so?’ said Letitia eagerly. ‘I’m not sure I can think at all if I am upside down with my head in a bucket of sand,’ said Tiffany. ‘You know that sounds a bit like wizard magic. This trick … it was in Mistress Bugloss’s book, you say. Look, I’m sorry, but that really is boffo stuff. It’s not real. It’s just for people who think that witchcraft is all about flowers and love potions and dancing around without your drawers on – something I can’t imagine any real witch doing …’ Tiffany hesitated, because she was naturally honest, and went on, ‘Well, maybe Nanny Ogg, when the mood takes her. It’s witchcraft with all the crusts cut off, and real witchcraft is all crusts. But you took one of her silly spells for giggling housemaids and used it on me and it’s worked! Is there a real witch in your family?’ Letitia shook her head and her long blonde hair sparkled even in the moonlight. ‘I’ve never heard of one. My grandfather was an alchemist – not professionally, of course. He was the reason why the hall has no east wing any more. My mother … I can’t imagine her doing magic, can you?’ ‘Her? Absolutely!’ ‘Well, I’ve never seen her do any and she does mean well. She says that all she wants is the best for me.

She lost all her family in a fire, don’t you know. Lost everything,’ said Letitia. Tiffany couldn’t dislike the girl. It would be like disliking a rather baffled puppy, but she couldn’t help saying, ‘And did you mean well? You know, when you made a model of me and put it upside down in a bucket of sand?’ There must have been reservoirs in Letitia. She was never more than a teacup away from a tear. ‘Look,’ Tiffany said, ‘I don’t mind, honestly. Though frankly I wish I believed that it was just a spell! Just take it out again then, and we can forget all about it. Please don’t start crying again, it makes everything so soggy. ’ Letitia sniffed. ‘Oh, it’s just that, well, I didn’t do it here. I left it at home. It’s in the library. ’ The last word in that sentence tinkled in Tiffany’s head. ‘A library? With books?’ Witches were not supposed to be particularly bothered about books, but Tiffany had read every one she could. You never knew what you could get out of a book. ‘It’s a very warm night for the time of year,’ she said, ‘and your place is not too far, is it? You could be back in the tower and in bed in a couple of hours. ’ For the first time since Tiffany had met her, Letitia smiled, genuinely smiled. ‘Can I go on the front this time then?’ she said. Tiffany flew low over the downs. The moon was well on the way to full, and it was a real harvest moon, the copper colour of blood. That was the smoke from the stubble-burning, hanging in the air. How the blue smoke from burning wheat stalks made the moon go red, she didn’t know, and she wasn’t going to fly all that way to find out. And Letitia seemed to be in some kind of personal heaven. She chattered the whole time, which was admittedly better than the sobbing. The girl was only eight days younger than herself. Tiffany knew that, because she had taken great care to find out. But that was just numbers. It didn’t feel like that. In fact she felt old enough to be the girl’s mother. It was strange, but Petulia and Annagramma and the rest of them back in the mountains had all told her the same thing: witches grew old inside. You had to do things that needed doing but which turned your stomach like a spinning wheel. You saw things sometimes that no one should have to see. And, usually alone and often in darkness, you needed to do the things that had to be done. Out in distant villages, when a new mother was giving birth and things had run into serious trouble, you hoped that there was an old local midwife who might at least give you some moral support; but still, when it came down to it and the life-or-death decision had to be made, then it was made by you, because you were the witch. And sometimes it wasn’t a decision between a good thing and a bad thing, but a decision between two bad things: no right choices, just … choices. And now she saw something speeding over the moonlit turf and easily keeping up with the stick. It kept pace for several minutes and then, with a spinning jump, headed back into the moon-light shadows. The hare runs into the fire , Tiffany thought, and I have a feeling that I do too. Keepsake Hall was at the far end of the Chalk, and it was truly the far end of the Chalk because there the chalk gave way to clay and gravel. There was parkland here, and tall trees – forests of them – and fountains in front of the house itself, which stretched the word ‘hall’ to breaking point, since it looked like half a dozen mansions stuck together. There were outbuildings, wings, a large ornamental lake, and a weathervane in the shape of a heron, which Tiffany nearly ran into. ‘How many people live here?’ she managed to say as she steadied the stick and landed on what she had expected to be a lawn but turned out to be dried grass almost five feet deep. Rabbits scattered, alarmed at the aerial intrusion. ‘Just me and Mother now,’ said Letitia, the dead grass crackling under her feet as she jumped down, ‘and the servants, of course. We have quite a lot of them. Don’t worry, they will all be in bed by now. ’ ‘How many servants do you need for two people?’ Tiffany asked. ‘About two hundred and fifty. ’ ‘I don’t believe you. ’ Letitia turned as she led the way to a distant door. ‘Well, including families, there’s about forty on the farm and another twenty in the dairy, and another twenty-four for working in the woodlands, and seventy-five for the gardens, which include the banana house, the pineapple pit, the melon house, the water-lily house and the trout fishery. The rest work in the house and the pension rooms. ’ ‘What are they?’ Letitia stopped with her hand on the corroded brass doorknob. ‘You think my mother is a very rude and bossy person, don’t you?’ Tiffany couldn’t see any alternative to telling the truth, even at the risk of midnight tears. She said, ‘Yes, I do. ’ ‘And you are right,’ said Letitia, turning the doorknob. ‘But she is loyal to people who are loyal to us. We always have been. No one is ever sacked for being too old or too ill or too confused. If they can’t manage in their cottages, they live in one of the wings. In fact, most of the servants are looking after the old servants! We may be oldfashioned and a bit snobbish and behind the times, but no one who works for the Keepsakes will ever need to beg for their food at the end of their life. ’ At last the cranky doorknob turned, opening into a long corridor that smelled of … that smelled of … that smelled of old. That was the only way to describe it, but if you had enough time to think, you would say it was a mix of dry fungi, damp wood, dust, mice, dead time and old books, which have an intriguing smell of their own. That was it, Tiffany decided. Days and hours had died quietly in here while nobody noticed. Letitia fumbled on a shelf inside the door, and lit a lamp. ‘No one ever comes in here these days except me,’ she said, ‘because it’s haunted. ’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, trying to keep her voice matter-of-fact. ‘By a headless lady with a pumpkin under her arm. She is walking towards us right now. ’ Had she expected shock? Or tears? Tiffany certainly hadn’t expected Letitia to say, ‘That would be Mavis. I shall have to change her pumpkin as soon as the new ones are ripe. They start to get all, well, manky after a while. ’ She raised her voice. ‘It’s only me, Mavis, nothing to be frightened of!’ With a sound like a sigh, the headless woman turned and began to walk back up the corridor. ‘The pumpkin was my idea,’ Letitia continued chattily. ‘She was just impossible to deal with before that. Looking for her head, you know? The pumpkin gives her some comfort, and frankly I don’t think she knows the difference, poor soul. She wasn’t executed, by the way. I think she wants everybody to know that. It was simply a freak accident involving a flight of stairs, a cat and a scythe. ’ And this is the girl who spends all her time in tears, thought Tiffany. But this is her place. Aloud, she said, ‘Any more ghosts to show me, just in case I want to wet myself again?’ ‘Well, not now,’ said Letitia, setting off along the corridor. ‘The screaming skeleton stopped screaming when I gave him an old teddy bear, although I’m not certain why that worked and, oh yes, the ghost of the first duke now sticks to haunting the lavatory next to the dining room, which we don’t use very often. He has a habit of pulling the chain at inconvenient moments, but that’s better than the rains of blood we used to have. ’ ‘You are a witch. ’ The words came out of Tiffany’s mouth all by themselves, unable to stay in the privacy of her mind. The girl looked at her in astonishment. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘We both know how it goes, don’t we? Long blonde hair, milk-white skin, noble – well, a reasonably noble birth – and rich, at least technically. I’m officially a lady. ’ ‘You know,’ said Tiffany, ‘maybe it’s wrong to base one’s future on a book of fairy stories. Normally, girls of the princess persuasion don’t help out distressed headless ghosts by giving them a pumpkin to carry.

As for stopping the screaming skeleton screaming by giving it a teddy bear, I have to say I am impressed. That is what Granny Weatherwax calls headology. Most of the craft is headology, when you get right down to it: headology and boffo. ’ Letitia looked flustered and gratified at the same time, making her face blotch white and pink. It was, Tiffany had to agree, the kind of face that peered out of tower windows, waiting for a knight with nothing better to do with his time than save its owner from dragons, monsters and, if all else failed, boredom. ‘You don’t have to do anything about it,’ Tiffany added. ‘The pointy hat is optional. But if Miss Tick was here, she would definitely suggest a career. It is not good to be a witch alone. ’ They had reached the end of the corridor. Letitia turned another creaky doorknob, which complained as the door opened, and so did the door. ‘I’ve certainly found that out,’ said Letitia. ‘And Miss Tick is … ?’ ‘She travels around the country finding girls who have the talent for the craft,’ said Tiffany. ‘They say that you don’t find witchcraft, it finds you, and generally it’s Miss Tick who taps you on the shoulder. She’s a witchfinder, but I don’t suppose she goes into many big houses. They make witches nervous. Oh my!’ And this was because Letitia had lit an oil lamp. The room was full of bookcases, and the books on them gleamed. These weren’t cheap modern books; these were books bound in leather, and not just leather, but leather from clever cows who had given their lives for literature after a happy existence in the very best pastures. The books gleamed as Letitia moved around the large room lighting other lamps. She hauled them up towards the ceiling on their long chains, which swung gently as she pulled so that the shine from the books mixed with the gleam from the brasswork until the room seemed to be full of rich, ripe gold. Letitia was clearly pleased by the way Tiffany stood and stared. ‘My great-grandfather was a huge collector,’ she said. ‘Do you see all the polished brass? That’s not for show, that’s for the point-three-0-three bookworm, which can move so fast that it can bore a hole all the way through an entire shelf of books in a fraction of a second. Hah, but not when they run into solid brass at the speed of sound! The library used to be bigger, but my uncle Charlie ran away with all the books on … I think it was called erotica? I’m not sure, but I can’t find it on any map. I may be the only one who comes in here now, anyway. Mother thinks that reading makes people restless. Pardon me, but why are you sniffing? I hope another mouse hasn’t died in here. ’ There is something very wrong about this place, thought Tiffany. Something … strained … straining. Maybe it’s all the knowledge in the books, just bursting to get out. She had heard talk of the library at Unseen University – of the soulful books all pressed together in space and time so that at night, it was said, they spoke to one another and a kind of lightning flashed from book to book. Too many books in one place, who knew what they could do? Miss Tick had told her one day: ‘Knowledge is power, power is energy, energy is matter, matter is mass, and mass changes time and space. ’ But Letitia looked so happy among the shelves and desks that Tiffany hadn’t got the heart to object. The girl beckoned her over. ‘And this is where I do my little bits of magic,’ she said, as if she was telling Tiffany this was where she played with her dollies. Tiffany was sweating now; all the little hairs on her skin were trembling, a signal to herself that she should turn and run, but Letitia was chattering away, quite oblivious to the fact that Tiffany was trying not to throw up. His stink was terrible. It rose in the cheery library like a long-dead whale rising again to the surface, full of gas and corruption. Tiffany looked around desperately for something to take her mind off that image. Mrs Proust and Derek had certainly benefited from Letitia Keepsake. She had bought the whole range, warts and all. ‘But I only use warts at the moment. I think they have the right feel , without going overboard, don’t you?’ she was saying. ‘I’ve never bothered with them,’ said Tiffany weakly. Letitia sniffed. ‘Oh dear, I am so sorry about the smell; it’s the mice, I think. They eat the glue out of the books, although I’d say that they must have found a particularly unpleasant book. ’ The library was really beginning to upset Tiffany. It was like, well, waking up and finding a family of tigers had wandered in during the night and were fast asleep on the end of the bed: everything was peaceful at the moment, but at any minute now, somebody was going to lose an arm. There was the Boffo stuff, which was sort of witchcraft-for-show. It impressed people, and maybe helped a novice get into the mood, but surely Mrs Proust wasn’t sending out stuff that actually worked , was she? There was a clank of a bucket handle behind her as Letitia came round a bookcase, holding the bucket in both hands. Sand tipped out of it as she dropped it on the floor and she scrabbled in it for a moment. ‘Ah, there you are,’ she said, pulling out something that looked like a carrot which had been chewed by a mouse that wasn’t really very hungry. ‘Is that supposed to be me?’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at woodcarving,’ said Letitia, ‘but the book says it’s what you’re thinking that counts?’ It was a nervous statement with a wiry little question clinging to the end of it, waiting to burst into tears. ‘Sorry,’ said Tiffany. ‘The book has got that wrong. It’s not as nice as that. It’s what you do that counts. If you want to put a hex on someone, you need something that has belonged to them – hair, a tooth maybe? And you shouldn’t mess about with it, because it’s not nice and it’s very easy to get wrong. ’ She looked closely at the very badly carved witch. ‘And I see you’ve written the word “witch” on it in pencil. Er … you know I said it’s easy to get it wrong? Well, there are times when “getting it wrong” just doesn’t cover messing up somebody else’s life. ’ Her lower lip trembling, Letitia nodded. The pressure on Tiffany’s head was getting worse and the horrible stench was now so powerful that it felt like a physical thing. She tried to concentrate on the little pile of books on the library table. They were sad little volumes, of the sort that Nanny Ogg, who could be uncharacteristically scathing when she felt like it, called ‘Tiddly Twinkle-Poo’ for girls who played at being witches for fun. But at least Letitia had been thorough; there were a couple of notebooks on the lectern which dominated the table. Tiffany turned to say something to the girl, but somehow her head did not want to stay turned. Her Second Sight was dragging it back. And her hand rose slowly, almost automatically, and moved aside the little pile of silly books. What she had thought was the top of the lectern was in fact a much larger book, so thick and dark it seemed to merge with the wood itself. Dread trickled into her brain like black syrup, telling her to run and … No, that was all. Just run, and go on running, and not stop. Ever. She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Do you know anything about this book?’ Letitia looked over her shoulder. ‘It’s very ancient. I don’t even recognize the writing. Wonderful binding, though, and the funny thing is, it’s always slightly warm. ’ Here and now, thought Tiffany, it’s facing me here and now. Eskarina said that there was a book of his. Could this possibly be a copy? But a book can’t hurt, can it? Except that books contain ideas, and ideas can be dangerous. At this point, the book on the lectern opened itself with a leathery creak and a little flap noise as the cover turned over. The pages rustled like a lot of pigeons taking flight, and then there it was, one page filling the midnight room with brilliant, eye-watering sun-light.

And in that sunlight, running towards her, across the scorching desert, was a figure in black … Automatically, Tiffany slammed the book shut and held it shut in both hands, clutching it like a schoolgirl. He saw me, she thought. I know he did. The book jumped in her arms as something heavy hit it, and she could hear … words, words she was glad she couldn’t understand. Another blow struck the book, and the cover bulged, nearly knocking her over. When the next thump came, she fell forward, landing with the cover under her and all her weight on the book. Fire, she thought. He hates fire! But I don’t think I could carry this very far and, well, you don’t set fire to libraries, you just don’t. And besides, this whole place is as dry as a bone. ‘Is something trying to get out of the book?’ said Letitia. Tiffany looked up at her pink and white face. ‘Yes,’ she managed, and slammed the book down on the table as it jumped again in her arms. ‘It’s not going to be like that goblin in the fairytale book, is it? I was always so scared that it would squeeze itself out between the pages. ’ The book sprang up into the air and slammed back down again on the table, knocking the wind out of Tiffany. She managed to grunt, ‘I think this is a lot worse than the goblin!’ Which was our goblin, she remembered inconveniently. They had the same book, after all. It wasn’t a good book in many respects, but then you grow up and it’s just a silly picture, but part of you never forgets. It seemed to be something that happened to everybody. When she had mentioned to Petulia about being frightened by a picture in a book, the girl confessed that she had been hugely frightened by a happy-looking skeleton in a picture book when she was young. And it turned out all the other girls remembered something like that too. It was as if it was a fact of life. A book would start out by scaring you. ‘I think I know what to do,’ said Letitia. ‘Can you keep it occupied for a while? I won’t be a moment. ’ And with that she disappeared from view, and after a few seconds Tiffany, still straining to keep the book closed, heard a squeaking noise. She did not take much notice, because her arms, clinging tightly to the bouncing book, felt redhot. Then, behind her, Letitia said quietly, ‘Look, I’m going to guide you to the book press. When I say so, push the book in and get your hands out of the way really, really quickly. It is quite important that you do it quickly!’ Tiffany felt the girl help her turn, and together they edged along to something metallic waiting in the gloom, while all the time the book rocked with anger and thumped on her chest; it was like holding an elephant’s heart while it was still beating. She hardly heard Letitia’s voice above the pounding as she shouted, ‘Put the book down on the metal plate, push it a little way forward and get your fingers out of the way – right now !’ Something spun. In one pants-wetting moment Tiffany saw a hand thrust its way through the book’s cover before a metal plate slammed down on it, clipping the ends of Tiffany’s fingernails. ‘Help me with this bar, will you? Let’s tighten it down as far as we can. ’ That was from Letitia, who was leaning on … what? ‘It’s the old book press,’ she said. ‘My grandfather used to use it all the time when he was tidying up old books that got damaged. It helps when you have to glue a page back in, for example. We hardly use it except at Hogswatch. Very good for the precision cracking of walnuts, you see? Just wind the handle until you hear them start to crack. They look like tiny little human brains. ’ Tiffany risked a look at the press, the top and bottom plates of which were now pressed tightly together, to see if any human brains were dripping down the outside. They weren’t, but it didn’t help very much at this point, as a small human skeleton walked out of the wall, through the library shelves as though they were smoke, and disappeared. It had been holding a teddy bear. It was one of those things that the brain files under ‘something I would rather not have seen’. ‘Was that some kind of ghost?’ said Letitia. ‘Not the skeleton – I told you about him, didn’t I? Poor little thing. I mean, the other one. The one in the book …’ ‘He is, well, I suppose you could say that he is something like a disease, and also something like a nightmare that turns out to be standing in your bedroom when you wake up. And I think you may have called him. Summoned him, if you like. ’ ‘I don’t like either of those! All I did was a simple little spell out of a book that cost one dollar! All right, I know I must’ve been a silly girl, but I didn’t mean anything like … that!’ She pointed to the press, which was still creaking. ‘Stupid woman,’ said Tiffany. Letitia blinked. ‘ What did you say?’ ‘Stupid woman! Or silly woman, if you prefer. You’re going to get married in a few days, remember? And you tried to do a spell on somebody out of jealousy. Did you see the title of that book? I did. It was right in front of me! It was The Bonfire of the Witches! It was dictated by an Omnian priest who was so mad that he wouldn’t have been able to see sanity with a telescope. And you know what? Books live. The pages remember! Have you heard about the library at the Unseen University? They have books in there that have to be chained down, or kept in darkness or even under water! And you, miss, played at magic a matter of inches away from a book that boils with evil, vindictive magic. No wonder you got a result! I woke him up and ever since then he’s been searching, hunting me. And you – with your little spell – have shown him where I was! You helped him! He’s come back, and he’s found me now! The witch-burner. And he is infectious, just as I told you, a kind of disease. ’ She paused for breath, which came, and the torrent of tears, which didn’t. Letitia just stood there as if she was thinking deeply. Then she said, ‘I suppose that “sorry” isn’t enough, right?’ ‘As a matter of fact, it would be rather a good start,’ said Tiffany, but she thought: This young woman, who has never realized it’s time to stop wearing girly dresses, gave a headless ghost a pumpkin to carry under its arm so that it would feel better and presented a screaming little skeleton with a teddy bear. Would I have thought to do that? It’s absolutely something that a witch would do. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you have definitely got some magical talent, I really mean it. But you’ll get into a terrible amount of trouble if you start mucking about when you don’t know what you are doing. Although giving the teddy bear to the poor little skeleton was a stroke of genius. Build on that thought and get some training, and you might have quite a magical future. You will have to go and spend some time with an old witch, just like I did. ’ ‘Well, that’s wonderful, Tiffany,’ Letitia said. ‘But I have to go and spend some time getting married! Shall we get back now? And what do you suggest we do with the book? I don’t like the idea of him being in there. Supposing he gets out!’ ‘He is out, already. But the book is … well, a kind of window that makes it easy for him to come through. To reach me. You get that sort of thing occasionally. It’s a sort of way into another world, or perhaps somewhere else in this world. ’ Tiffany had felt rather lofty when she explained this, and so was somewhat chastened when Letitia said, ‘Oh yes, the bluebell wood with the cottage that sometimes has smoke coming out of the chimney and sometimes does not; and the girl feeding the ducks on the pond, where the pigeons on the house behind her are sometimes flying and sometimes perched. They are mentioned in H. J. Toadbinder’s book Floating Worlds. Would you like it? I know where it is. ’ And before Tiffany could say a word, the girl hurried off among the bookshelves. She came back within a minute, much to Tiffany’s relief, and she was carrying a large, shiny leather volume which was suddenly dropped into Tiffany’s hands. ‘It’s a present. You’ve been kinder to me than I was to you.

’ ‘You can’t give me that! It’s part of the library! It’ll leave a gap!’ ‘No, I insist,’ said Letitia. ‘I’m the only one who comes in here now, in any case. My mother keeps all the books of family history, genealogy and heraldry in her own room, and she’s the only one who is interested in them. Apart from me, the only other person who ever comes in here these days is Mr Tyler, and I think I hear him now, making his last round of the night. Well,’ she added, ‘he’s very old and very slow and it takes him about a week to go about his night watching, bearing in mind he sleeps through the day. Let’s go. He’ll have a heart attack if he actually finds anybody. ’ There was indeed a creaking sound of a distant doorknob. Letitia lowered her voice. ‘Do you mind if we sneak out the other way? He might have a nasty turn if he actually discovers anybody. ’ A light was coming down the long corridor, although you needed to watch it for quite some time to see that it was moving. Letitia opened the door to the outer world and they hurried onto what would have been the lawn if anyone had mown it in the past ten years. Tiffany got the impression that lawn mowing here went at the same decrepit speed as Mr Tyler. There was dew on the grass, and a certain sense that daylight was a distinct possibility sometime in the future. As soon as they reached the broomstick, Letitia made yet another muttered apology and hurried back into the sleeping house via another door, coming out again five minutes later carrying a large bag. ‘My mourning clothes,’ she said as the broomstick rose into the soft air. ‘It will be the old Baron’s funeral tomorrow, the poor man. My mother always travels with her funeral clothes. She says you never know when someone is going to drop down dead. ’ ‘That is a very interesting point of view, Letitia, but when you get back to the castle I would like you to tell Roland what you did, please. I don’t care about anything else, but please tell him about the spell you did. ’ Tiffany waited. Letitia was sitting behind her and, right now, silent. Very silent. So much silence that you could hear it. Tiffany spent the time looking at the landscape as it wound past. Here and there smoke rose from kitchen fires, even though the sun was still below the horizon. Generally speaking, women in the villages raced to be the first to show smoke; it proved you were a busy housewife. She sighed. The thing about the broomstick was that when you rode it you looked down on people. You couldn’t help it, however much you tried. Human beings seemed to be nothing but a lot of scurrying dots. And when you started thinking like that, it was time you found the company of some other witches, to get your head straight. You shall not be a witch alone , the saying went. It wasn’t so much advice as a demand. Behind her, Letitia said, in a voice that sounded as though she had weighed out every word very carefully before deciding to speak, ‘Why aren’t you angrier with me?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You know! After what I did! You are just being dreadfully … nice!’ Tiffany was glad the girl couldn’t see her face and for that matter, she couldn’t see hers. ‘Witches don’t often get angry. All that shouting business never really gets anybody anywhere. ’ After another pause Letitia said, ‘If that is true, then maybe I’m not cut out to be a witch. I feel very angry sometimes. ’ ‘Oh, I feel very angry a lot of the time,’ said Tiffany, ‘but I just put it away somewhere until I can do something useful with it. That’s the thing about witchcraft – and wizardry, come to that. We don’t do much magic at the best of times, and when we do, we generally do it on ourselves. Now, look, the castle’s right ahead. I’ll drop you off on the roof, and frankly I’m looking forward to seeing how comfortable the straw is going to be. ’ ‘Look, I really am very, very—’ ‘I know. You said. There’s no hard feelings, but you have to clear up your own mess. That’s another part of witchcraft, that is. ’ And she added to herself: And don’t I know it! Chapter 12 THE SIN O’ SINS T HE STRAW TURNED out to be comfortable enough; little cottages usually do not have spare rooms, so a witch there on business, such as the birthing of a child, was lucky to get a bed in the cowshed. Very lucky, in fact. It often smelled better, and Tiffany wasn’t alone in thinking that the breath of a cow, warm and smelling of grass, was a kind of medicine in itself. The goats in the dungeon were nearly as good, though. They sat placidly chewing their supper over and over again, while never taking their solemn gaze off her, as if they expected her to start juggling or doing some kind of song-and-dance act. Her last thought before falling asleep was that somebody must have given them the feed, and must therefore have noticed that the dungeon was minus one prisoner. In that case, she was in more trouble, but it was hard to see how much more trouble she could be in. Possibly not that much, it seemed, because when she woke again, just an hour or so later, somebody had put a cover over her while she was asleep. What was happening? She found out when Preston appeared with a tray of eggs and bacon, the eggs and bacon being slightly coffee-flavoured on account of slopping on their way down the long stone staircase. ‘His lordship says it is with his compliments and apologies,’ said Preston, grinning, ‘and I’m to tell you that if you would like it, he could arrange for a hot bath to be waiting for you in the black-and-white chamber. And when you’re ready, the Baron … the new Baron would like to see you in his study. ’ The idea of a bath sounded wonderful, but Tiffany knew that there just wouldn’t be any time, and besides, even a halfway useful bath meant that some poor girls had to drag a load of heavy buckets up four or five flights of stone stairs. She would have to make do with a quick swill out of a wash basin when the opportunity arose 26. But she was certainly ready for the bacon and eggs. She made a mental note, as she wiped the plate, that if this was going to be a ‘be nice to Tiffany day’, she might try for another helping later on. Witches liked to make the most of gratitude while it was still warm. People tended to become a little bit forgetful after a day or so. Preston watched with the expression of a boy who had eaten salt porridge for breakfast, and when she had finished said, carefully, ‘And now will you go and see the Baron?’ He is concerned for me, Tiffany thought. ‘First, I’d like to go and see the old Baron,’ she said. ‘He’s still dead,’ Preston volunteered, looking worried. ‘Well, that’s some comfort anyway,’ said Tiffany. ‘Imagine the embarrassment otherwise. ’ She smiled at Preston’s puzzlement. ‘And his funeral is tomorrow and that’s why I should see him today, Preston, and right now. Please? Right now, he is more important than his son. ’ Tiffany felt people’s eyes on her as she strode towards the crypt with Preston almost running to keep up and clattering down the long steps after her. She felt a bit sorry for him, because he had always been kind and respectful, but no one was to think that she was being led anywhere by a guard. There had been enough of that. The looks that people gave her seemed rather more frightened than angry, and she didn’t know if this was a good sign or not. At the bottom of the steps she took a deep breath. There was just the usual smell of the crypt, chilly with a hint of potatoes. She smiled a little smile of self-congratulation. And there was the Baron, lying peacefully just as she had left him, with his hands crossed on his chest, looking for all the world as though he was sleeping. ‘They thought I was doing witchcraft down here, didn’t they, Preston?’ she said. ‘There was some gossip, yes, miss. ’ ‘Well, I was. Your granny taught you about the care of the dead, right? So you know it’s not right for the dead to be too long in the land of the living. The weather is warm, and the summer has been hot, and the stones that could be as chilly as the grave are not as chilly as all that.

So, Preston, go and get me two pails of water, please. ’ She sat quietly by the side of the slab as he scurried away. Earth and salt and two coins for the ferryman, those were the things that you gave to the dead, and you watched and listened like the mother of a newborn baby … Preston came back, carrying two large pails with – she was pleased to see – only a limited amount of slopping. He put them down quickly and turned to go. ‘No, stay here, Preston,’ she commanded. ‘I want you to see what I do, so that if anyone asks, you can tell them the truth. ’ The guard nodded mutely. She was impressed. She placed one of the buckets beside the slab and knelt down by it, put one hand in the chilly bucket, pressed the other hand against the stone of the slab and whispered to herself, ‘Balance is everything. ’ Anger helped. It was amazing how useful it could be, if you saved it up until it could do some good, just as she had told Letitia. She heard the young guard gasp as the water in the bucket began to steam, and then to bubble. He jumped to his feet. ‘I understand, miss! I’ll take the boiling bucket away and bring you another cold one, yes?’ Three buckets of boiling water had been tipped away by the time the air in the crypt once again had the chill of the midwinter. Tiffany walked up the steps with her teeth very nearly chattering. ‘My granny would have loved to be able to do something like that,’ Preston whispered. ‘She always said the dead don’t like the heat. You put cold into the stone, right?’ ‘Actually, I moved heat out of the slab and the air and put it in the bucket of water,’ said Tiffany. ‘It’s not exactly magic. It’s just a … a skill. You just have to be a witch to do it, that’s all. ’ Preston sighed. ‘I cured my granny’s chickens of fowl crop. I had to cut them open to clean up the mess, and then I sewed them up again. Not one of them died. And then when my mum’s dog got run over by a wagon, I cleaned him up, pushed all the bits back and he ended up right as rain except for the leg I couldn’t save, but I carved him a wooden one, with a leather harness and everything, and he still chases wagons!’ Tiffany tried not to look doubtful. ‘Cutting into chickens to cure fowl crop hardly ever works,’ she said. ‘I know a pig witch who treats chickens when necessary, and she said it never worked for her. ’ ‘Ah, but maybe she didn’t have the knowin’ of twister root,’ said Preston cheerfully. ‘If you mix the juice with a little pennyroyal, they heal really well. My granny had the knowing of the roots and she passed it on to me. ’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘if you can sew up a chicken’s gizzard then you could mend a broken heart. Listen, Preston, why don’t you get yourself apprenticed to be a doctor?’ They had reached the door to the Baron’s study. Preston knocked on it and then opened it for Tiffany. ‘It’s them letters you get to put after your name,’ he whispered. ‘They are very expensive letters! It might not cost money to become a witch, miss, but when you need them letters, oh, don’t you need that money!’ Roland was standing facing the door when Tiffany stepped in, and his mouth was full of spill words, tumbling over themselves not to be said. He did manage to say, ‘Er, Miss Aching … I mean, Tiffany, my fiancée assures me that we are all the victim of a magical plot aimed at your good self. I do hope you will forgive any misunderstanding on our part, and I trust that we have not inconvenienced you too much, and may I add that I take some heart from the fact that you were clearly able to escape from our little dungeon. Er …’ Tiffany wanted to shout, ‘Roland, do you remember that we first met when I was four years old and you were seven, running around in the dust with only our vests on? I liked you better when you didn’t talk like some old lawyer with a broomstick stuck up his bum. You sound as if you are addressing a public meeting. ’ But instead, she said, ‘Did Letitia tell you everything?’ Roland looked sheepish. ‘I rather suspect that she did not, Tiffany, but she was very forthright. I may go so far as to say that she was emphatic. ’ Tiffany tried not to smile. He looked like a man who was beginning to understand some of the facts of married life. He cleared his throat. ‘She tells me that we have been a victim of some kind of magical disease, which is currently trapped inside a book in Keepsake Hall?’ It certainly sounded like a question, and she wasn’t surprised he was puzzled. ‘Yes, that’s true. ’ ‘And … apparently, everything is all right now she has taken your head out of a bucket of sand. ’ He looked truly lost at this point, and Tiffany didn’t blame him. ‘I think things may have got a bit garbled,’ she said diplomatically. ‘And she tells me she is going to be a witch. ’ He looked a little miserable at this point. Tiffany felt sorry for him, but not very much. ‘Well, I think she’s got the basic talent. It’s up to her how much further she wants to take it. ’ ‘I don’t know what her mother will say. ’ Tiffany burst out laughing. ‘Well, you can tell the Duchess that Queen Magrat of Lancre is a witch. It’s no secret. Obviously the queening has to come first, but she is one of the best there is when it comes to potions. ’ ‘ Really? ‘ said Roland. ‘The King and Queen of Lancre have graciously accepted an invitation to our wedding. ’ And Tiffany was sure she could see his mind working. In this strange chess game that was nobility, a real live queen beat just about everybody, which meant that the Duchess would have to curtsy until her knees clicked. She saw the spill words: That would of course be very unfortunate. Amazingly, Roland could be careful even with his spill words. However, he couldn’t stop the little grin. ‘Your father gave me fifteen Ankh-Morpork dollars in real gold. It was a gift. Do you believe me?’ He saw the look in her eye, and said, ‘Yes!’ immediately. ‘Good,’ said Tiffany. ‘Then find out where the nurse went. ’ Some small part of broomstick might still have been in Roland’s bum when he said, ‘Do you think my father understood the full worth of what he was giving you?’ ‘His mind was as clear as water up until the end, you know that. You can trust him, just as you can trust me, and you can trust me now when I say to you that I will marry you. ’ Her hand clamped itself over her mouth just too late. Where had that come from? And he looked as shocked as she felt. He spoke first, loudly and firmly to drive away the silence. ‘I didn’t quite hear what you just said, Tiffany … I expect all your hard work in recent days has overwhelmed your sensibilities in some way. I think we would all be a lot happier if we knew that you are having a good rest. I … love Letitia, you know. She is not very, well, complicated, but I would do anything for her. When she is happy, that makes me happy. And generally speaking, I am not very good at happy. ’ She saw a tear trickle down his face and, unable to stop herself, handed him a reasonably clean handkerchief. He took it and tried to blow his nose, laugh and cry all at the same time. ‘And you, Tiffany, I am very fond of, really fond of … but it’s as if you have a handkerchief for the whole world. You are smart. No, don’t shake your head. You are smart. I remember once, when we were younger, you were fascinated by the word “onomatopoeia”. Like making a name or a word from a sound, like cuckoo or hum or … ?’ ‘Jangle?’ said Tiffany, before she could stop herself. ‘That’s right, and I remember that you said “humdrum” was the sound that boredom made, because it sounded like a very tired fly buzzing at the closed window of an old attic room on a boiling hot summer’s day. And I thought, I couldn’t understand that! It makes no sense to me, and I know you are clever and it makes sense to you. I think you need a special kind of head to think like that. And a special kind of clever. And I haven’t got that kind of head. ’ ‘What sound does kindness make?’ said Tiffany. ‘I know what kindness is , but I can’t imagine it making a noise.

There you go again! I just don’t have the head that lives in a world where kindness has its own sound. I have a head that lives in a world where two and two makes four. It must be very interesting, and I envy you like hell. But I think I understand Letitia. Letitia is uncomplicated, if you see what I mean. ’ A girl who once exorcized a noisy ghost from the privy as if it was just another chore, Tiffany thought. Well, good luck with that one, sir. But she didn’t say it out loud. Instead, she said, ‘I think you have made a very wise match, Roland. ’ To her surprise, he looked relieved, and went behind his desk again as a soldier might hide behind the battlements. ‘This afternoon, some of the more distant guests will be arriving here for the funeral tomorrow, and indeed some will be staying on for the wedding. Fortuitously’ – that was another little piece of broom handle – ‘Pastor Egg is passing through on the circuit, and has kindly agreed to say a few good words over my father, and he will remain with us as our guest to officiate at the wedding. He is a member of a modern Omnian sect. My future mother-in-law approves of the Omnians but, regrettably, not of this sect, so that is all a little strained. ’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Moreover, I understand he is fresh from the city, and as you know, city preachers don’t always do well here. 27 ‘I would deem it a great favour, Tiffany, if you can help in any way to prevent any little difficulties and disturbances, especially those of an occult nature, in the trying days to come. Please? There are enough stories already going about. ’ Tiffany was still blushing after her outburst. She nodded and managed to say, ‘Look, about what I just said back then, I didn’t—’ She stopped, because Roland had raised a hand. ‘This is a bewildering time for all of us. There’s a reason for all the superstitions. The time around weddings and funerals is fraught with stress for all concerned, except in the case of the funeral, for the chief, as it were, player,’ he said. ‘Let us just be calm and careful. I’m very pleased that Letitia likes you. I don’t think she has many friends. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more arrangements to supervise. ’ * * * Tiffany’s own voice still bounced around in her head as she walked out of the room. Why had she said that about marrying? She’d always thought it was going to be true. Well, when she was a bit younger she had thought it was going to be true, but all that was past, wasn’t it? Yes, it was! And to come out with something as wet and stupid as that was so embarrassing. And where was she going now? Well, there were plenty of things to do, there always were. There was no end to the wanting. She was halfway across the hall when one of the maids approached her nervously and told her that Miss Letitia wanted to see her in her room. The girl was sitting on her bed, twisting a handkerchief – a clean one, Tiffany was pleased to see – and looking worried, which was to say more worried than her usual expression, which was that of a hamster that had had its treadmill stopped. ‘So kind of you to come, Tiffany. Can I have a private word?’ Tiffany looked around. There was no one else there. ‘ Privately ,’ said Letitia, and gave the handkerchief another twist. Hasn’t got many friends of her own age, Tiffany thought. I bet she wasn’t allowed to play with the village children. Doesn’t get out much. Getting married in a couple of days. Oh dear. It wasn’t a very difficult conclusion to reach. A tortoise with a bad leg could have jumped to it. And then there was Roland. Kidnapped by the Queen of the Elves, held in her nasty country for ages without growing older, bullied by his aunts, worried sick about his elderly father, finds it necessary to act as if he is twenty years older than he really is. Oh dear. ‘How can I help you?’ she said brightly. Letitia cleared her throat. ‘After the wedding we will have a honeymoon,’ she said, her face shading to a delicate pink. ‘What exactly is supposed to happen?’ The last few words were mumbled quickly, Tiffany noticed. ‘Do you have any … aunts?’ she asked. Aunts were generally good at this sort of thing. Letitia shook her head. ‘Have you tried talking about it with your mother?’ Tiffany tried, and Letitia turned on her a face that was as red as a boiled lobster. ‘Would you talk about this sort of thing with my mother?’ ‘I can see the problem. Well, broadly speaking, and I don’t speak exactly as an expert here …’ But she was. 28 A witch couldn’t help being some kind of expert as to the ways people came and entered the world; by the time she was twelve the older witches had trusted her to go out to a birth by herself. Besides, she had helped lambs to be born, even when she was quite small. It came naturally, as Nanny Ogg said, although not as naturally as you might think. She remembered Mr and Mrs Hamper, quite a decent couple who had three children in a row before they worked out what was causing it. Ever since then she had tried to have a chat with the village girls of a certain age, just to be on the safe side. Letitia listened like someone who was going to make notes afterwards, and possibly get tested on Friday. She didn’t ask any questions until about halfway through, when she said, ‘Are you sure ?’ ‘Yes. I’m pretty certain,’ said Tiffany. ‘Well, er, it sounds reasonably straightforward. Of course, I suppose boys know all about this sort of thing … Why are you laughing?’ ‘It’s a matter of opinion,’ said Tiffany. Oh, now I see you. I see you, you filth, you plague, you noxious abomination! Tiffany looked at Letitia’s mirror, which was big and had around it lots of fat, golden cherubs who were clearly catching their death of cold. There was Letitia’s reflection, and there was – faint but visible – the eyeless face of the Cunning Man. The outline of the Cunning Man began to thicken. Tiffany knew that nothing in her face had changed. She knew it. I won’t answer him, she thought. I had almost forgotten all about him. Don’t answer. Don’t let him get a hold on you! She managed to smile while Letitia hauled out from cases and chests what she called her trousseau which, in Tiffany’s opinion, contained the world’s entire supply of frilliness. She tried to focus on it, to let frilliness fill her mind and somehow chase away the words that came pouring from him. The ones she understood were bad enough; the ones that she didn’t were worse. Despite everything, the creaking, choking voice got through again: You think you have been lucky, witch. You hope you will be lucky again. You need to sleep. I never sleep. You have to be lucky time after time. I have to be lucky just once. Just once, and you will … burn. That last word was soft, almost gentle, after the creaking, coughing, scraping words that came before. It sounded worse. ‘You know,’ said Letitia, looking thoughtfully at a garment that Tiffany knew she could never afford. ‘While I am truly looking forward to being the mistress of this castle, I must say that the drainage system here smells dreadful. In fact, it smells like it has never been cleaned since the world began. Honestly, I could believe that prehistoric monsters have done their business in it. ’ So she can smell him, Tiffany thought. She is a witch. A witch who needs training because without it she’s going to be a menace to everybody, not least herself. Letitia was still prattling on – there was no other word for it. Tiffany, still trying to defeat the voice of the Cunning Man by sheer will, said aloud, ‘Why?’ ‘Oh, because I think the bows look a lot more fetching than buttons,’ said Letitia, who was holding up a nightdress of considerable splendour, another reminder to Tiffany that witches never really had any money. You burned before and so did I! croaked the voice in her head, but this time you will not take me! I will take you and your confederacy of evil!!!!! Tiffany thought she could actually see the exclamation marks. They shouted for him, even when he spoke softly. They jumped and slashed at his words.

She could see his contorted face and the little flecks of foam that accompanied the finger-waving and shouting – gobs of liquid madness flying through the air behind the mirror. How lucky for Letitia that she couldn’t hear him yet, but her mind was currently full of frills, bells, rice and the prospect of being at the centre of a wedding. Not even the Cunning Man could burn his way through that. She managed to say, ‘It’s not going to work for you. ’ And part of her kept repeating, inside her head: No eyes. No eyes at all. Two tunnels in his head. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. Possibly the mauve one would look better,’ said Letitia, ‘although I have always been told that eau-de-nil is really my colour. By the way, could I make things up to you in some way by having you as my chief bridesmaid? Of course, I’ve already got a load of tiny distant cousins who I understand have been wearing their bridesmaids’ dresses for the past two weeks. ’ Tiffany was still staring at nothing, or rather, at two holes into nothing. At the moment, they were the most important things in her mind, and they were quite bad enough without adding tiny little cousins into the mixture. ‘I don’t think that witches are bridesmaid material, thank you all the same,’ she said. Bridesmaids? A wedding? Tiffany’s heart sank further. There was no help for it. She ran out of the room before the creature could learn anything more. How did it search? What was it looking for? Had they just given it a clue? She fled down to the dungeon, which was right now a place of refuge. There was the book that Letitia had given to her. She opened it and began to read. She had learned to read fast up in the mountains, when the only books you could get were from the travelling library, and if you were late returning them they charged you an extra penny, an appreciable amount when your standard unit of currency is an old boot. The book told stories of windows. Not ordinary windows, although some might be. And behind them … things – monsters, sometimes. A painting, a page in a book – even a puddle in the right place – could be a window. She remembered once more the nasty goblin in the old book of fairytales; sometimes it was laughing and at other times it was grinning. She had always been sure about that. It wasn’t a big change, but it was still a change. And you always wondered: What was it like that last time? Did I remember it wrong? The book rustled under Tiffany’s hands like a hungry squirrel waking up in a hollow tree full of nuts. The author was a wizard, and a long-winded one at that, but the book was fascinating even so. There had been people who walked into a picture, and people who had walked out of one. Windows were a way of getting from one world into another, and anything could be a window and anything could be a world. She had heard that the sign of a good painting was that the eyes followed you around the room, but according to the book it was quite likely that they might follow you home and upstairs to bed, as well – an idea that she would rather not think about right now. Being a wizard, the author had tried to explain it all with graphs and charts, none of which helped in any way. The Cunning Man had run towards her inside a book, and she had slammed it shut before he got out. She had seen his fingers just as the press had spun down. But he couldn’t have been squashed inside the book, she thought, because he wasn’t really in the book at all , except in some magical way, and he’s been finding me in other ways too. How? Right now, those tiresome days of seeing to broken legs, bad stomachs and ingrown toenails suddenly seemed quite attractive. She’d always told people that was what witchcraft was all about, and that was true, right up until the time something horrible could jump out of nowhere. That was when a poultice just wouldn’t do the trick. A piece of straw floated down and landed on the book. ‘It’s safe for you to come out,’ said Tiffany. ‘You are here, aren’t you?’ And right by her ear a voice said, ‘Oh aye, that we are. ’ They appeared from behind straw bales, spider webs, apple shelves, goats and one another. ‘Aren’t you Wee Mad Arthur?’ ‘Aye, miss, that is correct. I have to tell ye, to my embarrassment, that Rob Anybody is placing a big trust in me because I am a polisman and Rob appeared to think, ye ken, that if ye are dealing with bigjobs, a polisman will make them even more afeared. Besides, I can speak bigjob! Rob is spending more time up at the mound right now, ye ken. An’ he doesnae trust yon Baron not tae come up there with shovels. ’ ‘I will see that does not happen,’ said Tiffany firmly. ‘There has been a misunderstanding. ’ Wee Mad Arthur did not look convinced. ‘It is glad I am to hear you say that, miss, and so will the Big Man be, because I can tell ye that when the first shovel breaks into the mound there willnae be a living man left in yonder castle, and great will be the lamentation of the women, present company excepted. ’ There was a general murmuring from the other Feegles, on the broad theme of slaughter for whoever laid a hand on a Feegle mound, and how personally each and every one of them would regret what he would have to do. ‘It’s yon troosers,’ said Slightly-Thinner-Than-Fat-Jock-Jock. ‘Once a man gets a Feegle up his troosers, his time of trial and tribulation is only just beginning. ’ ‘Oh aye, it will be a great time o’ jumpin’ and leapin’ up and doon for such as them,’ said Wee Jock o’ the White Head. Tiffany was shocked. ‘When was the last time Feegles fought with bigjobs, then?’ After some discussion among the Feegles, this was declared to be the Battle o’ the Middens when, according to Wee Jock o’ the White Head, ‘There was never such a screaming and rushing about and stamping on the ground, and pitiable sobbing, the like of which was never before heard, along with the coarse tittering of the ladies as the men scrambled to divest themselves of troosers that were suddenly no longer their friends, if ye ken what I’m saying. ’ Tiffany, who had been listening to the tale with an open mouth, had the presence of mind to shut it, and then open it again to say, ‘But have Feegles ever killed a human?’ This led to a certain amount of deliberate lack of eye contact among the Feegles, plus quite a lot of foot shuffling and head scratching, with the usual fallout of insects, hoarded food, interesting stones and other unspeakable items. In the end, Wee Mad Arthur said, ‘Being as I am, miss, a Feegle who has only but recently learned that he is not a fairy cobbler, I ha’ nae pride tae lose by telling ye that it is true that I have been speaking to my new brothers and learned that, when they lived up in the far mountains, they did have tae fight humans sometimes, when they came a-digging for the fairy gold, and a terror-err-able fighting did take place and, indeed, those bandits as were too stupid to run may have found themselves clever enough to die. ’ He coughed. ‘However, in defence of my new brethren I must point out that they always made certain that the odds were fair and just, which is to say one Feegle to every ten men. Ye cannae say fairer than that. And it wasnae their fault that some men just wanted tae commit suicide. ’ There was a glint in Wee Mad Arthur’s eye that prompted Tiffany to ask, ‘How exactly did they commit suicide?’ The policeman Feegle shrugged his small broad shoulders. ‘They took a shovel to a Feegle mound, miss. I am a man who knows the law, miss. I never saw a mound until I met these fine gentlemen, but even so my blood boils, miss, it boils, so it does. My heart it does thump, my pulse it does race, and my gorge it arises like the breath of some dragon at the very thought of a bright steel shovel slicing through the clay of a Feegle mound, cutting and crushing. I would kill the man that does this, miss.

I would kill him dead, and chase him through the next life to kill him another time, and I would do it again and again, because it would be the sin o’ sins, to kill an entire people, and one death wouldnae be enough for recompense. However, as I am an aforesaid man of the law, I very much hope that the current misunderstanding can be resolved withoot the need for wholesale carnage and bloodletting and screaming and wailing and weeping and people having bits of themselves nailed to trees, such as has never been seen before, ye ken?’ Wee Mad Arthur, holding his full-sized policeman’s badge like a shield, stared at Tiffany with a mixture of shock and defiance. And Tiffany was a witch. ‘I must tell you something, Wee Mad Arthur,’ she said, ‘and you must understand what I say. You have come home, Wee Mad Arthur. ’ The shield dropped out of his hand. ‘Aye, miss, I ken that now. A policeman should not say the words I just said. He should talk about judges and juries and prisons and sentences, and he would say ye cannae take the law intae your own hands. So I will hand in my badge, indeed, and stay here among my own folk, although I have to say, with better standards o’ hygiene. ’ This got a round of applause from the assembled Feegles, although Tiffany wasn’t sure that most of them fully understood the concept of hygiene or, for that matter, obeying the law. ‘You have my word,’ said Tiffany, ‘that the mound will not be touched again. I will see to it, do you understand?’ ‘Och, weel,’ said Wee Mad Arthur tearfully. ‘That might be all very well, miss, but what will happen behind your back when ye are a-flying and a-whizzing aboot your verrae important business across the hills? What will happen then?’ All eyes turned to Tiffany, including those of the goats. She didn’t do this kind of thing any more because she knew it was bad manners, but Tiffany picked up Wee Mad Arthur bodily and held him at eye level. ‘I am the hag o’ the hills,’ she said. ‘And I will vow to you and all other Feegles that the home of the Feegles will never be threatened with iron again. It will never be behind my back but will always be in front of my eyes. And while this is so, no living man will touch it if he wants to remain a living man. And if I fail the Feegles in this, may I be dragged through the seven hells on a broomstick made of nails. ’ Strictly speaking, Tiffany admitted to herself, these were pretty much empty threats, but the Feegles did not think an oath was an oath if it didn’t have lots of thunder and lightning and boasting and blood in it. Blood, somehow, made it official. I will see to it that the mound is never touched again, she thought. There is no way that Roland can refuse me now. And besides, I have a secret weapon: I have the trust and confidence of a young lady who is soon going to be his wife. No man can be safe in those circumstances. In the glow of reassurance Wee Mad Arthur said happily, ‘Well spoken, mistress, and may I take the opportunity on behalf of my new friends and relatives tae thank ye for explaining all aboot the business of the wedding nuptials the noo. It was verrae interesting to those of us who have little to do with such things. Some of us was wondering if we could ask questions?’ Being threatened by a spectral horror was terrible enough right now, but somehow the thought of the Nac Mac Feegle asking questions about the facts of married life among humans was even worse. There was no point in explaining why she wasn’t going to explain; Tiffany simply said ‘No’ in a tone of voice like steel and very carefully put him back down on the ground. She added, ‘You shouldn’t have been listening. ’ ‘Why not?’ said Daft Wullie. ‘You just shouldn’t! I’m not going to explain. You just shouldn’t. And now, gentlemen, I’d like a bit of time to myself, if it’s all the same to you. ’ Some of them would follow her, of course, she thought. They always did. She went back up to the hall and sat down as close as possible to the huge fire. Even in late summer, the hall was cold. It was hung with tapestries as insulation from the chill of the stone walls. They were the usual sort of thing: men in armour waving swords and bows and axes at other men in armour. Given that battle is very fast and noisy, they presumably had to stop fighting every couple of minutes to give the ladies who were making the tapestry a little time to catch up. Tiffany knew the one nearest the fire by heart. All the kids did. You learned your history off the tapestries, if there was some old man around to explain what was going on. But generally, when she was a lot younger, it had been more fun to make up stories about the different knights, like the one who was desperately running to catch up with his horse, and the one who had been thrown by his horse, and, because he had a helmet with a point on it, was now upright head first in the ground, which, even as children, they had recognized was not a good position to be in on the battle-field. They were like old friends, frozen in a war whose name nobody on the Chalk could remember. And … suddenly there was another one, one that had never been there before, running towards Tiffany through the battle. She stared at him, her body demanding that she get some sleep right now, and whatever bits were still working in her brain insisting that she did something. In the middle of this her hand gripped a log on the edge of the fire and she raised it purposefully towards the tapestry. The cloth had practically crumbled with age as it was. It would burn like dry grass. The figure was walking cautiously now. She couldn’t see any details yet and didn’t want to. The knights on the tapestry had been woven in without any perspective; they were as flat as a child’s nursery painting. But the man in black, who had begun as a distant streak, was getting bigger as he approached and now … She could see the face and the empty eyeholes, which even from here changed colour as he walked past the painted armour of knight after knight, and now he had started running again, getting bigger. And the smell was oozing towards her again … How much was the tapestry worth? Did she have any right to destroy it? With that thing stepping out of it? Oh yes , oh yes ! Wouldn’t it be nice to be a wizard and to conjure up those knights to fight one last battle! Wouldn’t it be nice to be a witch who wasn’t here! She raised the crackling log and glared into the holes where the eyes should be. You had to be a witch to be prepared to stare down a stare that wasn’t there, because somehow you felt that it was sucking your own eyeballs out of your head. Those tunnels in the skull were hypnotic, and now he moved from side to side slowly, like a snake. ‘Please don’t. ’ She wasn’t expecting that; the voice was urgent but quite friendly – and it belonged to Eskarina Smith. The wind was silver and cold. Tiffany, lying on her back, looked up into a white sky; at the edge of her vision, dried grasses shook and rattled in the wind but, curiously, behind this little bit of countryside there was the big fireplace and the battling knights. ‘It is really quite important that you don’t move,’ said the same voice behind her. ‘The place where you are now has been, as we say, cobbled together for this conversation and did not exist until you arrived here, and will cease to exist the moment you leave. Strictly speaking, by the standards of most philosophical disciplines, it cannot be said to have any existence at all. ’ ‘So it’s a magic place, yes? Like the Unreal Estate?’ ‘Very sensible way of putting it,’ said the voice of Eskarina. ‘Those of us who know about it call it the travelling now. It’s an easy way to talk to you in private; when it closes, you will be exactly where you were and no time will have passed. Do you understand?’ ‘No!’ Eskarina sat down on the grass next to her. ‘Thank goodness for that. It would be rather disturbing if you did. You are, you know, an extremely unusual witch.

As far as I can tell, you have a natural talent for making cheese, and as talents go, it is a pretty good talent to have. The world needs cheese-makers. A good cheese-maker is worth her weight in, well, cheese. So you were not born with a talent for witchcraft. ’ Tiffany opened her mouth to reply before she had any idea what she was going to say, but that is not unusual among human beings. The first thing to push through the throng of questions was: ‘Hang on, I was holding a burning brand. But now you have brought me here, wherever here is exactly. What happened?’ She looked at the fire. The flames were frozen. ‘People will notice me,’ she said, and then, given the nature of the situation, she added, ‘Won’t they?’ ‘The answer is no; the reason is complicated. The travelling now is … tame time. It’s time that is on your side. Believe me, there are stranger things in the universe. Right now, Tiffany, we are truly living on borrowed time. ’ The flames were still frozen. Tiffany felt that they should be cold, but she could feel the warmth. And she had time to think too. ‘And when I go back?’ ‘Nothing will have changed,’ said Eskarina, ‘except the contents of your head, which are, at the moment, very important. ’ ‘And you’ve gone to all this trouble to tell me I have no talent for witchcraft?’ Tiffany said flatly. ‘That was very kind of you. ’ Eskarina laughed. It was her young laugh, which seemed strange when you saw the wrinkles on her face. Tiffany had never seen an old person looking so young. ‘I said you weren’t born with a talent for witchcraft: it didn’t come easily; you worked hard at it because you wanted it. You forced the world to give it to you, no matter the price, and the price is and will always be, high. Have you heard the saying “the reward you get for digging holes is a bigger shovel”?’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, ‘I heard Granny Weatherwax say it once. ’ ‘She invented it. People say you don’t find witchcraft; witchcraft finds you. But you’ve found it, even if at the time you didn’t know what it was you were finding, and you grabbed it by its scrawny neck and made it work for you. ’ ‘This is all very … interesting ,’ said Tiffany, ‘but I have got things I must be doing. ’ ‘Not in the travelling now,’ said Eskarina firmly. ‘Look, the Cunning Man has found you again. ’ ‘I think he hides in books and pictures,’ Tiffany volunteered. ‘And tapestries. ’ She shuddered. ‘And mirrors,’ said Eskarina, ‘and puddles, and the glint of light on a piece of broken glass, or the gleam on a knife. How many ways can you think of? How frightened are you prepared to be?’ ‘I’m going to have to fight him,’ Tiffany said. ‘I think I knew I would have to. He doesn’t seem to me to be someone you can run away from. He’s a bully, isn’t he? He attacks where he thinks he will win, and so I have to find a way to be stronger than he is. I think I can work out a way – after all, he is a bit like the hiver. And that was really quite easy. ’ Eskarina did not shout; she spoke very quietly and in a way that seemed to make more noise than a scream would have done. ‘Will you persist in not recognizing how important this is, Tiffany Aching the cheese-maker? You have a chance to defeat the Cunning Man, and if you fail, witchcraft fails – and falls with you. He will possess your body, your knowledge, your talents and your soul. And for your own good – and for the good of all – your sister witches will settle their differences and take the pair of you into oblivion before you can do any more harm. Do you understand? This is important ! You have to help yourself. ’ ‘The other witches will kill me?’ said Tiffany, aghast. ‘Of course. You are a witch and you know what Granny Weatherwax always says: We do right, we don’t do nice. It will be you or him, Tiffany Aching. The loser will die. In his case, I regret to say we might see him again in a few centuries; in your case, I don’t propose to guess. ’ ‘But hold on a moment,’ said Tiffany. ‘If they are prepared to fight him and me, why don’t we all band together to fight him now?’ ‘Of course. Would you like them to? What is it you really want, Tiffany Aching, here and now? It’s your choice. The other witches will not, I am sure, think any the worse of you. ’ Eskarina hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Well, I expect they will be very kind about it. ’ The witch who faced the trial and ran away? thought Tiffany. The witch they were kind to, because they knew she wasn’t good enough? And if you think you’re not good enough, then you are already no kind of witch. Aloud she said, ‘I’d rather die trying to be a witch, than be the girl they were all kind to. ’ ‘Miss Aching, you are showing an almost sinful self-assurance and overwhelming pride and certainty, and may I say that I wouldn’t expect anything less of a witch. ’ * * * The world wobbled a bit and then changed. Eskarina vanished, even as her words were still sinking into Tiffany’s mind. The tapestry was back in front of her again and she was still raising the burning log, but this time she raised it confidently. She felt as if she was full of air, lifting her up. The world had gone strange, but at least she knew that fire would burn dry tapestry like tinder the moment it touched it. ‘I would burn this old sheet in an instant, mister, trust me. Back to where you came from, mister!’ To her astonishment the dark figure retreated. There was a momentary hiss and Tiffany felt as if a weight had dropped away, dragging the stench with it. ‘That was all very interesting. ’ Tiffany spun round and looked into Preston’s cheerful grin. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I was really worried when you went so stiff for a few moments. I thought you were dead. When I touched your arm – very respectfully, no hanky-panky – it felt like the air on a thundery day. So I thought, This is witch business, and decided to keep an eye on you, and then you threatened an innocent tapestry with fiery death!’ She stared at the boy’s eyes as if they were a mirror. Fire, she thought. Fire killed him once, and he knows it. He won’t go anywhere near fire. Fire is the secret. The hare runs into the fire. Hmm. ‘Actually, I quite like fire,’ said Preston. ‘I don’t think it’s my enemy at all. ’ ‘What?’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m afraid you were speaking just under your breath,’ said Preston. ‘I’m not going to ask what it was about. My granny said: Don’t meddle in the affairs of witches because they clout you around the ear. ’ Tiffany stared at him and made an instant decision. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ Preston nodded. ‘Certainly! I have never told anybody that the sergeant writes poetry, for example. ’ ‘Preston, you have just told me !’ Preston grinned at her. ‘Ah, but a witch isn’t anybody. My granny told me that telling your secret to a witch is like whispering to a wall. ’ ‘Well, yes,’ Tiffany began and then paused. ‘How do you know he writes poetry?’ ‘It was hard not to know,’ said Preston. ‘But, you see, he writes it on pages of the events ledger in the guard house, probably when he’s on night duty. He carefully tears out the pages, and does it so neatly that you wouldn’t guess, but he presses so hard with his pencil that it’s quite easy to read the impression on the paper underneath. ’ ‘Surely the other men notice?’ said Tiffany. Preston shook his head, which caused his oversized helmet to spin a little. ‘Oh no, miss, you know them: they think reading is cissy stuff for girls. Anyway, if I get in early I tear out the paper underneath so that they don’t laugh at him. I have to say, for a self-taught man he is a pretty good poet – good grasp of the metaphor. They are all written to somebody called Millie. ’ ‘That would be his wife,’ said Tiffany. ‘You must have seen her in the village – more freckles than anyone I’ve ever seen. She is very sensitive about it. ’ Preston nodded. ‘That might explain why his latest poem is entitled “What Good Is The Sky Without Stars”?’ ‘You wouldn’t know it from looking at the man, would you?’ Preston looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Excuse me, Tiffany,’ he said, ‘but you don’t look well.

In fact, no offence meant, you look absolutely dreadful. If you were somebody else and took a look at you, you would say that you were very ill indeed. You don’t look as if you’ve had any sleep. ’ ‘I had at least an hour’s worth last night. And a nap the day before!’ said Tiffany. ‘Really?’ said Preston, looking stern. ‘And apart from breakfast this morning, when did you last have a proper meal?’ For some reason Tiffany still felt full of light inside. ‘I think I might have had a snack yesterday …’ ‘Oh really?’ said Preston. ‘Snacks and naps? That’s not how somebody is supposed to live; it’s how people die!’ He was right. She knew he was. But that only made things worse. ‘Look, I’m being tracked by a horrible creature who can take over somebody else completely, and it’s up to me to deal with it!’ Preston looked around with interest. ‘Could it take me over?’ Poison goes where poison’s welcome , thought Tiffany. Thank you for that useful phrase, Mrs Proust. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think you have to be the right kind of person – which is to say, the wrong kind of person. You know, somebody with a touch of evil. ’ For the first time, Preston looked worried. ‘I have done a few bad things in my time, I’m sorry to say. ’ Despite her sudden tiredness, Tiffany smiled. ‘What was the worst one?’ ‘I once stole a packet of coloured pencils off a market stall. ’ He looked at her defiantly, as if expecting her to scream or point the finger of scorn. Instead, she shook her head and said, ‘How old were you then?’ ‘Six. ’ ‘Preston, I don’t think this creature could ever find its way into your head. Quite apart from anything else, it seems pretty crowded and complicated to me. ’ ‘Miss Tiffany, you need a rest, a proper rest in a proper bed. What kind of witch can look after everybody if she’s not sensible enough to look after herself? Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. That means: Who guards the guards, that does,’ Preston went on. ‘So who watches the witches? Who cares for the people who care for the people? Right now, it looks like it needs to be me. ’ She gave in. * * * The fog of the city was as thick as curtains when Mrs Proust hurried towards the dark, brooding shape of the Tanty, but the billows obediently separated as she approached and closed again after her. The warden was waiting at the main gate, a lantern in his hand. ‘Sorry, missus, but we thought you ought to see this one before it gets all official. I know witches seem a bit unpopular right now, but we’ve always thought of you as family, if you know what I mean. Everyone remembers your dad. What a craftsman! He could hang a man in seven and a quarter seconds! Never been beat. We shall never see his likes again. ’ He went solemn. ‘And may I say, missus, I hope I never see again the like of what you will be seeing now. It’s got us rattled, and no mistake. It’s right up your street, I reckon. ’ Mrs Proust shook the water droplets off her cloak in the prison office and could smell the fear in the air. There was the general clanging and distant yelling that you always got when things were going bad in a prison: a prison, by definition, being a lot of people all crammed together and every fear and hatred and worry and dread and rumour all sitting on top of one another, choking for space. She hung the cloak on a nail by the door and rubbed her hands together. ‘The lad you sent said something about a breakout?’ ‘D wing,’ said the warder. ‘Macintosh. You remember? Been in here about a year. ’ ‘Oh yes, I recall,’ said the witch. ‘They had to stop the trial because the jury kept throwing up. Very nasty indeed. But no one has ever escaped from D wing, right? The window bars are steel?’ ‘Bent,’ said the warder flatly. ‘You’d better come and see. It’s giving us the heebie-jeebies, I don’t mind telling you. ’ ‘Macintosh wasn’t a particularly big man, as I recall,’ said the witch as they hurried along the dank corridors. ‘That’s right, Mrs Proust. Short and nasty, that was him. Due to hang next week too. Tore out bars that a strong man wouldn’t have been able to shift with a crowbar and dropped thirty feet to the ground. That’s not natural, that’s not right. But it was the other thing he did – oh my word, it makes me sick thinking about it. ’ A warder was waiting outside the cell recently vacated by the absent Macintosh, but for no reason that Mrs Proust could recognize, given that the man had definitely gone. He touched the brim of his hat respectfully when he saw her. ‘Good morning, Mrs Proust,’ he said. ‘May I say it’s an honour to meet the daughter of the finest hangman in history. Fifty-one years before the lever, and never a client down. Mr Trooper now, decent bloke, but sometimes they bounce a bit and I don’t consider that professional. And your dad wouldn’t forego a well-deserved hanging out of the fear that fires of evil and demons of dread would haunt him afterwards. You mark my words; he’d go after them and hang them too! Seven and a quarter seconds, what a gentleman. ’ But Mrs Proust was staring down at the floor. ‘Terrible thing for a lady to have to see,’ the warder went on. Almost absentmindedly Mrs Proust said, ‘Witches are not ladies when on business, Frank,’ and then she sniffed the air and swore an oath that made Frank’s eyes water. ‘It makes you wonder what got into him, aye?’ Mrs Proust straightened up. ‘I don’t have to wonder, my lad,’ she said grimly. ‘I know. ’ The fog piled up against the buildings in its effort to get out of the way of Mrs Proust as she hurried back to Tenth Egg Street, leaving behind her a Mrs Proust-shaped tunnel in the gloom. Derek was drinking a peaceful mug of cocoa when his mother burst in to the strains, as it were, of a large fart. He looked up, his brow wrinkling. ‘Did that sound like B-flat to you? It didn’t sound like B-flat to me. ’ He reached into the drawer under the counter for his tuning fork, but his mother rushed past him. ‘Where’s my broomstick?’ Derek sighed. ‘In the basement, remember? When the dwarfs told you last month how much it would cost to repair, you told them they were a bunch of chiselling little lawn ornaments, remember? Anyway, you never use it. ’ ‘I’ve got to go into the … country,’ said Mrs Proust, looking around the crowded shelves in case there was another working broomstick there. Her son stared. ‘Are you sure, Mother? You’ve always said it’s bad for your health. ’ ‘Matter of life or death,’ Mrs Proust mumbled. ‘What about Long Tall Short Fat Sally?’ ‘Oh, Mother, you really shouldn’t call her that,’ said Derek reproachfully. ‘She can’t help being allergic to tides. ’ ‘She’s got a stick, though! Hah! If it’s not one thing it’s another. Make me some sandwiches, will you?’ ‘Is this about that girl who was in here last week?’ said Derek suspiciously. ‘I don’t think she had much of a sense of humour. ’ His mother ignored him and rummaged under the counter, coming back with a large leather cosh. The small traders of Tenth Egg Street worked on narrow margins, and had a very direct approach to shoplifting. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t,’ she moaned. ‘Me? Doing good at my time of life? I must be going soft in the head. And I’m not even going to get paid! I don’t know, I really don’t. Next thing you know, I’ll start giving people three wishes, and if I start doing that, Derek, I would like you to hit me very hard on the head. ’ She handed him the cosh. ‘I’m leaving you in charge. Try to shift some of the rubber chocolate and the humorous fake fried eggs, will you? Tell people they are novelty bookmarks or something. ’ And with that, Mrs Proust ran out into the night. The lanes and alleyways of the city were very dangerous at night, what with muggers, thieves and similar unpleasantnesses. But they disappeared back into the gloom as she passed. Mrs Proust was bad news, and best left undisturbed if you wanted to keep all the bones in your fingers pointing the right way. The body that was Macintosh ran through the night. It was full of pain. This didn’t matter to the ghost; it wasn’t his pain.

Its sinews sang with agony, but it was not the ghost’s agony. The fingers bled where they had torn steel bars out of the wall. But the ghost did not bleed. It never bled. It couldn’t remember when it had had a body that was really its own. Bodies had to be fed and had to drink. That was an annoying feature of the wretched things. Sooner or later they ran out of usefulness. Often, that didn’t matter; there was always somebody – a little mind festering with hatred and envy and resentment that would welcome the ghost inside. But it had to be careful, and it had to be quick. But above all it had to be safe. Out here, on the empty roads, another suitable container would be hard to find. Regretfully, it allowed the body to stop and drink from the murky waters of a pond. It turned out to be full of frogs, but a body had to eat too, didn’t it? 26 Witches always made certain that their hands were scrupulously clean; the rest of the witch had to wait for some time in the busy schedule – or possibly for a thunderstorm. 27 There was no tradition of holy men on the Chalk, but since the hills were between the cities and the mountains, there was generally – in the good weather, at least – a steady procession of priests of one sort or another passing through who would, for a decent meal or a bed for the night, spread some holy words and generally give people’s souls a decent scrubbing. Provided that the priests were clearly of the decent sort, people didn’t worry unduly who their god was, so long as he – or occasionally she and sometimes it – kept the sun and moon spinning properly and didn’t want anything ridiculous or new. It also helped if the preacher knew a little something about sheep. 28 If not through actual personal practice. Chapter 13 THE SHAKING OF THE SHEETS H ER PROPER BED in the castle’s black-and-white chamber was so much better than the dungeon, even though Tiffany had missed the soothing burps of the goats. She dreamed of fire, again. And she was being watched. She could feel it, and it wasn’t the goats this time. She was being watched inside her head. But it wasn’t bad watching; someone was caring for her. And in the dream the fire raged, and a dark figure pulled aside the flames as though they were curtains, and there was the hare sitting by the dark figure as if she was a pet. The hare caught Tiffany’s eye and jumped into the fire. And Tiffany knew. Somebody knocked at the door. Tiffany was suddenly awake. ‘Who’s there?’ A voice on the other side of the heavy door said, ‘What sound does forgetfulness make?’ She hardly had to think. ‘It’s the sound of the wind in dead grasses on a hot summer’s day. ’ ‘Yes, I think that would about do it,’ said Preston’s voice from the other side of the door. ‘To get right to the point, miss, there’s a lot of people downstairs, miss. I think they need their witch. ’ It was a good day for a funeral, Tiffany thought, looking out of the narrow castle window. It shouldn’t rain on a funeral. It made people too gloomy. She tried not to be gloomy at funerals. People lived, and died, and were remembered. It happened in the same way that winter followed summer. It was not a wrong thing. There were tears, of course, but they were for those who were left; those who had gone on did not need them. The staff had been up very early, and the long tables had been put out in the hall to make a breakfast for all-comers. That was a tradition. Rich or poor, lord or lady: the funeral breakfast was there for everyone, and out of respect for the old Baron; and also out of respect for a good meal, the hall was filling up. The Duchess was there, in a black dress that was more black than any black Tiffany had ever seen before. The dress gleamed. The black dress of the average witch was usually only theoretically black. In reality, it was often rather dusty, and quite possibly patched in the vicinity of the knees and somewhat ragged at the hems and, of course, very nearly worn through by frequent washings. It was what it was: working clothes. You couldn’t imagine the Duchess delivering a baby in that dress … Tiffany blinked. She could imagine the Duchess doing just that; if it was an emergency, she would. She would bully and complain and order people around, but she would do it. She was that kind of person. Tiffany blinked again. Her head felt crystal clear. The world seemed understandable but slightly fragile, as if it could be broken, like a mirror ball. ‘Morning, miss!’ That was Amber, and behind her, both her parents, Mr Petty looking scrubbed and sheepish and also quite bashful. He clearly didn’t know what to say. Nor did Tiffany. There was a stir at the main doors, and Roland hurried in that direction and came back with King Verence of Lancre and Magrat, his queen. Tiffany had met them before. You couldn’t help meeting them in Lancre, which was a very small kingdom, and even smaller when you took into consideration that Granny Weatherwax lived there too. And Granny Weatherwax was here, right here and now , with You 29 lying across her shoulders like a scarf, behind the King and Queen and just in front of a huge jolly voice that shouted, ‘Watcha, Tiff! How’s your belly off for spots!’ which meant that a couple of feet below it, but hidden by reasons of size, was Nanny Ogg, rumoured by some to be cleverer than Granny Weatherwax, and clever enough at least not to let her find out. Tiffany bowed to them as was the custom. She thought, They gather, do they? She smiled at Granny Weatherwax and said, ‘Very pleased to see you here, Mistress Weatherwax, and a little surprised. ’ Granny stared at her but Nanny Ogg said, ‘It’s a long bumpy ride down from Lancre, and so the two of us thought we’d give Magrat and her king a nice ride down. ’ Possibly Tiffany was imagining it, but Nanny Ogg’s explanation sounded like something she had been working on for a little while. It felt as if she were reciting a script. But there was no more time to talk. The arrival of the king had triggered something in the air, and for the first time Tiffany saw Pastor Egg, in a black-and-white robe. She adjusted her pointy hat and walked over to him. He seemed quite glad of the company, which is to say that he gave her a grateful smile. ‘Hah, a witch, I see. ’ ‘Yes, the pointy hat is a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘But not a black dress, I notice … ?’ Tiffany heard the question mark as it went past. ‘When I am old, I shall wear midnight,’ she said. ‘Entirely appropriate,’ said the pastor, ‘but now you wear green, white and blue, the downland colours, I can’t help remarking!’ Tiffany was impressed. ‘So, you’re not interested in witchfinding, then?’ She felt a bit silly for asking outright, but she was on edge. Pastor Egg shook his head. ‘I can assure you, madam, that the Church has not been seriously involved in that sort of thing for hundreds of years! Unfortunately some people have long memories. Indeed, it was only a matter of a few years ago that the famous Pastor Oats said in his renowned Testament from the Mountains that the women known as witches embody, in a caring and practical way, the very best ideals of Brutha the prophet. That’s good enough for me. I hope it is good enough for you?’ Tiffany gave him her sweetest smile, which wasn’t all that sweet, however hard you tried; she’d never really got the hang of sweet. ‘It’s important to be clear about these things, don’t you think?’ She sniffed, and noticed no odour other than a hint of shaving cream. Even so, she was going to have to be on her guard. It was a good funeral too; from Tiffany’s point of view, a good funeral was one where the main player was very old. She had been to some – too many – where they were small and wrapped in a shroud. Coffins were barely known on the Chalk, and indeed nearly anywhere else. Decent timber was too expensive to be left to rot underground. A practical white woollen shroud did for most people; it was easy to make, not too expensive, and good for the wool industry.

The Baron, however, went to his eternal rest inside a tomb of white marble which, him being a practical man, he had designed, bought and paid for twenty years ago. There was a white shroud inside it, because marble can be a bit chilly to lie on. And that was the end of the old Baron, except that only Tiffany knew where he really was. He was walking with his father in the stubbles, where they burned the corn stalks and the weeds, a perfect late-summer’s day, one never-changing perfect moment held in time … She gasped. ‘The drawing!’ Even though she’d spoken under her breath, people around her turned to look. She thought, How selfish of me! And then thought, Surely it will still be there? As soon as the lid of the stone tomb had been slid into place with a sound that Tiffany would always remember, she went and found Brian, who was blowing his nose; when he looked up at her he was pink around the eyes. She took him gently by the arm, trying not to sound urgent. ‘The room that the Baron was living in, is it locked?’ He looked shocked. ‘I should say so! And the money is in the big safe in the office. Why d’you want to know?’ ‘There was something very valuable in there. A leather folder. Did that get put in the big safe too?’ The sergeant shook his head. ‘Believe me, Tiff, after the’ – he hesitated – ‘bit of trouble, I did an inventory of everything in that room. Not a thing went out from there without me seeing it and putting it down in my notebook. With my pencil,’ he added, for maximum accuracy. ‘Nothing like a leather folder was taken out, I’m sure of it. ’ ‘No. Because Miss Spruce had already taken it,’ Tiffany said. ‘That wretched nurse! I didn’t mind about the money, because I never expected the money! Maybe she thought it had deeds in it or something!’ Tiffany hurried back to the hall and looked around. Roland was the Baron now, in every respect. And it was in respect that people were clustering around him, saying things like, ‘He was a very good man,’ and ‘He’d had a good innings,’ and ‘At least he didn’t suffer,’ and all the other things people say after a funeral when they don’t know what to say. And now Tiffany headed purposefully towards the Baron, and stopped when a hand landed on her shoulder. She followed the arm up to the face of Nanny Ogg, who had managed to obtain the biggest flagon of ale that Tiffany had ever seen. To be precise, she noticed it was a half-full flagon of ale. ‘Nice to see something like this done well,’ said Nanny. ‘Never knew the old boy, of course, but he sounds like a decent fellow. Nice to see you, Tiff. Managing all right?’ Tiffany looked into those innocent smiling eyes, and past them to the much sterner face of Granny Weatherwax, and the brim of her hat. Tiffany bowed. Granny Weatherwax cleared her throat with a sound like gravel. ‘We ain’t here on business, my girl, we just wanted to help the king make a good entrance. ’ ‘We are not here about the Cunning Man neither,’ Nanny Ogg added cheerfully. It sounded like a simple and silly giveaway, and Tiffany heard a disapproving sniff from Granny. But, generally speaking, when Nanny Ogg came out with a silly, embarrassing comment by accident, it was because she had thought about it very carefully beforehand. Tiffany knew this, and Nanny certainly knew that Tiffany knew, and Tiffany knew that too. But it was often the kind of way that witches behaved, and it all worked perfectly if nobody picked up an axe. ‘I know this is my problem. I will sort it out,’ she said. This was on the face of it a really stupid thing to say. The senior witches would be very useful to have at her side. But how would that look? This was a new steading, and she had to be proud. You couldn’t say, ‘I have done difficult and dangerous things before,’ because that was understood. What did matter was what you did today. It was a matter of pride. It was a matter of style. And it was also a matter of age. In twenty years’ time, perhaps, if she asked for help, people would think: Well, even an experienced witch can run up against something really unusual. And they would help as a matter of course. But now, if she asked for help, well … people would help. Witches always helped other witches. But everyone would think: Was she really any good? Can’t she last the distance? Is she strong enough for the long haul? No one would say anything, but everyone would think it. All this was the thought of a second, and when she blinked, the witches were watching her. ‘Self-reliance is a witch’s best friend,’ said Granny Weatherwax, looking stern. Nanny Ogg nodded in agreement, and added, ‘You can always rely on self-reliance, I’ve always said so. ’ She laughed at Tiffany’s expression. ‘Do you think you are the only one to have to deal with the Cunning Man, love? Granny here had to deal with him when she was your age. She sent him back to where he came from in very short order, trust me on that. ’ Knowing that it was useless, but attempting it anyway, Tiffany turned to Granny Weatherwax and said, ‘Can you give me any tips, Mistress Weatherwax?’ Granny, who was already drifting purposefully towards the buffet lunch, stopped for a moment and turned and said, ‘Trust yourself. ’ She walked a few steps further and stood as if lost in thought and added, ‘And don’t lose. ’ Nanny Ogg slapped Tiffany on the back. ‘Never met the bugger myself, but I hear he is pretty bad. Here, is the blushing bride having a hen night tonight?’ The old lady winked and poured the remaining contents of the flagon down her throat. Tiffany tried to think quickly. Nanny Ogg got on with everyone. Tiffany had only a vague idea of what a hen night was, but some of Mrs Proust’s stock gave her a few clues, and if Nanny Ogg knew about them too, it was a certainty that alcohol was involved. ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to have a party like that on a night after a funeral, do you, Nanny? Though I think Letitia might enjoy a little talk,’ she added. ‘She’s your chum, isn’t she? I would have thought you’d have had a little talk with her yourself. ’ ‘I did!’ Tiffany protested. ‘But I don’t think she believed me. And you’ve had at least three husbands, Nanny!’ Nanny Ogg stared at her for a moment and then said, ‘That’s quite a lot of conversation, I suppose. All right. But what about the young man? When’s his stag night going to be?’ ‘Ah, I’ve heard of those! It’s where his friends get him drunk, take him a long way away, tie him to a tree and then … I think a bucket of paint and a brush is involved sometimes, but usually they throw him in the pigsty. Why do you ask?’ ‘Oh, the stag night is always much more interesting than the hen night,’ said Nanny, a look of mischief in her eye. ‘Has the lucky groom got any chums?’ ‘Well, there are some nobby lads from other posh families, but the only people he really knows live here in the village. We all grew up together, you see? And none of them would dare throw the Baron in a pigsty!’ ‘What about your young man over there?’ Nanny gestured towards Preston, who was standing nearby. He always seemed to be standing nearby. ‘Preston?’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t think he knows the Baron very well. And in any case—’ She stopped and thought, Young man? She turned and looked at Nanny, who was standing with her hands behind her back and face turned towards the ceiling with the expression of an angel, although admittedly one who might have met a few demons in her time. And that was Nanny all over. When it came to affairs of the heart – or indeed, of any other parts – you couldn’t fool Nanny Ogg. But he’s not my young man, she insisted to herself. He’s just a friend. Who is a boy. Preston stepped forward and removed his helmet in front of Nanny. ‘I fear, madam, that it would be against the rules for me as a military man to lay a hand on my commanding officer,’ he said. ‘Were it not for that, I would do so with alacrity. ’ Nanny nodded appreciatively at the polysyllabic response, and gave Tiffany a wink that made her blush to the soles of her boots. Nanny Ogg’s grin was now so wide you could fit it onto a pumpkin.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ she said. ‘I can see this place needs a little fun. Thank goodness I’m here!’ Nanny Ogg had a heart of gold, but if you were easily shocked then it was best to stick your fingers in your ears when she said anything. Yet there had to be common sense, didn’t there? ‘Nanny, we’re at a funeral !’ But her tone of voice would never make Nanny Ogg swerve. ‘Was he a good man?’ Tiffany hesitated only for a moment. ‘He grew into goodness. ’ Nanny Ogg noticed everything. ‘Oh yes, your Granny Aching taught him his manners, I believe. But he died a good man, then? Good. Will he be remembered with fondness?’ Tiffany tried to ignore the lump in her throat, and managed to say, ‘Oh yes, by everybody. ’ ‘And you saw to it that he died well? Kept the pain away?’ ‘Nanny, if I say it myself, he had a perfect death. The only better death would have been not to die. ’ ‘Well done,’ said Nanny. ‘Did he have a favourite song, do you know?’ ‘Oh yes! It’s “The Larks They Sang Melodious”,’ said Tiffany. ‘Ah, I reckon that’s the one we call “Pleasant and Delightful” back home. Just follow me, will you, and we’ll soon get them in the right mood. ’ And with that Nanny Ogg grabbed a passing waiter by the shoulder, took a full flagon from his tray, jumped up onto a table, as lively as a girl, and shouted for silence in a voice as brisk as a sergeant-major. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! To celebrate the good life and easeful passing of our late friend and Baron, I have been asked to sing his favourite song. Do join in with me if you’ve got the breath!’ Tiffany listened, enthralled. Nanny Ogg was a one-woman masterclass, or rather mistressclass, in people. She treated perfect strangers as if she had known them for years, and somehow they acted as if she really had. Dragged along, as it were, by an extremely good singing voice for one old woman with one tooth, perplexed people were raising their voices beyond a mumble by the second line, and by the end of the first verse were harmonizing like a choir, and she had them in her hand. Tiffany wept, and saw through the tears a little boy in his new tweed jacket that smelled of wee, walking with his father under different stars. And then she saw the glisten of tears on the faces, including the faces of Pastor Egg and even the Duchess. The echoes were of loss and remembrance, and the hall itself breathed. I should have learned this, she thought. I wanted to learn fire, and pain, but I should have learned people. I should have learned how not to sing like a turkey … The song had finished, and people were looking around sheepishly at one another, but Nanny Ogg’s boot was already making the table rock. ‘ Dance, dance, the shaking of the sheets. Dance, dance, when you hear the piper playing ,’ she sang. Tiffany thought, Is this the right song for a funeral? And then she thought, Of course it is! It’s a wonderful tune and it tells us that one day all of us will die but – and this is the important thing – we are not dead yet. And now Nanny Ogg had jumped off the table, grabbed a hold of Pastor Egg, and as she spun him round, she sang, ‘ Be assured no preacher can keep death away from any man ,’ and he had the grace to smile and dance with her. People applauded – not something Tiffany would ever have expected at a funeral. She wished, oh how she wished, to be like Nanny Ogg who understood things and knew how to hammer silence into laughter. And then, as the applause died away, a male voice sang, ‘ Down in the valley, the valley so low, hang your head easy, hear the wind blow … ’ And silence stood aside in the face of the unexpectedly silver voice of the sergeant. Nanny Ogg drifted to where Tiffany was standing. ‘Well, it looks like I’ve warmed them up. Hear them clearing their throats? I reckon the pastor will be singing by the end of the evening! And I could do with another drink. It’s thirsty work, singing. ’ There was a wink, then she said to Tiffany, ‘Human being first, witch second; hard to remember, easy to do. ’ It was magic; magic had turned a hall full of people who mostly did not know very many of the other people there into human beings who knew they were among other human beings and, right now, that was all that needed to matter. At which point Preston tapped her on the shoulder. He had a curious kind of worried smile on his face. ‘Sorry, miss, but I’m on duty, worst luck, and I think you ought to know we have three more visitors. ’ ‘Can’t you just show them in?’ said Tiffany. ‘I would like to do that, miss, only they are stuck on the roof at the moment. The sound made by three witches is a lot of swearing, miss. ’ * * * If there had been swearing, the new arrivals had apparently run out of breath by the time Tiffany located the right window and crawled out onto the lead roof of the castle. There wasn’t very much to hold onto and it was pretty misty, but she carefully made her way out there on her hands and knees and headed towards the grumbling. ‘ Are there any witches up here?’ she said. And out of the gloom came the voice of somebody not even trying to keep their temper. ‘And what in the seven hells would you do if I said no, Miss Tiffany Aching?’ ‘ Mrs Proust? What are you doing here?’ ‘Holding onto a gargoyle! Get us down right now, my dear, because these are not my stones and Mrs Happenstance needs the privy. ’ Tiffany crawled a little further, well aware of the sheer drop an inch away from her hand. ‘Preston has gone to fetch a rope. Do you have a broomstick?’ ‘A sheep crashed into it,’ said Mrs Proust. Tiffany could just make her out now. ‘You crashed into a sheep in the air?’ ‘Maybe it was a cow, or something. What are those things that go snuffle snuffle ?’ ‘You ran into a flying hedgehog?’ ‘No, as it happened. We were down low, looking for a bush for Mrs Happenstance. ’ There was a sigh in the gloom. ‘It’s because of her trouble, poor soul. We’ve stopped at a lot of bushes on the way here, believe me! And do you know what? Inside every single one of them is something that stings, bites, kicks, screams, howls, squelches, farts enormously, goes all spiky, tries to knock you over or does an enormous pile of poo! Haven’t you people up here heard about porcelain?’ Tiffany was taken aback. ‘Well, yes, but not in fields!’ ‘They would be all the better for it,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘I’ve ruined a decent pair of boots, I have. ’ There was a clinking noise in the mist, and Tiffany was relieved to hear Preston say, ‘I have forced open the old trapdoor, ladies, if you would be kind enough to crawl this way?’ The trapdoor opened into a bedroom, clearly one that had been slept in last night by a woman. Tiffany bit her lip. ‘I think this is where the Duchess is staying. Please don’t touch anything , she’s bad enough as it is. ’ ‘Duchess? Sounds posh,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘What kind of a duchess, may I ask?’ Tiffany said, ‘The Duchess of Keepsake. You saw her when we had that bit of difficulty in the city. You know? At the King’s Head? They’ve got a huge property about thirty miles away. ’ ‘That’s nice,’ said Mrs Proust in a way that suggested that it probably wasn’t going to be very nice but would be very interesting, and probably embarrassing to somebody who wasn’t Mrs Proust. ‘I remember her, and I remember thinking when I got back from all that, Where have I seen you before, my lady? Do you know anything about her, my dear?’ ‘Well, her daughter told me that a terrible fire took away her property and her whole family before she married the Duke. ’ Mrs Proust brightened up, although it was the brightness on the edge of a knife. ‘Oh, really?’ she said, her voice all treacle. ‘Just fancy that. I look forward to meeting the lady again and offering my condolences …’ Tiffany decided that this was a puzzle she had no time to unravel, but there were other things to think about. ‘Er …?’ she began, looking at the very tall lady somehow trying to hide behind Mrs Proust, who turned round and said, ‘Oh dear me, where are my manners? I know, I never had any to start with.

Tiffany Aching, this is Miss Cambric, better known as Long Tall Short Fat Sally. Miss Cambric is being trained by old Mrs Happenstance, who was the one you briefly saw hurrying down the stairs with one aim in mind. Sally suffers terribly from tides, poor thing. I had to bring them both because Sally had the only working broomstick I could find and she wouldn’t leave Mrs Happenstance behind. It was the devil, keeping the broomstick trim. Don’t worry, she’ll be back to about five foot six in a few hours. Of course, she’s a martyr to ceilings. And Sally, you’d better get after Mrs Happenstance right now. ’ She waved a hand and the younger witch scurried off, looking nervous. When Mrs Proust gave orders, they tended to be obeyed. She turned back to Tiffany. ‘The thing that is after you has got a body now, young lady. He has stolen the body of a murderer locked up in the Tanty. You know what? Before the bloke got out of the building he killed his canary. They never kill their canary. It’s what you don’t do. You might beat another prisoner over the head with an iron bar in a riot, but you never kill a canary. That would be evil. ’ It was a strange way to introduce the subject, but Mrs Proust didn’t do small talk or, for that matter, reassurance. ‘I thought something like this would happen,’ said Tiffany. ‘I knew it would. What does he look like?’ ‘We lost him a couple of times,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Calls of nature, and so on. He might have broken into a house for better clothes, I couldn’t say. He won’t care about the body. He’ll run it until he finds another one or it falls to pieces. We’ll keep an eye out for him. And this is your steading?’ Tiffany sighed, ‘Yes. And now he is chasing me like a wolf after a lamb. ’ ‘Then if you care about people, you must get rid of him quick,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘If a wolf gets hungry enough it will eat anything. And now, where are your manners, Miss Aching? We’re cold and wet, and by the sound of it there is food and drink downstairs, am I right?’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, and you’ve come all this way to warn me,’ said Tiffany. Mrs Proust waved a hand as if it wasn’t important. ‘I’m sure Long Tall Short Fat Sally and Mrs Happenstance would like some refreshment after our long ride, but I’m just tired,’ she said. And then, to Tiffany’s horror, she flung herself backwards and landed on the Duchess’s bed with only her boots sticking off the end, dripping water. ‘This Duchess,’ she said, ‘has she been giving you any more grief at all?’ ‘Well, yes, I’m afraid so,’ said Tiffany. ‘She doesn’t seem to have any respect for anybody lower than a king, and even then I suspect that’s only a maybe. She bullies her daughter too,’ she added, and as an afterthought pointed out, ‘One of your customers, in fact. ’ And then she told Mrs Proust everything about Letitia and the Duchess because Mrs Proust was the kind of woman you told everything to, and as the story unfolded, Mrs Proust’s grin grew wider, and Tiffany needed no witch skill to suspect that the Duchess was going to be in some trouble. ‘I thought so. I never forget a face. Have you ever heard of the music hall, my dear? Oh, no. You wouldn’t have, not out here. It’s all about comedians and singers and talking-dog acts – and, of course, dancing girls. I think you are getting the picture here, are you not? Not such a bad job for a girl who could shake a handsome leg, especially since after the show all the posh gentlemen would be waiting outside the stage door to take them out for a lovely dinner and so on. ’ The witch took off her pointy hat and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. ‘Can’t abide broomsticks,’ she said. ‘They give me calluses in places where nobody should have calluses. ’ Tiffany was at a loss. She couldn’t demand that Mrs Proust get off the bed; it wasn’t her bed. It wasn’t her castle. She smiled. In fact it really wasn’t her problem. How nice to find a problem that wasn’t yours. ‘Mrs Proust,’ she said, ‘could I persuade you to come downstairs? There are some other witches down here who I would really like you to meet. ’ Preferably when I’m not in the room, she thought to herself, but I doubt if that would be possible. ‘Hedge witches?’ Mrs Proust sniffed. ‘Although there’s nothing actually wrong with hedge magic,’ she went on. ‘I met one once who could run her hands over a privet hedge and three months later it had grown into the shape of two peacocks and an offensively cute little dog holding a privet bone in its mouth, and all this, mark you, without a pair of shears being anywhere near it. ’ ‘Why did she want to do that?’ said Tiffany, astounded. ‘I doubt very much that she actually wanted to do it, but someone asked her to do it, and paid good money too and, strictly speaking, topiary is not actually illegal, although I rather suspect that one or two folk are going to be the first up against the hedge when the revolution comes. Hedge witches – that’s what we call country witches in the city. ’ ‘Oh, really,’ said Tiffany innocently. ‘Well, I don’t know what we call city witches in the country, but I am sure that Mistress Weatherwax will tell you. ’ She knew she should have felt guilty about this, but it had been a long day, after a long week, and a witch has got to have some fun in her life. The way downstairs took them past Letitia’s room. Tiffany heard voices, and a laugh. It was Nanny Ogg’s laugh. You couldn’t mistake that laugh; it was the kind of laugh that slapped you on the back. Then Letitia’s voice said, ‘Does that really work?’ And Nanny said something under her breath that Tiffany couldn’t quite hear, but whatever it was, it made Letitia almost choke with giggling. Tiffany smiled. The blushing bride was being instructed by somebody who had probably never blushed in her life, and it seemed quite a happy arrangement. At least she was not bursting into tears every five minutes. Tiffany led Mrs Proust down into the hall. It was amazing to see that all people needed to make them happy was food and drink and other people. Even with Nanny Ogg no longer chivvying them along, they were filling the place with, well, people being people. And, standing where she could see very nearly everybody, Granny Weatherwax. She was talking to Pastor Egg. Tiffany drifted up to her carefully, judging from the priest’s face that he wouldn’t mind at all if she intruded. Granny Weatherwax could be very forthright on the subject of religion. She saw him relax as she said, ‘Mistress Weatherwax, may I introduce to you Mrs Proust? From Ankh-Morpork, where she runs a remarkable emporium. ’ Swallowing, Tiffany turned to Mrs Proust and said,‘May I present to you Granny Weatherwax. ’ She stepped back as the two elderly witches looked at one another and then held her breath. The hall fell silent and neither of them blinked. And then – surely not – Granny Weatherwax winked and Mrs Proust smiled. ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Granny. ‘How very nice to see you,’ said Mrs Proust. They exchanged a further glance and turned to Tiffany Aching, who suddenly understood that old, clever witches had been older and cleverer for much longer than her. Granny Weatherwax almost laughed when Mrs Proust said, ‘We don’t need to know one another’s names to recognize one another, but can I suggest, young lady, that you start breathing again. ’ Granny Weatherwax lightly and primly took Mrs Proust’s arm and turned to where Nanny Ogg was coming down the stairs, followed by Letitia, who was blushing in places where people don’t often blush, and said, ‘Do come with me, my dear. You must meet my friend, Mrs Ogg, who buys quite a lot of your merchandise. ’ Tiffany walked away. For a brief moment in time, there was nothing for her to do. She looked down the length of the hall, where people were still gathering in little groups, and saw the Duchess by herself. Why did she do it? Why did she walk over to the woman? Maybe, she thought, if you know you are going to be facing a horrible monster, it is as well to get in a little practice. But to her absolute amazement, the Duchess was crying.

‘Can I help in any way?’ said Tiffany. She was the immediate subject of a glare, but the tears were still falling. ‘She’s all I’ve got,’ said the Duchess, looking over at Letitia, who was still trailing Nanny Ogg. ‘I’m sure Roland will be a very considerate husband. I hope she will think that I have given her a good grounding to get her safely through the world. ’ ‘I think you’ve definitely taught her many things,’ said Tiffany. But the Duchess was now staring at the witches, and without looking at Tiffany she said, ‘I know we’ve had our differences, young lady, but I wonder if you can tell me who that lady is up there, one of your sister witches, talking to the remarkably tall one. ’ Tiffany glanced around for a moment. ‘Oh, that’s Mrs Proust. She’s from Ankh-Morpork, you know. Is she an old friend of yours? She was asking about you, only a little while ago. ’ The Duchess smiled, but it was a strange little smile. If smiles had a colour, it would have been green. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That was, er’ – she paused, swaying a little – ‘very kind of her. ’ She coughed. ‘I am so glad that you and my daughter appear to be close chums and I would like to tender you my apologies for any hastiness on my part in recent days. I would also very much like to tender you and the hard-working staff here my apologies for what may have appeared to be high-handed behaviour, and I trust you will accept that these stemmed from a mother’s determination to do the very best for her child. ’ She spoke very carefully, the words coming out like children’s coloured building blocks, and between the blocks – like mortar – were the unspoken words: Please, please, don’t tell people I was a dancer in a music hall. Please! ‘Well, of course, we’re all on edge,’ said Tiffany. ‘Least said, soonest mended, as they say. ’ ‘Regrettably,’ said the Duchess, ‘I don’t think I said least. ’ Tiffany noticed that there was a large wine glass in her hand, and it was almost empty. The Duchess watched Tiffany for a while and then continued, ‘A wedding almost straight after a funeral, is that right?’ ‘Some people think that it’s bad luck to move a wedding once it’s planned,’ said Tiffany. ‘Do you believe in luck?’ said the Duchess. ‘I believe in not having to believe in luck,’ said Tiffany. ‘But, your grace, I can tell you in truth that at such times the universe gets a little closer to us. They are strange times, times of beginnings and endings. Dangerous and powerful. And we feel it even if we don’t know what it is. These times are not necessarily good, and not necessarily bad. In fact, what they are depends on what we are. ’ The Duchess looked down at the empty glass in her hand. ‘For some reason, I think I should be taking a nap. ’ She turned to head towards the stairs, nearly missing the first step. There was a burst of laughter from the other end of the hall. Tiffany followed the Duchess, but stopped to tap Letitia on the shoulder. ‘If I was you, I’d go and talk to your mum before she goes upstairs. I think she’d like to talk to you now. ’ She bent down and whispered in her ear, ‘But don’t tell her too much about what Nanny Ogg said. ’ Letitia looked about to object, saw Tiffany’s expression, thought better of it and intercepted her mother. And now, suddenly, Granny Weatherwax was at Tiffany’s side. After a while, as if addressing the air, Granny said, ‘You have a good steading here. Nice people. And I’ll tell you one thing. He is near. ’ Tiffany noticed that the other witches – even Long Tall Short Fat Sally – were now lining up just behind Granny Weatherwax. She was the focus of their stares, and when a lot of witches are staring at you, you can feel it like the sun. ‘Is there something you want to say?’ said Tiffany. ‘There is, isn’t there?’ It wasn’t often, and in fact now Tiffany came to think of it, it wasn’t ever that she had seen Granny Weatherwax look worried. ‘You are certain that you can best the Cunning Man, are you not? I see you don’t wear midnight yet. ’ ‘When I am old , I shall wear midnight,’ said Tiffany. ‘It’s a matter of choice. And Granny, I know why you are here. It is to kill me if I fail, isn’t it?’ ‘Blast it,’ Granny Weatherwax said. ‘You are a witch, a good witch. But some of us think that it might be best if we insisted on helping you. ’ ‘No,’ said Tiffany. ‘My steading. My mess. My problem. ’ ‘No matter what?’ said Granny. ‘Definitely!’ ‘Well, I commend you for your adherence to your position and wish you … no, not luck, but certainty!’ There was a susurration among the witches and Granny snapped sharply, ‘She has made her decision and that, ladies, is it. ’ ‘No contest,’ said Nanny Ogg with a grin. ‘I very nearly pity him. Kick him in the— Kick him anywhere you can, Tiff!’ ‘It’s your ground,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘How can a witch do anything but succeed on her own home ground?’ Granny Weatherwax nodded. ‘If you have let pride get the better of you, then you have already lost, but if you grab pride by the scruff of the neck and ride it like a stallion, then you may have already won. And now I think it’s time for you to prepare, Miss Tiffany Aching. Do you have a plan for the morning?’ Tiffany looked into the piercing blue eyes. ‘Yes. Not to lose. ’ ‘That’s a good plan. ’ Mrs Proust shook Tiffany with a hand that was prickly with warts and said, ‘By happy accident, my girl, I think I should go and slay a monster myself …’ 29 You had been a sad little white kitten when Tiffany had given her to the old witch. Now she was a queen, far more snobbish than the Duchess. She must have recognized Tiffany because she graciously condescended to blink at her and then look away as if bored. There were never any mice in Granny’s cottage these days; You just stared at them until they realized how worthless they were and slunk away. Chapter 14 BURNING THE KING T IFFANY KNEW SHE wouldn’t go to sleep that night, and didn’t try. People sat together in little groups, talking, and there was still food and drink on the tables. Possibly because of the drink, the people didn’t actually notice how fast the food and drink were disappearing, but Tiffany was certain she could hear faint noises in the beams high above. Of course, witches were proverbially good at stuffing food into their pockets for later, but probably the Feegles outdid them by sheer numbers. Tiffany moved aimlessly from group to group, and when the Duchess finally left to go upstairs, she didn’t follow her. She was quite emphatic to herself that she wasn’t following. She just happened to be going in the same direction. And, when she darted across the stone floor to reach the door of the Duchess’s room, just after it closed behind the woman, she wasn’t doing this in order to eavesdrop. Certainly not. She was just in time to hear the beginning of an angry scream, and then Mrs Proust’s voice: ‘Why, Deirdre Parsley! Long time, no sequins! Can you still high-kick a man’s top hat off his head?’ And then there was silence. And Tiffany left hurriedly, because the door was very thick and someone would be bound to notice if she stood there any longer with her ear pressed to it. So she went back down in time to talk to Long Tall Short Fat Sally and Mrs Happenstance, who she now realized was blind, which was unfortunate but not – for a witch – too much of a tragedy. They always had a few extra senses to spare. And then she went down into the crypt. There were flowers all around the old Baron’s tomb, but not on it because the marble lid was so beautifully made that it would be a shame even to cover it with roses. On the stone, stonemasons had carved the Baron himself, in armour and holding his sword; it was so perfectly done that it looked as if he might, at any moment, get up and walk away. At the four corners of the slab, candles burned. Tiffany walked to and fro past other dead barons in stone. Here and there was a wife, carved with her hands peacefully folded; it was … strange. There were no gravestones on the Chalk. Stone was too precious.

There were burying grounds, and in the castle somewhere was an ancient book of faded maps that showed where people had been put. The only common person to have a memorial, who was in most respects an extremely uncommon person, was Granny Aching; the cast-iron wheels and pot-bellied stove that were all that remained of her shepherding hut would certainly survive for another hundred years. It had been good metal, and the endlessly nibbling sheep kept the ground around it as smooth as a tabletop, and besides, the grease from the sheep’s fleeces as they rubbed up against the wheels were as good as oil for keeping the metal as fine as the day it was cast. In the old days, before a knight became a knight, he would spend a night in his hall with his weapons, praying to whichever gods were listening to give him strength and good wisdom. She was sure she heard those words spoken, at least in her head if not in her ears. She turned and looked at the sleeping knights, and wondered if Mrs Proust was right, and stone had a memory. And what are my weapons? she thought. And the answer came to her instantly: pride. Oh, you hear them say it’s a sin; you hear them say it goes before a fall. And that can’t be true. The blacksmith prides himself on a good weld; the carter is proud that his horses are well turned out, gleaming like fresh chestnuts in the sunshine; the shepherd prides himself on keeping the wolf from the flock; the cook prides herself on her cakes. We pride ourselves on making a good history of our lives, a good story to be told. And I also have fear – the fear that I will let others down – and because I fear, I will overcome that fear. I will not disgrace those who have trained me. And I have trust, even though I am not sure what it is I am trusting. ‘Pride, fear and trust,’ she said aloud. And in front of her the four candles streamed fire, as if driven by the wind, and for a moment she was certain, in the rush of light, that the figure of an old witch was melting into the dark stone. ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘And I have fire. ’ And then, not knowing exactly why, she said, ‘When I am old, I shall wear midnight. But not today. ’ Tiffany held up her lantern and the shadows moved, but one, which looked very much like an old woman in black, faded completely. And I know why the hare leaps into the fire, and tomorrow … No, today, I am leaping into it too. She smiled. When Tiffany got back in the hall, the witches were all watching her from the stairs. Tiffany had wondered how Granny and Mrs Proust would get on, given that both of them were as proud as a cat full of sixpences. But they seemed to be getting on well enough in a talking- about-the-weather, the-manners-of-young-people-these-days and the-scandalous-price-of-cheese sort of way. But Nanny Ogg looked unusually worried. Seeing Nanny Ogg looking worried was worrying. It was past midnight – technically speaking, the witching hour. In real life every hour was a witching hour, but nevertheless the way the two hands on the clock stood straight up was slightly eerie. ‘I hear that the lads came back from their stag-night fun,’ said Nanny, ‘but it seems to me they’ve forgotten where they left the groom. I don’t think he is going to go anywhere, though. They are pretty certain they took his trousers down and tied him to something. ’ She coughed. ‘That’s generally the usual procedure. Technically the best man is supposed to remember where, but they found him and he can’t remember his own name. ’ The clock in the hall struck midnight; it was never on time. Each strike may as well have hit Tiffany’s backbone. And there, marching towards her, was Preston. And it seemed to Tiffany that for quite some time, wherever she had looked, there was Preston, looking smart and clean and – somehow – hopeful. ‘Look, Preston,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got time to explain things, and I’m not certain you would believe them – no, you probably would believe them if I told you them. I have to go out there to kill that monster before it kills me. ’ ‘Then I will protect you,’ said Preston. ‘Anyway, my commander-in-chief might be out there somewhere in the pigsty with a sow sniffing his unmentionables! And I represent the temporal power here!’ ‘ You? ’ Tiffany snapped. Preston stuck out his chest, although it didn’t go very far. ‘As a matter of fact, yes: the lads made me officer of the Watch so that they could all have a drink, and right now the sergeant is in the kitchen, throwing up in the sink. He thought he could outdrink Mrs Ogg!’ He saluted. ‘I’m going out there with you, miss. And you can’t stop me. No offence meant, of course. However by virtue of the power invested in me by the sergeant, in between him throwing up into the sink, I would like to commandeer you and your broomstick to assist me in my search, if that is all right with you?’ It was a dreadful question to ask a witch. On the other hand, it was being asked by Preston. ‘All right then,’ she said, ‘but do try not to scratch it. And there is one thing that I have to do first. Do excuse me. ’ She walked a little way over to the open door of the hall and leaned against the cold stonework. ‘I know there are Feegles listening to me,’ she said. ‘Oh aye,’ said a voice about one inch from her ear. ‘Well, I don’t want you to help me tonight. This is a hag thing, you understand?’ ‘Oh aye, we seen the big posse of hags. It’s a big hag night the noo. ’ ‘I must—’ Tiffany began. And then an idea struck her. ‘I have to fight the man with no eyes. And they are here to see how good a fighter I am. And so I mustn’t cheat by using Feegles. That’s an important hag rule. Of course, I respect the fact that cheating is an honourable Feegle tradition, but hags don’t cheat,’ she went on, aware that this was a huge lie. ‘If you help me, they will know, and all the hags will put me to scorn. ’ And Tiffany thought, And if I lose, it will be Feegles versus hags, and that’s a battle that the world will remember. No pressure, eh? Aloud, she said, ‘You understand, right? This once, just this once, you will do as I tell you and not help me. ’ ‘Aye, we understand ye. But ye ken that Jeannie says we must look out for ye at all times, because ye are our hag o’ the hills,’ said Rob. ‘I’m sorry to say that the kelda is not here,’ said Tiffany, ‘but I am and I have to tell you that if you help me this once I will no longer be your hag o’ the hills. I’m under a geas, ye ken. It’s a hag geas, and that’s a big geas indeed. ’ She heard a group groan, and added, ‘I mean it. The chief hag is Granny Weatherwax and you know her. ’ There was another groan. ‘There you are then,’ said Tiffany. ‘This time, please, let me do things my way. Is that understood?’ There was a pause, and then the voice of Rob Anybody said, ‘Och aye. ’ ‘Very well,’ said Tiffany, and took a deep breath and went to find her broomstick. Taking Preston with her didn’t seem such a good idea as they rose above the roofs of the castle. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you were scared of flying?’ she said. ‘That’s hardly fair,’ said Preston. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever flown. ’ When they were at a decent height, Tiffany looked at the weather. There were clouds above the mountains, and the occasional flash of summer lightning. She could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. You were never far from a thunderstorm in the mountains. The mist had lifted, and the moon was up; it was a perfect night. And there was a breeze. She had hoped for this. And Preston had his arms around her waist; she wasn’t sure whether she had hoped for that or not. They were well down onto the plains at the foot of the Chalk now, and even by moonlight Tiffany could see dark rectangles where earlier fields had been cleared. The men were always meticulous about not letting the fires get out of hand; nobody wanted wildfire – there was no telling what that would burn. The field they reached was the very last one. They always called it the King. Usually when the King was burned, half the village was waiting to catch any rabbits that fled the flames.

That should have happened today, but everybody had been … otherwise occupied. The chicken houses and the pigsty were in a field just above it at the top of a bank, and it was said that the King grew such bountiful crops because the men found it much easier to cart the mulch onto the King rather than take it all to the lower fields. They landed by the pigsties, to the usual ferocious screaming of piglets, who believed that no matter what is actually happening, the world is trying to saw them in half. She sniffed. The air smelled of pig; she was sure, absolutely sure, that she would nevertheless smell the ghost if and when he was here. Mucky though they were, the pigs nevertheless had a natural smell; the smell of the ghost, on the other hand, would make a pig smell like violets by comparison. She shuddered. The wind was getting up. ‘Are you sure you can kill it?’ whispered Preston. ‘I think I can make it kill itself. And Preston, I absolutely forbid you to help me. ’ ‘I’m sorry,’ said Preston. ‘Temporal power, you understand. You can’t give me orders, Miss Aching, if that’s all right by you. ’ ‘You mean your sense of duty and your obedience to your commander means that you must help me?’ she said. ‘Well, yes, miss,’ said Preston, ‘and a few other considerations. ’ ‘Then I really need you, Preston, I really do. I think I could do this myself, but it will make it so much easier if you help me. What I want you to do is—’ She was almost certain that the ghost would not be able to over-hear, but she lowered her voice anyway, and Preston absorbed her words without blinking and simply said, ‘That sounds pretty straightforward, miss. You can rely on the temporal power. ’ ‘ Yuck! How did I end up here? ’ Something grey and sticky and smelling very much of pig and beer tried to pull itself over the pigsty wall. Tiffany knew it was Roland, but only because it was highly improbable that two bridegrooms had been thrown into the pigsty tonight. And he rose like something nasty from the swamp, dripping … well, just dripping; there was hardly any necessity to go into details. Bits of him splashed off. He hiccupped. ‘There appears to be an enormous pig in my bedroom, and it would seem that I have mislaid my trousers,’ he said, his voice baffled by alcohol. The young Baron peered around, understanding not so much dawning as bursting. ‘I don’t think this is my bedroom, is it?’ he said, and slowly slipped back into the sty. She smelled the ghost. Over and above the mix of smells coming from the pigsty it stood out like a fox among chickens. And now the ghost spoke, in a voice of horror and decay. I can feel you here, witch, and others too. I do not care about them, but this new body, while not very robust, has … a permanent agenda of its own. I am strong. I am coming. You cannot save everybody. I doubt if your fiendish flying stick can carry four people. Who will you leave behind? Why not leave them all? Why not leave the tiresome rival, the boy who spurned you, and the persistent young man? Oh, I know how you think, witch! But I don’t think that way, Tiffany thought to herself. Oh, I might have liked to see Roland in the pigsty, but people aren’t just people, they are people surrounded by circumstances. But you aren’t. You’re not even people any more. Beside her, with a horrible sucking noise, Preston pulled Roland out of the pigsty, against the protest of the sow. How lucky for both of them that they couldn’t hear the voice. She paused. Four people? The tiresome rival? But there was only herself, Roland and Preston, wasn’t there? She looked towards the far end of the field, in the moon shadow of the castle. A white figure was running towards them at speed. It had to be Letitia. Nobody around here wore so much billowing white all the time. Tiffany’s mind spun with the algebra of tactics. ‘Preston, off you go. Take the broomstick. ’ Preston nodded and then saluted, with a grin. ‘At your service, miss. ’ Letitia arrived in a flurry and expensive white slippers. She stopped dead when she saw Roland, who was sober enough to try to cover, with his hands, what Tiffany knew she would always now think of as his passionate parts. This simply made a squelching noise, since he was thickly encrusted in pig muck. ‘One of his chums told me they threw him in the pigsty for a laugh!’ Letitia said indignantly. ‘And they call themselves his friends!’ ‘I think they think that’s what friends are for,’ said Tiffany absentmindedly. To herself she thought, Is this going to work? Have I overlooked something? Have I understood what I should do? Who do I think I’m talking to? I suppose I’m looking for a sign, just a sign. There was a rustling noise. She looked down. A hare looked up at her and then, without panicking, lost herself in the stubbles. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ said Tiffany, and felt panicked herself. After all, was that an omen, or was it just a hare who was old enough not to run instantly when she saw people? And it wasn’t good manners, she was sure, to ask for a second sign to tell you if the first sign wasn’t just a coincidence, was it? At this point, this very point, Roland started to sing, possibly because of drink, but also perhaps because Letitia was industriously wiping him down while keeping her eyes closed so that, as an unmarried woman, she wouldn’t see anything unseemly or surprising. And the song that Roland sang went: ‘ Tis pleasant and delightful on the bright summer’s morn, to see the fields and the meadows all covered in corn, and the small birds were singing on every green spray, and the larks they sang melodious, at the dawning of the day …’ He paused. ‘My father used to sing that quite a lot when we walked in these fields …’ he said. He was at that stage when drunken men started to cry, and the tears left little trails of pink behind as the muck was washed from his cheeks. But Tiffany thought, Thank you. An omen was an omen. You picked the ones that worked. And this was the big field, the field where they burned the last of the stubbles. And the hare runs into the fire. Oh, yes, the omens. They were always so important. ‘Listen to me, both of you. I am not going to be argued with by you, because you, Roland, are rascally drunk and you, Letitia, are a witch’ – Letitia beamed at that point – ‘who is junior to me, and therefore both of you will do what I tell you. And that way, all of us may get back to the castle alive. ’ They both stopped and listened, Roland swaying gently. ‘When I shout,’ Tiffany continued, ‘I want you to each grab one of my hands and run ! Turn if I turn, stop if I stop, although I doubt very much that I shall want to stop. Above all, don’t be afraid, and trust me. I’m almost sure I know what I’m doing. ’ Tiffany realized that this wasn’t the best assurance, but they didn’t seem to notice. She added, ‘And when I say leap, leap as if a devil is behind you, because it will be. ’ The stink was suddenly unbearable. The sheer hatred in it seemed to beat on Tiffany’s brain. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes, she thought as she stared into the night-time gloom. By the stinking of my nose, something evil this way goes, she added, to stop herself gibbering as she scanned the distant hedge for movement. And there was a figure. There, heavy-set, walking towards them down the length of the field. It moved slowly, but was gathering speed. There was an awkwardness about it. ‘ When he takes over a body, the owner of the body becomes a part of him too. No escape, no release. ’ That’s what Eskarina had told her. Nothing good, nothing capable of redemption, could have thoughts that stank like that. She gripped the hands of the arguing couple and dragged them into a run. The … creature was between them and the castle. And was going more slowly than she’d expected. She risked another look and saw the glint of metal in its hands. Knives. ‘Come on!’ ‘These aren’t very good shoes for running in,’ Letitia pointed out.

‘My head aches,’ Roland supplied as Tiffany towed them towards the bottom of the field, ignoring all complaints as dry corn stalks snatched at them, caught hair, scratched legs and stung feet. They were barely going at a jog. The creature was following them doggedly. As soon as they turned to run up towards the castle and safety, it would gain on them … But the creature was having difficulties as well, and Tiffany wondered how far you could push a body if you didn’t feel its pain, couldn’t feel the agony of the lungs, the pounding of the heart, the cracking of the bones, the dreadful ache that pushed you to the last gasp and beyond. Mrs Proust had whispered to her, eventually, the things that the man Macintosh had done, as if saying the words aloud would pollute the air. Against that, how did you rank the crushing of the little songbird? And yet somehow that lodged in the mind as a crime beyond mercy. There will be no mercy for a song now silenced. No redemption for killing hope in the darkness. I know you. You are what whispered in Petty’s ear before he beat up his daughter. You are the first blast of the rough music. You look over the shoulder at the man as he picks up the first stone, and although I think you are part of us all and we will never be rid of you, we can certainly make your life hell. No mercy. No redemption. Glancing back, she saw its face looming bigger now and redoubled her efforts to drag the tired and reluctant couple over the rough ground. She managed a breath to say, ‘Look at him! Look at it! Do you want him to catch us?’ She heard a brief scream from Letitia and a groan of sudden sobriety from her husband-to-be. The eyes of the luckless Macintosh were bloodshot and wide open, the lips stuck in a frenzied grin. It tried to take advantage of the sudden narrowed gap but the other two had found fresh strength in their fear and they were almost pulling Tiffany along. And now there was a clear run up the field. It all depended on Preston. Amazingly, Tiffany felt confident. He is trustworthy, she thought, but there was a horrible gurgle behind them. The ghost was driving its host harder, and she could imagine the swish of a long knife. Timing had to be everything. Preston was trustworthy. He had understood, hadn’t he? Of course he had. She could trust Preston. Later on, what she remembered most was the silence, broken only by the crackling of the stalks and the heavy breathing of Letitia and Roland and the horrible wheezing of their pursuer. In her head the silence was broken by the voice of the Cunning Man. You are setting a trap. Filth! Do you think I can be so easily caught again? Little girls who play with fire will get burned, and you will burn, I promise you, oh you will burn. Where then will be the pride of witches! Vessels of iniquity! Handmaidens of uncleanliness! Defilers of all that is holy! Tiffany kept her eyes fixed on the end of the field as tears streamed out. She couldn’t help it. It was impossible to keep the vileness out; it drizzled in like poison, seeping into her ears and flowing under her skin. Another swish in the air behind them made all three runners find redoubled strength, but she knew it couldn’t go on. Was that Preston she saw in the gloom ahead? Then who was the dark figure beside him, looking like an old witch in a pointy hat? Even as she stared at it, it faded away. But suddenly fire burst up and Tiffany could hear the crackling as it spread like a sunrise across the field towards them, sparks filling the sky with extra stars. And the wind blew hard and she heard the stinking voice again: You will burn. You will burn! And the wind gusted and the flames blew up, and now a wall of fire was racing through the stubbles as fast as the wind itself. Tiffany looked down and the hare was back, running along beside them without any apparent effort; she looked at Tiffany, flicked up her legs and ran, ran directly towards the fire now, seriously ran. ‘Run!’ Tiffany commanded. ‘The fire will not burn you if you do what I say! Run fast! Run fast! Roland, run to save Letitia. Letitia, run to save Roland. ’ The fire was almost on them. I need the strength, she thought. I need the power. And she remembered Nanny Ogg saying: ‘The world changes. The world flows. There’s power there, my girl. ’ Weddings and funerals are a time of power … yes, weddings. Tiffany grasped their two hands even tighter. And here it came. A crackling, roaring wall of flame … ‘Leap!’ And as they leaped, she screamed: ‘ Leap, knave. jump, whore. ’ She felt them lift as the fire reached them. Time hesitated. A rabbit sped past beneath them, fleeing in terror from the flames. He will flee, she thought. He will run from the fire, but the fire will run to him. And the fire runs much faster than a dying body. Tiffany floated in a ball of yellow flame. The hare drifted past her, a creature happy in her element. We are not as fast as you, she thought. We will get singed. She looked right and left at the bride and groom, who were staring ahead as if hypnotised, and pulled them towards her. She understood. I am going to marry you, Roland. I said I would. She would make something beautiful out of this fire. ‘Back to the hells you came from, you Cunning Man,’ she yelled above the flames. ‘ Leap, knave! jump, whore! ’ she screamed again. ‘ Be married now for ever more! ‘ And this is a wedding, she said to herself. A fresh start. And for a few seconds in the world, this is a place of power. Oh yes, a place of power. They landed, rolling, behind the wall of fire. Tiffany was ready, stamping out embers and kicking the small flames that remained. Preston was suddenly there too, picking up Letitia and carrying her out of the ash. Tiffany put an arm round Roland, who had had a soft landing (possibly on his head, part of Tiffany thought), and followed him. ‘Looks like very minor burns and some frizzled hair,’ said Preston, ‘and as for your old boyfriend, I think his mud is now baked on. How did you manage it?’ Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘The hare jumps through the flames so fast that she barely feels them,’ she said, ‘and when she lands, she lands on hot ash mostly. A grass fire burns out quickly under a strong wind. ’ There was a scream from behind them, and she imagined a lumbering figure trying to outrun the wind-driven flames bearing down on it, and failing. She felt the pain of a creature that had twisted through the world for hundreds of years. ‘The three of you, stay right here. Do not follow me! Preston, look after them!’ Tiffany walked across the cooling ash. I have to see, she thought. I have to witness. I have to know what it is that I have done! The dead man’s clothes were smouldering. There was no pulse. He did terrible things to people, she thought: things that made even the prison warders sick. But what was done to him first? Was he just a much worse version of Mr Petty? Could he ever have been good? How do you change the past? Where does evil begin? She felt the words slide into her mind like a worm: Murderer, filth, killer! And she felt she should apologize to her ears for what they had to hear. But the voice of the ghost was weak and thin and querulous, sliding backwards into history. You can’t reach me, she thought. You are used up. You are too weak now. How hard was it, forcing a man to run himself to death? You can’t get in. I can feel you trying. She reached down into the ash and picked up a lump of flint, still warm from the fire; the soil was full of it, the sharpest of stones. Born in the chalk, and so in a way was Tiffany. Its smoothness was the touch of a friend. ‘You never learn, do you?’ she said. ‘You don’t understand that other people think too. Of course you wouldn’t run into the fire; but in your arrogance you never realized that the fire would run to you. ’ Your power is only rumour and lies, she thought. You bore your way into people when they are uncertain and weak and worried and frightened, and they think their enemy is other people when their enemy is, and always will be, you – the master of lies.

Outside, you are fearsome; inside, you are nothing but weakness. Inside, I am flint. She felt the heat of the whole field, steadied herself and gripped the stone. How dare you come here, you worm! How dare you trespass on what is mine! She felt the flint get hotter in her hand and then melt and flow between her fingers and drip onto the soil as she concentrated. She had never tried this before and she took a deep breath of air that somehow the flames had cleansed. And if you come back, Cunning Man, there will be another witch like me. There will always be another witch like me, because there are always going to be things like you, because we make space for them. But right now, on this bleeding piece of earth, I am the witch and you are nothing. By the blinking of my eyes, something wicked this way dies. A hiss in her mind faded away and left her alone among her thoughts. ‘No mercy,’ she said aloud, ‘no redemption. You forced a man to kill his harmless songbird, and somehow I think that was the greatest crime of them all. ’ By the time she had walked back up the field, she had managed to become, once again, the Tiffany Aching who knew how to make cheese and deal with everyday chores and didn’t squeeze molten rock between her fingers. The happy but slightly singed couple were beginning to take some notice of things. Letitia sat up. ‘I feel cooked,’ she said. ‘What’s that smell?’ ‘Sorry, it’s you,’ said Tiffany, ‘and I’m afraid that wonderful lace nightshirt might just about be usable to clean windows from now on. I’m afraid we didn’t leap as fast as the hare. ’ Letitia looked around. ‘Is Roland … is he all right?’ ‘Right as rain,’ said Preston cheerily. ‘The wet pig muck really helped. ’ Letitia paused for a moment. ‘And that … thing?’ ‘Gone,’ said Tiffany. ‘Are you sure Roland is all right?’ Letitia insisted. Preston grinned. ‘Absolutely tickety boo, miss. Nothing important has been burned away, although it might be a little painful when we take the crusts off. He’s somewhat baked on, if you get my meaning. ’ Letitia nodded and then turned, slowly, to Tiffany. ‘What was that you said when we were jumping?’ Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘I married you. ’ ‘You, that is to say you , married, which is to say, wedded … us ?’ said Letitia. ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘That is to say, certainly. Jumping over the fire together is a very ancient form of marriage. Doesn’t need any priests either, which is a great saving on the catering. ’ The possible bride weighed this one up. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Well, that’s what Mrs Ogg told me,’ said Tiffany, ‘and I’ve always wanted to try it. ’ This seemed to meet with Letitia’s approval, because she said, ‘Mrs Ogg is a very knowledgeable lady, I must admit. She knows a surprising number of things. ’ Tiffany, keeping her face as straight as possible, said, ‘A surprising number of surprising things. ’ ‘Oh, yes … Er. ’ Letitia cleared her throat rather hesitantly and followed up ‘er’ with an ‘um’. ‘Is something wrong?’ said Tiffany. ‘That word you used about me while we were jumping. I think it was a bad word. ’ Tiffany had been expecting this. ‘Well, apparently it’s traditional. ’ Her voice almost as hesitant as Letitia’s, she added, ‘And I don’t think Roland is a knave, either. And, of course, words and their usage do change over the years. ’ ‘I don’t think that one does!’ said Letitia. ‘Well, it depends on circumstance and context,’ said Tiffany. ‘But frankly, Letitia, a witch will use any tool at hand in an emergency, as you might learn one day. Besides, the way we think about some words does change. For example, do you know the meaning of the word “buxom”?’ She thought to herself, Why am I making this small talk? I know: because it’s an anchor, and reassures me that I am a human being among other humans, and it helps wash the terror out of my soul … ‘Yes,’ said the bride-to-be. ‘I’m afraid I’m not, very, um, large in that department. ’ ‘That would have been a bit unfortunate a couple of hundred years ago because the wedding service in those days required a bride to be buxom towards her husband. ’ ‘I’d have had to push a cushion down my bodice!’ ‘Not really; it used to mean kind, understanding and obedient,’ said Tiffany. ‘Oh, I can do those,’ said Letitia. ‘At least, the first two,’ she added with a grin. She cleared her throat. ‘What is it, apart from getting married, of course – and I am very amused about that – that we have just done?’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany. ‘You have helped me trap one of the worst monsters that has ever fouled the world. ’ The new bride brightened up. ‘Did we? Well, that’s good,’ she said. ‘I’m very glad we did that. I don’t know how we can repay you for all your help though. ’ ‘Well, clean used linen and old boots are always welcome,’ said Tiffany seriously. ‘But you don’t have to thank me for being a witch. I’d much prefer that you thanked my friend Preston. He put himself in real danger for the pair of you. At least we were together. He was out here all by himself. ’ ‘That is, in point of actual fact,’ said Preston, ‘not entirely accurate. Apart from anything else, all my matches were damp, but fortuitously Mr Daft Wullie and his chums were very kind enough to lend me some. And I’ve been told to tell ye that that was OK, because they was helping me, not ye! And although there are ladies present, I have to say that they did assist in getting things going quickly by flapping the flames with their kilts. A sight, I may say, that once seen is never forgotten. ’ ‘I would very much have liked to have seen it,’ said Letitia politely. ‘Anyway,’ said Tiffany, trying to get the mental picture out of her mind, ‘it might be best to concentrate on the fact that you will be somewhat more acceptably married by Pastor Egg tomorrow. And you know something very important about tomorrow? It’s today !’ Roland, who was holding his head and groaning, blinked and said, ‘What is?’ Chapter 15 A SHADOW AND A WHISPER I T WAS, ON THE WHOLE , a pretty good wedding in Tiffany’s opinion, a pretty good wedding. Pastor Egg, aware of the unusual number of witches in the audience, kept the religion to a minimum. The blushing bride walked up the hall, and Tiffany saw her blush a little more when she caught sight of Nanny Ogg, who gave her a cheerful thumbs-up as she passed. And then there was the throwing of the rice, followed of course by the careful sweeping up of the rice, because it was wicked to waste good food. Then there was general cheering and congratulations and, to the surprise of some, a happy, beaming Duchess, who chatted merrily, even to the maids, and appeared to have a kind and reassuring word for everybody. And only Tiffany knew why the woman shot occasional nervous glances towards Mrs Proust. Tiffany left then, to sneak away and help Preston in the King field, where he was digging a hole deep enough so that the plough would never find the charred remains that were collected and thrown down it. They washed their hands with vicious lye soap, because you could never be too careful. It was not, strictly speaking, a very romantic occasion. ‘Do you think he will ever come back?’ said Preston as they leaned on their shovels. Tiffany nodded. ‘The Cunning Man will, at least. Poison is always welcome somewhere. ’ ‘What will you do now he’s gone?’ ‘Oh, you know, all the exciting stuff; somewhere there is always a leg that needs bandaging or a nose that needs blowing. It’s busy, busy all day long. ’ ‘It doesn’t sound very exciting. ’ ‘Well, I suppose so,’ said Tiffany, ‘but compared to yesterday that kind of day suddenly seems to be a very good day. ’ They headed towards the hall, where the wedding breakfast was now being served as lunch. ‘You are a young man of considerable resourcefulness,’ Tiffany said to Preston, ‘and I thank you very much for your help. ’ Preston nodded happily. ‘Thank you very much for that, miss, thank you very much indeed, but with just one little – how can I put it – correction.

You are, after all, sixteen, more or less, and I am seventeen, so I think you will conclude that calling me young man … I will own up to a cheerful and youthful disposition, but I am older than you, my girl. ’ There was a pause. Then Tiffany said carefully, ‘How do you know how old I am?’ ‘I asked around,’ said Preston, his eager smile never leaving his face. ‘Why?’ Tiffany didn’t get an answer because the sergeant came out of the main door with confetti cascading off his helmet. ‘Oh, there you are, miss. The Baron’s been asking after you, and so has the Baroness. ’ He paused to smile and said, ‘Nice to have one of them again. ’ His gaze fell on Preston and the sergeant frowned. ‘Lollygagging again, as usual, Lance Private Preston?’ Preston saluted smartly, ‘You are correct in your surmise, Sergeant; you have voiced an absolute truth. ’ This got Preston the puzzled glare he always got from the sergeant, and there was also a disapproving grunt, which meant: One day I’ll work out what it is you are saying, my lad, and then you’ll be in trouble. Weddings can be rather similar to funerals in that, apart from the main players, when it’s all over, people are never quite sure what they should be doing next, which is why they see if there is any wine left. But Letitia was looking radiant, which is compulsory for brides, and the slightly frizzled bits of her hair had been neatly concealed by her brilliant, sparkly tiara. Roland had also scrubbed up quite well, and you had to be quite close to him to smell pig. ‘About last night …’ he began nervously. ‘Er, it did happen, didn’t it? I mean, I remember the pigsty, and we were all running, but …’ His voice faded away. Tiffany looked at Letitia, who mouthed the words, ‘I remember everything !’ Yes, she really is a witch, Tiffany thought. That’s going to be interesting. Roland coughed. Tiffany smiled. ‘Dear Miss Aching,’ he said, and for once Tiffany forgave him his ‘public meeting’ voice, ‘I am well aware that I have been party to a miscarriage of natural justice vis-à-vis your good self. ’ He stopped to clear his throat again and Tiffany thought, I really hope that Letitia can wash some of the starch out of him. ‘With this in mind, I spoke to young Preston here, who talked to the kitchen girls in his cheery way and found out where the nurse had gone. She had spent some of the money, but most of it is here and it is, I am happy to say, yours. ’ At this point somebody nudged Tiffany. It was Preston, who hissed, ‘We’ve found this too. ’ She looked down, and he pressed a worn leather folder into her hand. She nodded in grateful thanks and looked at Roland. ‘Your father wanted you to have this,’ she said. ‘It may be worth more to you than all that money. I would wait until you are alone before you look at it. ’ He turned it over in his hands. ‘What is it?’ ‘Just a memory,’ said Tiffany. ‘Just a memory. ’ The sergeant stepped forward then and tipped a heavy leather bag onto the table, among the glasses and flowers. There was a gasp from the guests. I’m being watched like hawks by my sister witches, thought Tiffany, and I am also being watched by practically everyone I know, and who know me. I’ve got to do this right. And I’ve got to do this so that everybody remembers it. ‘I think you should keep it, sir,’ she said. Roland looked relieved, but Tiffany went on, ‘However, I have a few simple requests on behalf of other people. ’ Letitia nudged her husband in the ribs and he spread out his hands. ‘This is my wedding day! How can I refuse any request?’ ‘The girl Amber Petty needs a dowry which, incidentally, would allow her young man to buy his indenture to a master craftsman, and you might not be aware that he sewed the gown that is currently adorning your beautiful young wife. Have you ever seen anything finer?’ This got an immediate round of applause, along with whistles from Roland’s chums, who whimsically called out things like, ‘Which one? The girl or the dress!’ When that was over, Tiffany said, ‘And furthermore, sir, and with your indulgence, I would like your pledge that any boy or girl from the Chalk with such a similar request will find you obliging. I think you will agree that I am asking for a lot less than I am returning to you?’ ‘Tiffany, I believe you are correct,’ said Roland, ‘but I suspect you have more up your sleeve?’ ‘How well you know me, sir,’ said Tiffany and Roland, just for a moment, went pink. ‘I want a school, sir. I want a school here on the Chalk. I‘ve been thinking about this for a long time – in fact for longer than I had worked out the name for what I wanted. There’s an old barn on Home Farm that isn’t being used right now and I think we could make it quite acceptable in a week or so. ’ ‘Well, the travelling teachers do come through every few months,’ said the Baron. ‘Yes, sir, I know, sir, and they’re useless, sir. They teach facts, not understanding. It’s like teaching people about forests by showing them a saw. I want a proper school, sir, to teach reading and writing, and most of all thinking, sir, so people can find what they’re good at, because someone doing what they really like is always an asset to any country, and too often people never find out until it’s too late. ’ She deliberately looked away from the sergeant, but her words had caused a susurration around the room, Tiffany was glad to hear. She drowned it out with, ‘There have been times, lately, when I dearly wished that I could change the past. Well, I can’t, but I can change the present, so that when it becomes the past it will turn out to be a past worth having. And I’d like the boys to learn about girls and I’d like the girls to learn about boys. Learning is about finding out who you are, what you are, where you are and what you are standing on and what you are good at and what’s over the horizon and, well, everything. It’s about finding the place where you fit. I found the place where I fit, and I would like everybody else to find theirs. And may I please propose that Preston is the school’s first teacher? He pretty much knows everything there is to know as it is. ’ Preston bowed low with his helmet off, which got a laugh. Tiffany went on, ‘And his reward for a year’s teaching work for you will be, yes, enough money for him to buy the letters to go after his name so that he can become a doctor. Witches can’t do everything and we could do with a doctor in these parts. ’ All this got a big cheer, which is what generally happens when people have worked out that they are likely to get something that they won’t have to pay for. When that had died down, Roland looked the sergeant in the eye and said, ‘Do you think you can manage without Preston’s military prowess, Sergeant?’ This precipitated another laugh. That’s good, Tiffany thought; laughter helps things slide into the thinking. Sergeant Brian tried to look solemn, but he was concealing a smile. ‘It would be a bit of a blow, sir, but I think we might just about manage, sir. Yes, I think I can say that the departure of Lance Private Preston will enhance the overall efficiency of the squad, sir. ’ This caused more general applause from people who hadn’t worked it out and laughter from those that did. The Baron clapped his hands together. ‘Well then, Miss Aching, it would appear that you have got everything you asked for, yes?’ ‘Actually, sir, I haven’t finished asking yet. There is one more thing and it won’t cost you anything, so don’t worry about that. ’ Tiffany took a deep breath, and tried to make herself look taller. ‘I require that you give to the peoples known as the Nac Mac Feegle all the downland above Home Farm, that it should be theirs for ever in law as well as in justice. A proper deed can be drawn up, and don’t worry about the cost – I know a toad that will do it for a handful of beetles – and it will say that for their part the Feegles will allow all shepherds and sheep untrammelled access to the downs but there will be – and this is important – no sharp metal beyond a knife.

All this will cost you nothing, my lord Baron, but what you and your descendants, and I hope you are intending to have descendants—’ Tiffany had to stop there because of the gale of laughter, in which Nanny Ogg took a large part, and then she continued, ‘My lord Baron, I think you will assure yourself of a friendship that will never die. Gain all, lose nothing. ’ To his credit, Roland hardly hesitated, and said, ‘I would be honoured to present the Nac Mac Feegle with the deeds to their land and I regret, no, I apologize for any misunderstandings between us. As you say, they deserve their land by right and by justice. ’ Tiffany was impressed by the short speech. The language was slightly stuffy, but his heart was in the right place, and slightly stuffy language suited the Feegles very well. To her joy there was yet another susurration in the beams high over the castle’s hall. And the Baron, looking a lot more like a real baron now, went on, ‘I only wish that I could tell them this personally right now. ’ And from the darkness above came one mighty cry of: The wind was silver and cold. Tiffany opened her eyes, with the cheer of the Feegles still ringing in her ears. It was replaced by the rattle of dried grass in the wind. She tried to sit up but got nowhere, and a voice behind her said, ‘Please don’t wriggle, this is very difficult. ’ Tiffany tried to turn her head. ‘Eskarina?’ ‘Yes. There is somebody here who wants to talk to you. You may get up now; I have balanced the nodes. Don’t ask questions, because you would not understand the answers. You are in the travelling now, again. Now and again, you might say. I will leave you to your friend … and I am afraid you cannot have much time, for a given value of time. But I must protect my son …’ Tiffany said, ‘You mean you’ve got—’ She stopped because a figure was forming in front of Tiffany and became a witch, a classic witch with the black dress, black boots – rather nice ones, Tiffany noted – and, of course, the pointy hat. She had a necklace too. On the chain was a golden hare. The woman herself was old, but it was hard to say how old. She stood proudly, like Granny Weatherwax, but like Nanny Ogg she seemed to suggest that old age, or something, wasn’t really being taken seriously. But Tiffany concentrated on the necklace. People wore jewellery to show you something. It always had a meaning, if you concentrated. ‘All right, all right,’ she said, ‘I have just one question: I’m not here to bury you, am I?’ ‘My word, you are quick,’ said the woman. ‘You have immediately devised a remarkably interesting narrative and instantly guessed who I am. ’ She laughed. The voice was younger than her face. ‘No, Tiffany. Interestingly macabre though your suggestion is, the answer is no. I remember Granny Weatherwax telling me that when you get right down to it, the world is all about stories, and Tiffany Aching is extremely good at endings. ’ ‘I am?’ ‘Oh yes. Classic endings to a romantic story are a wedding or a legacy, and you have been the engineer for one of each. Well done. ’ ‘You are me, right?’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s what the “you have to help yourself” business was about, yes?’ The older Tiffany grinned, and Tiffany could not help noticing that it was a very nice grin. ‘As a matter of fact, I only interfered in a few small ways. Like, for example, making certain the wind really did blow very hard for you … although, as I recall, a certain colony of little men added their own special excitement to the venture. I’m never quite certain if my memory is good or bad. That’s time travel for you. ’ ‘You can travel in time?’ ‘With some help from our friend Eskarina. And only as a shadow and a whisper. It’s a bit like the don’t-see-me thing that I … that we – You have to persuade time not to take any notice. ’ ‘But why did you want to talk to me?’ said Tiffany. ‘Well, the infuriating answer is that I remembered that I did,’ said old Tiffany. ‘Sorry, that’s time travel again. But I think I wanted to tell you that it all works out, more or less. It all falls into place. You’ve taken the first step. ’ ‘There’s a second step?’ said Tiffany. ‘No; there’s another first step. Every step is a first step if it’s a step in the right direction. ’ ‘But hold on,’ said Tiffany. ‘Won’t I be you one day? And then will I talk to me now, as it were?’ ‘Yes, but the you that you talk to won’t exactly be you. I’m very sorry about this, but I am having to talk about time travel in a language that can’t really account for it. But in short, Tiffany, according to the elasticated string theory, throughout the rest of time, somewhere an old Tiffany will be talking to a young Tiffany, and the fascinating thing is that every time they do they will be a little bit different. When you meet your younger self, you will tell her what you think she needs to know. ’ ‘But I have got a question,’ said Tiffany. ‘And it’s one I want to know the answer to. ’ ‘Well, do be quick,’ said old Tiffany, ‘The elasticated string thingy, or whatever it is that Eskarina uses, does not allow us very much time. ’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘can you at least tell me. Do I ever get—?’ Old Tiffany faded, smiling into nothingness, but Tiffany heard one word. It sounded like, ‘ Listen. ’ And then she was in the hall again, as if she’d never left it at all, and people were cheering and there seemed to be Feegles everywhere. And Preston was by her side. It was as if ice had suddenly melted. But when she got her balance back, and stopped asking herself what had just happened, had really happened, Tiffany looked for the other witches, and saw that they were talking amongst themselves, like judges adding up a score. The huddle broke up, and they came towards her purposefully, led by Granny Weatherwax. When they reached her they bowed and raised their hats, which is a mark of respect in the craft. Granny Weatherwax looked at her sternly. ‘I see you have burned your hand, Tiffany. ’ Tiffany looked down. ‘I didn’t notice,’ she said. ‘Can I ask you now, Granny? Would you all have killed me?’ She saw the expressions of the other witches change. Granny Weatherwax looked around and paused for a moment. ‘Let us say, young woman, we would have done our best not to. But all in all, Tiffany, it seems to us that you’ve done a woman’s job today. The place where we looks for witches is at the centre of things. Well, we looks around here and we see that you is so central that this steading spins on you. You are your own mistress, nevertheless, and if you don’t start training somebody, that will be a waste. We leave this steading in the best of hands. ’ The witches clapped, and some of the other guests joined in, even though they did not understand what those few sentences had meant. What they did recognize, however, was that these were mostly elderly, experienced, important and scary witches. And they were paying their respect to Tiffany Aching, one of them , their witch. And she was a very important witch, and so the Chalk had to be a very important place. Of course, they had known that all along but it was nice to have it acknowledged. They stood a little straighter and felt proud. Mrs Proust removed her hat again, and said, ‘Please don’t be afraid to come back to the city again, Miss Aching. I think I can promise you a thirty per cent discount on all Boffo products, except for perishables or consumables, an offer not to be sneezed at. ’ The group of witches raised their hats in unison again and walked back into the crowd. ‘You know all that just now was organizing people’s lives for them,’ said Preston behind her, but as she spun round he backed away laughing and added, ‘But in a good way. You are the witch , Tiffany. You are the witch! ’ And people drank a toast and there was more food, and more dancing and laughter and friendship and tiredness, and at midnight Tiffany Aching lay alone on her broomstick high above the chalk hills and looked up at the universe, and then down on the bit of it that belonged to her.

She was the witch, floating high over everything but, it must be said, with the leather strap carefully buckled. The stick rose and fell gently as warm breezes took it and as tiredness and darkness took her, she stretched out her arms to the dark and, just for a moment, as the world turned, Tiffany Aching wore midnight. She didn’t come down until the sun was crusting the horizon with light. And she woke up to birdsong. All across the Chalk the larks were rising as they did every morning in a symphony of liquid sound. They did indeed sing melodious. They streamed up past the stick, paying it no attention at all, and Tiffany listened, entranced, until the last bird had got lost in the brilliant sky. She landed, made breakfast for an old lady who was bed-bound, fed her cat, and went to see how Trivial Boxer’s 30 broken leg was doing. She was stopped halfway there by the neighbour of old Miss Swivel, who had apparently become suddenly unable to walk overnight, but Tiffany was fortunately able to point out that she had regrettably put both feet through one knicker leg. Then she went down into the castle to see what else needed doing. After all, she was the witch. 30 Mr and Mrs Boxer had been slightly more educated than was good for them, and thought that ‘trivial’ was a good name for their third child. Epilogue MIDNIGHT BY DAY I T WAS THE scouring fair again, the same noisy hurdy-gurdy, the bobbing for frogs, the fortune-telling, the laughter, the pick-pockets (though never of a witch’s pocket), but this year, by common consent, no cheese rolling. Tiffany walked through it all, nodding at people she knew, which was everybody, and generally enjoying the sunshine. Had it been a year? So much had happened, it all swam together, like the sounds of the fair. ‘Good afternoon, miss. ’ And there was Amber, with her boy – with her husband … ‘Nearly didn’t recognize you, miss,’ said Amber cheerfully, ‘what with you not having your pointy hat on, if you see what I mean. ’ ‘I thought I’d just be Tiffany Aching today,’ said Tiffany. ‘It is a holiday after all. ’ ‘But you are still the witch?’ ‘Oh yes, I’m still the witch, but I’m not necessarily the hat. ’ Amber’s husband laughed. ‘I know what you mean, miss! Sometimes I swear that people think I’m a pair of hands!’ Tiffany looked him up and down. They had met properly when she had married him to Amber, of course, and she had been impressed; he was what they called a steady lad and as sharp as his needles. He would go far, and take Amber with him. And after Amber finished her training under the kelda, who knows where she would take him ? Amber hung on his arm as if it was an oak. ‘My William done a little present for you, miss,’ she said. ‘Go on, William, show her!’ The young man proffered the package he had been carrying, and cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know if you keep up with the fashions, miss, but they are doing wonderful fabrics now down in the big city, so when Amber suggested this to me I thought of them. But it also has to be washable, for a start, with perhaps a split skirt for the broomstick and leg-of-mutton sleeves, which are all the go this season, and with buttons tight at the wrists to keep them out of the way, and pockets on the inside and styled to be hardly noticeable. I hope it fits, miss. I’m good at measuring without a tape. It’s a knack. ’ Amber bounced up and down at his side. ‘Put it on, miss! Go on, miss! Put it on!’ ‘What? In front of all these people?’ said Tiffany, embarrassed and intrigued at the same time. Amber was not to be denied. ‘There’s the mother-and-baby tent, miss! No men in there, miss, no fear! They’d be afraid that they would have to burp somebody, miss!’ Tiffany gave in. The package had a rich feel to it; it felt soft, like a glove. Mothers and babies watched her as she slid into the dress and she heard the envious sighs that interspersed burps. Amber, on fire with enthusiasm, pushed her way in through the flap, and gasped. ‘Oh, miss, oh, miss, it does suit you so! Oh, miss! If only you could see yourself, miss! Do come and show William, miss, he’ll be as proud as a king! Oh, miss!’ You couldn’t disappoint Amber. You just couldn’t. It would be like, well, kicking a puppy. Tiffany felt different without the hat. Lighter, perhaps. And William gasped and said, ‘I wish my master was here, Miss Aching, because you are a masterpiece. I just wish you could see yourself … miss?’ And just for a moment, because people shouldn’t get too suspicious, Tiffany stood outside herself and watched herself twirl the beautiful dress as black as a cat full of sixpences, and she thought: I shall wear midnight, and I will be good at it … She hurried back to her body and shyly thanked the young tailor. ‘It’s wonderful, William, and I will happily fly over to show your master. The cuffs are wonderful!’ Amber was jumping up and down again. ‘We’d better hurry if we’re going to see the tug-of-war, miss – it’s Feegles versus humans! It’s going to be fun!’ And in fact, they could hear the roar of the Feegles warming up, though they had made a slight alteration to their traditional chant: ‘Nae king, nae quin, nae laird! One baron – and underrr mutually ag-rreeeed arrr-angement, ye ken!’ ‘You go on ahead,’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m waiting for somebody. ’ Amber paused for a moment. ‘Don’t wait too long, miss, don’t wait too long!’ Tiffany walked slowly in the wonderful dress, wondering if she would dare wear it every day and … hands came past her ears and covered her eyes. A voice behind her said, ‘A nosegay for the pretty lady? You never know, it might help you find your beau. ’ She spun round. ‘Preston!’ They talked as they strolled away from the noise, and Tiffany listened to news about the bright young lad that Preston had trained to take over as the school’s new teacher; and about exams and doctors and the Lady Sybil Free Hospital who had – and this was the really important part – just taken on one new apprentice, this being Preston, possibly because since he could talk the hind leg off a donkey, he might have a talent for surgery. ‘I don’t reckon I’ll get many holidays,’ he said. ‘You don’t get many when you’re an apprentice and I shall have to sleep under the autoclave every night and look after all the saws and scalpels, but I know all the bones by heart!’ ‘Well, it’s not too far by broomstick, after all,’ said Tiffany. Preston’s expression changed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in fine tissue, which he handed to her without saying a word. Tiffany unwrapped it, knowing – absolutely knowing – that it would be the golden hare. There was no possibility in the world that it wouldn’t have been. She tried to find the words, but Preston always had an adequate supply. He said, ‘Miss Tiffany, the witch … would you be so good as to tell me: what is the sound of love?’ Tiffany looked at his face. The noise from the tug-of-war was silenced. The birds stopped singing. In the grass, the grasshoppers stopped rubbing their legs together and looked up. The earth moved slightly as even the chalk giant (perhaps) strained to hear, and the silence flowed over the world until all there was was Preston, who was always there. And Tiffany said, ‘Listen. ’ A FEEGLE GLOSSARY adjusted for those of a delicate disposition (A Work In Progress By Miss Perspicacia Tick, witch) Bigjobs: human beings Big Man: chief of the clan (usually the husband of the kelda) Blethers: rubbish, nonsense Boggin: to be desperate, as in ‘I’m boggin for a cup of tea’ Bunty: a weak person Carlin: old woman Cludgie: the privy Crivens!: a general exclamation that can mean anything from ‘My goodness!’ to ‘I’ve just lost my temper and there is going to be trouble’ Dree your/my/his/her weird: facing the fate that is in store for you/me/him/her Een: eyes Eldritch: weird, strange; sometimes means oblong too, for some reason Fash: worry, upset Geas: a very important obligation, backed up by tradition and magic.

Not a bird Gonnagle: the bard of the clan, skilled in musical instruments, poems, stories and songs Hag: a witch, of any age Hag o’ hags: a very important witch Hagging/Haggling: anything a witch does Hiddlins: secrets Kelda: the female head of the clan, and eventually the mother of most of it. Feegle babies are very small, and a kelda will have hundreds in her lifetime Lang syne: long ago Last World: the Feegles believe that they are dead. This world is so nice, they argue, that they must have been really good in a past life and then died and ended up here. Appearing to die here means merely going back to the Last World, which they believe is rather dull Mudlin: useless person Pished: I am assured that this means ‘tired’ Schemie: an unpleasant person Scuggan: a really unpleasant person Scunner: a generally unpleasant person Ships: woolly things that eat grass and go baa. Easily confused with the other kind Spavie: see Mudlin Special Sheep Liniment: probably moonshine whisky, I am very sorry to say. No one knows what it’d do to sheep, but it is said that a drop of it is good for shepherds on a cold winter’s night and for Feegles at any time at all. Do not try to make this at home Spog: a small leather bag at the front of a Feegle’s kilt, which covers whatever he presumably thinks needs to be hidden, and generally holds things like something he is halfway through eating, something he’d found that now therefore belongs to him, and quite often – because even a Feegle can catch a cold – it might hold whatever he was using as a handkerchief, which might not necessarily be dead Steamie: only found in the big Feegle mounds in the mountains, where there’s enough water to allow regular bathing; it’s a kind of sauna. Feegles on the Chalk tend to rely on the fact that you can only get so much dirt on you before it starts to fall off of its own accord Waily: a general cry of despair AUTHOR’S NOTE My job is to make things up, and the best way to make things up is to make them out of real things … When I was a small boy, just after the last Ice Age, we lived in a cottage that Tiffany Aching would recognize: we had cold water, no electricity, and took a bath once a week, because the tin bath had to be brought in from its nail, which was outside on the back of the kitchen wall; and it took a long time to fill it, when all my mother had to heat water with was one kettle. Then I, as the youngest, had the first bath, followed by Mum and then Dad, and finally the dog if Dad thought it was getting a bit niffy. There were old men in the village who had been born in the Jurassic period and looked, to me, all the same, with flat caps and serious trousers held up with very thick leather belts. One of them was called Mr Allen, who wouldn’t drink water from a tap because, he said, ‘It’s got neither taste nor smell. ’ He drank water from the roof of his house, which fed a rain barrel. Presumably he drank more than rainwater, because he had a nose that looked like two strawberries that had crashed into one another. 31 Mr Allen used to sit out in the sun in front of his cottage on an old kitchen chair, watching the world go by, and we kids used to watch his nose, in case it exploded. One day I was chatting to him, and out of the blue he said to me, ‘You seen stubbles burning, boy?’ I certainly had: not near our home, but when we drove down to the coast on holiday, though sometimes the smoke from the burning stubbles was so thick that it looked like a fog. The stubbles were what was left in the ground after most of the corn stems had been cut. The burning was said to be good for getting rid of pests and diseases, but the process meant lots of small birds and animals were burned. The practice has long since been banned, for that very reason. One day, when the harvest wagon went down our lane, Mr Allen said to me, ‘You ever seen a hare, boy?’ I said, ‘Yes, of course. ’ (If you haven’t seen a hare, then imagine a rabbit crossed with a greyhound, one that can leap magnificently. ) Mr Allen said, ‘The hare ain’t afraid of fire. She stares it down, and jumps over it, and lands safe on the other side. ’ I must have been about six or seven years old, but I remembered it, because Mr Allen died not long afterwards. Then when I was much older, I found in a second-hand bookshop a book called The Leaping Hare written by George Ewart Evans and David Thomson, and I learned things that I would not have dared to make up. Mr Evans, who died in 1988, spoke – during his long life – to the men who worked on the land: not from the cab of a tractor, but with horses, and they saw the wildlife around them. I suspect that maybe they had put a little bit of a shine on the things they told him, but everything is all the better for a little bit of shine, and I have not hesitated to polish up the legend of the hare for you. If it is not the truth, then it is what the truth ought to be. I dedicate this book to Mr Evans, a wonderful man who helped many of us of us to learn about the depths of history over which we float. It is important that we know where we come from, because if you do not know where you come from, then you don’t know where you are, and if you don’t know where you are, then you don’t know where you’re going. And if you don’t know where you’re going, you’re probably going wrong. Terry Pratchett Wiltshire 27 May 2010 31 My dad told me it’s called ‘Drinker’s Nose’, but he was probably wrong, as the condition, I’m told, is a type of adult acne (called Rhinophyma, but I suspect that this is too much information). Table of Contents Cover Contents About the Book Title Page Dedication Prologue: A Crown in the Chalk Chapter 1: Where the Wind Blows Chapter 2: A Voice in the Darkness Chapter 3: An Upside-down World Chapter 4: A Farewell – and a Welcome Chapter 5: A Changing World Chapter 6: Around the Houses Chapter 7: A Force of Nature Chapter 8: The Baron’s Arms Chapter 9: Good with Goats Chapter 10: Treasure Chapter 11: The Big City Chapter 12: An Elf among the Feegles Chapter 13: Mischief. . . and Worse Chapter 14: A Tale of Two Queens Chapter 15: The God in the Barrow Chapter 16: Mr Sideways Chapter 17: An Argument of Witches Chapter 18: The Shepherd’s Crown Chapter 19: Peace Epilogue: A Whisper on the Chalk Afterword Acknowledgements A Feegle Glossary Bonus Content: The Witches of Discworld About the Author Also by Terry Pratchett Praise for Sir Terry Pratchett Copyright Contents Cover About the Book Title Page Dedication Prologue: A Crown in the Chalk Chapter 1: Where the Wind Blows Chapter 2: A Voice in the Darkness Chapter 3: An Upside-down World Chapter 4: A Farewell – and a Welcome Chapter 5: A Changing World Chapter 6: Around the Houses Chapter 7: A Force of Nature Chapter 8: The Baron’s Arms Chapter 9: Good with Goats Chapter 10: Treasure Chapter 11: The Big City Chapter 12: An Elf among the Feegles Chapter 13: Mischief. . . and Worse Chapter 14: A Tale of Two Queens Chapter 15: The God in the Barrow Chapter 16: Mr Sideways Chapter 17: An Argument of Witches Chapter 18: The Shepherd’s Crown Chapter 19: Peace Epilogue: A Whisper on the Chalk Afterword Acknowledgements A Feegle Glossary Bonus Content: The Witches of Discworld About the Author Also by Terry Pratchett Praise for Sir Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Book A SHIVERING OF WORLDS Deep in the Chalk, something is stirring. The owls and the foxes can sense it, and Tiffany Aching feels it in her boots. An old enemy is gathering strength. This is a time of endings and beginnings, old friends and new, a blurring of edges and a shifting of power. Now Tiffany stands between the light and the dark, the good and the bad. As the fairy horde prepares for invasion, Tiffany must summon all the witches to stand with her. To protect the land. Her land. There will be a reckoning. . . THE FINAL DISCWORLD ® NOVEL T HE S HEPHERD ’ S C ROWN Terry Pratchett A DISCWORLD ® NOVEL For Esmerelda Weatherwax – mind how you go.

PROLOGUE A Crown in the Chalk IT WAS BORN in the darkness of the Circle Sea; at first just a soft floating thing, washed back and forth by tide after tide. It grew a shell, but in its rolling, tumbling world there were huge creatures which could have cracked it open in an instant. Nevertheless, it survived. Its little life might have gone on like this for ever until the dangers of the surf and other floating things brought an end, were it not for the pool. It was a warm pool, high on a beach, replenished by occasional storms blown in from the Hub, and there the creature lived on things even smaller than itself and grew until it became king. It would have got even bigger if it were not for the hot summer when the water evaporated under the glare of the sun. And so the little creature died, but its carapace remained, carrying within itself the seed of something sharp. On the next stormy tide it was washed away onto the littoral, where it lodged, rolling back and forth with the pebbles and other detritus of the storms. The sea rolled down the ages until it dried and withdrew from the land, and the spiky shell of the long-dead creature sank beneath layers of the shells of other small creatures which had not survived. And there it lay, with the sharp core growing slowly inside, until the day when it was found by a shepherd minding his flock on the hills that had become known as the Chalk. He picked up the strange object which had caught his eye, held it in his hand and turned it over and over. Lumpy, but not lumpy, and it fitted in the palm of his hand. Too regular a shape to be a flint, and yet it had flint in its heart. The surface was grey, like stone, but with a hint of gold beneath the grey. There were five distinct ridges spaced evenly, almost like stripes, rising from a flattish base to its top. He had seen things like this before. But this one seemed different – it had almost jumped into his hand. The little piece tumbled as he turned it around and about, and he had a feeling that it was trying to tell him something. It was silly, he knew, and he hadn’t had a beer yet, but the strange object seemed to fill his world. Then he cursed himself as an idiot but nevertheless kept it and took it to show his mates in the pub. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it looks like a crown. ’ Of course, one of his mates laughed and said, ‘A crown? What would you want with one of them? You’re no king, Daniel Aching. ’ But the shepherd took his find home and placed it carefully on the shelf in his kitchen where he kept the things he liked. And there, eventually, it was forgotten and was lost to history. But not to the Achings, who handed it down, generation to generation. . . CHAPTER 1 Where the Wind Blows IT WAS ONE of those days that you put away and remember. High on the downs, above her parents’ farm, Tiffany Aching felt as though she could see to the end of the world. The air was as clear as crystal, and in the brisk wind the dead leaves from the autumn swirled around the ash trees as they rattled their branches to make way for the new spring growth. She had always wondered why the trees grew there. Granny Aching had told her there were old tracks up here, made in the days when the valley below had been a swamp. Granny said that was why the ancient people had made their homes high up – away from the swamp, and away from other people who would like to raid their livestock. Perhaps they had found a sense of refuge near the old circles of stones they found there. Perhaps they had been the ones who built them? No one knew for certain where they had come from. . . but even though they didn’t really believe it, everyone knew that they were the kind of thing it was probably better to leave alone. Just in case. After all, even if a circle did hide some old secrets or treasure, well, what use was that when it came to sheep? And although many of the stones had fallen down, what if the person buried underneath didn’t want to be dug up? Being dead didn’t mean you couldn’t get angry, oh no. But Tiffany herself had once used one particular set of stones to pass through an arch to Fairyland – a Fairyland most decidedly not like the one she had read about in The Goode Childe’s Booke of Faerie Tales – and she knew the dangers were real. Today, for some reason, she had felt the need to come up to the stones. Like any sensible witch, she wore strong boots that could march through anything – good, sensible boots. But they did not stop her feeling her land, feeling what it told her. It had begun with a tickle, an itch that crept into her feet and demanded to be heard, urging her to tramp over the downs, to visit the circle, even while she was sticking her hand up a sheep’s bottom to try and sort out a nasty case of colic. Why she had to go to the stones, Tiffany did not know, but no witch ignored what could be a summons. And the circles stood as protection. Protection for her land – protection from what could come through. . . She had headed up there immediately, a slight frown on her face. But somehow, up there, on top of the Chalk, everything was right. It always was. Even today. Or was it? For, to Tiffany’s surprise, she had not been the only one drawn to the old circle that day. As she spun in the crisp, clean air, listening to the wind, the leaves dancing across her feet, she recognized the flash of red hair, a glimpse of tattooed blue skin – and heard a muttered ‘Crivens’ as a particularly joyful surge of leaves got caught on the horns of a rabbit’s-skull helmet. ‘The kelda hersel’ sent me here to keep an eye on these stones,’ said Rob Anybody from his vantage point on a rocky outcrop close by. He was surveying the landscape as if he were watching for raiders. Wherever they came from. Particularly if they came through a circle. ‘And if any of them scuggans wants to come back and try again, we’re always ready for them, ye ken,’ he added hopefully. ‘I’m sure we can give them oor best Feegle hospitality. ’ He drew his wiry blue frame up to its full six inches and brandished his claymore at an invisible enemy. The effect, Tiffany thought, not for the first time, was quite impressive. ‘Those ancient raiders are all long dead,’ she said before she could stop herself, even though her Second Thoughts were telling her to listen properly. If Jeannie – Rob’s wife and the kelda of the Feegle clan – had seen trouble a-brewing, well, it was likely that trouble was on the way. ‘Dead? Weel, so are we,’ said Rob. fn1 ‘Alas,’ Tiffany sighed. ‘In those long-ago days, mortals just died. They didn’t come back like you seem to do. ’ ‘They would if they had some of our brose. ’ ‘What’s that?’ asked Tiffany. ‘Weel, it’s a kind of porridge with everything in it and, if possible, ye ken, a dram of brandy or some of your old granny’s Sheep Liniment. ’ Tiffany laughed, but that uneasiness remained. I need to speak to Jeannie, she thought. Need to know why she and my boots are both feeling the same thing. When they arrived at the large grassy mound nearby that housed the intricate warren of the Feegle dwelling, Tiffany and Rob made their way over to the patch of briars which concealed the main entrance and found Jeannie sitting outside, eating a sandwich. Mutton, Tiffany thought with just a tinge of annoyance. She was well aware of the agreement with the Feegles that they could have the occasional old ewe in exchange for the fun of fightin’ off the corbies that would otherwise swoop down on the young lambs, who were doing their best to do what lambs did best: get lost, and get dead. The lost lambs up on the Chalk had a new trick now – heading at speed across the downs, sometimes backwards , with a Feegle under each tiny foot, as they were returned to the flock. A kelda needed a big appetite, for there was only one kelda in a Nac Mac Feegle clan, and she had a lot of sons, plus the occasional lucky daughter popping out. fn2 Each time Tiffany saw Jeannie, the little kelda was a bit wider and a bit rounder.

Those hips took work , and Jeannie was certainly working hard at getting them bigger right now as she tackled what looked like half a sheep’s leg between two bits of bread. No mean feat for a Feegle only six inches high, and as Jeannie grew to become a wise old kelda, the word ‘belt’ would no longer signify something to hold up her kilt but just something to mark her equator. Young Feegles were herding snails and wrestling. They were bouncing off each other, off the walls, and sometimes off their own boots. They were in awe of Tiffany, seeing in her a kind of kelda, and they stopped brawling and looked at her nervously as she approached. ‘Line up, lads, show oor hag how hard ye ha’ been workin’,’ their mother said with pride in her voice, wiping a smear of mutton fat off her lips. Oh no, Tiffany thought. What am I going to see? I hope it doesn’t involve snails. . . But Jeannie said, ‘Let yon hag hear your ABC now. Come on, you start, Slightly-more-wee-than-wee-Jock-Jock. ’ The first Feegle in the line scratched at his spog and flicked a small beetle out. It seems to be a fact of life that a Feegle’s spog will always be itchy, Tiffany thought, possibly because what is kept in it might still be alive. Slightly-more-wee-than-wee-Jock-Jock swallowed. ‘A is for. . . axe ,’ he bellowed. ‘To cut yer heid off, ye ken,’ he added with a proud boast. ‘B is for boot !’ shouted the next Feegle, wiping something that looked like snail slime down the front of his kilt. ‘So as to stamp on yer heid. ’ ‘An’ C is for claymore. . . and crivens, I’ll gi’e ye sich a guid kickin’ if’n you stick that sword intae me one muir time,’ shouted the third, turning and hurling himself at one of his brothers. A yellowing crescent-shaped object fell to the ground as the brawl spun off into the brambles, and Rob snatched it up and tried to hide it behind his back. Tiffany narrowed her eyes. That had looked suspiciously like. . . yes, a bit of old toenail! ‘Weel,’ said Rob, shuffling his feet, ‘ye is always cuttin’ these little chunks off’n them old gentl’men you goes to visit most days. They fly out o’ the winders, jus’ waitin’ for a body to pick ’em up. An’ they is hard as nails, ye ken. ’ ‘Yes, that’s because they are nails—’ Tiffany began, then stopped. After all, maybe someone like old Mr Nimlet would like to know that parts of his body were still ready for a scrap. Even if he himself couldn’t get out of a chair without help these days. The kelda drew her to one side now, and said, ‘Weel, hen, your name is in the soil. It talks to you, Tir-far-thóinn, Land Under Wave. Do you talk to it?’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘Only sometimes though. But I do listen , Jeannie. ’ ‘Not every day?’ said the kelda. ‘No, not every day. So much to do, so much to do. ’ ‘I ken that,’ said the kelda. ‘Ye know that I watch over you. I watch ye in my heid, but I also see ye whizzing aboot over me heid. And ye must remember ye are a long time deid. ’ Tiffany sighed, weary to her bones. Going around the houses – that was what you did if you were a compassionate witch, what she and all the other witches did to fill in the gaps in the world, doing things that had to be done: carrying logs in for an old lady or popping on a pot of stew for a dinner, bringing a herbal remedy for a sore leg or a troublesome ache, fetching a basket of ‘spare’ eggs or second-hand clothes for a new baby in a house where money was scarce, and listening, oh yes, always listening to people’s troubles and worries. And the toenails. . . those toenails, they seemed to be as hard as flint, and sometimes an old boy without friends or family would have his toenails twisting inside his boots. But the reward for lots of work seemed to be lots more. If you dug the biggest hole, they just gave you a bigger shovel. . . ‘Today, Jeannie,’ she said slowly, ‘I did listen to the land. It told me to go to the circle. . . ?’ There was a question hanging in the air. The kelda sighed. ‘I dinnae see it clear yet, but there is. . . something not right, Tiffan,’ she said. ‘The veil between oor worlds is thin and can be easily brake, ye ken. The stones stand, so the gateway is nae open – and the Quin of the Elves will nae be strong after ye sent her back to Fairyland afore. She will nae be in a hurry to get past ye agin, but. . . I am still a-feared. I can feel it noo, like a fog driftin’ oor way. ’ Tiffany bit her lip. If the kelda was worried, she knew she should be too. ‘Dinnae fash yesel’,’ Jeannie said softly, watching Tiffany closely. ‘Whin ye need the Feegles, we will be there. And until that time, we will keep a watch for ye. ’ She took a last bite of her sandwich, and then gave Tiffany a different sort of look as she changed the subject. ‘Ye ha’ a young man – Preston, I think you call him. Do ye see him much?’ Her gaze was suddenly as sharp as an axe. ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘he works hard, just like I do. Him in the hospital and me in the Chalk. ’ To her horror, she felt herself begin to blush, the kind of blush that begins in your toes and works its way up to your face until you look like a tomato. She couldn’t blush! Not like a young country girl with a beau. She was a witch! ‘We write to each other,’ she added in a small voice. ‘And is that enough? Letters?’ Tiffany swallowed. She had once thought – everyone had thought – that she and Preston might have an Understanding, him being an educated boy, running the new school at the barn on the Achings’ farm until he had enough saved to go study in the big city to be a doctor. Now everyone still thought they had an Understanding, including Tiffany and Preston. Except. . . did she have to do what everyone expected her to do? ‘He is very nice and tells wonderful jokes and is great with words,’ she tried to explain. ‘But. . . we like our work, both of us, in fact you might say we are our work. Preston is working so hard at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital. And I can’t help thinking about Granny Aching and how much she liked her life, up on the downs, just her and the sheep and her two dogs, Thunder and Lightning, and. . . ’ She tailed off and Jeannie laid a small nut-brown hand on her arm. ‘Do ye think this is the way to live, my girl?’ ‘Well, I do like what I am doing and it helps people. ’ ‘But who helps you? That broomstick of yours flies everywhere and I think sometimes it might burst into flames. Ye look after everybody – but who looks after ye? If Preston is away, weel, there’s your friend the Baron and his new wife. Surely they care about their people. Care enough to help. ’ ‘They do care,’ said Tiffany, remembering with a shudder how everyone had once also thought that she and Roland, now the Baron, had an Understanding. Why were they so keen to try and find her a husband? Were husbands that difficult to find if she wanted one? ‘Roland is a decent man, although not yet as good as his father became. And Letitia. . . ’ Letitia, she thought. Both she and Letitia knew that Letitia could do magic but right now was just playing the role of the young Baroness. And she was good at it – so good that Tiffany wondered if the Being a Baroness might come to win over Being a Witch in the end. It certainly involved a lot less mess. ‘Already ye have done such things other folk wouldnae credit,’ Jeannie continued. ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘there’s too much to be done and not enough people to do it. ’ The smile that the kelda gave her was a strange one. The little woman said, ‘Do ye let them try? Ye mustn’t be afraid to ask for help. Pride is a good thing, my girl, but it will kill you in time. ’ Tiffany laughed. ‘Jeannie, you are always right. But I am a witch so pride is in the bones. ’ That brought to mind Granny Weatherwax – the witch all the other witches thought of as the wisest and most senior of them all. When Granny Weatherwax said things, she never sounded proud – but she didn’t need to. It was just there, built right into her essence. In fact, whatever a witch needed in her bones, Granny Weatherwax had it in great big shovelfuls. Tiffany hoped, one day, that she might be that strong a witch herself.

‘Weel, that’s guid, so it is,’ said the kelda. ‘Ye’re oor hag o’ the hills and we need oor hag to ha’ some pride. But we’d also like ye to have a life of your ain. ’ Her solemn little gaze was fixed on Tiffany now. ‘So off ye gae and follow where the wind blows ye. ’ The wind down in the Shires was angry, blowing everywhere as if it was upset, howling around the chimneys of Lord Swivel’s mansion, which stood surrounded by acres of parkland and could only be reached by a long drive – ruling out visits by anyone not in possession of at least a decent horse. That put paid to the majority of the ordinary people thereabouts, who were mostly farmers, and who were too busy to do any such thing anyway. Any horse they had was generally large and hairy-legged and usually seen attached to carts. The skinny, half-mad horses that pranced up the drive or pulled coaches up it were normally conveying a very different class of man: one who always had land and money, but often very little chin. And whose wife sometimes resembled his horse. Lord Swivel’s father had inherited money and the title from his father, a great master builder, but he had been a drunkard and had wasted almost all of it. fn3 Nevertheless young Harold Swivel had wheeled and dealed, and yes, swivelled and swindled, until he had restored the family fortune, and had added two wings to the family mansion which he filled with expensively ugly objects. He had three sons, which pleased him greatly in that his wife had produced one extra over and above the usual ‘heir and spare’. Lord Swivel liked to be one up on everyone else, even if the one up was only in the form of a son he didn’t overly care for. Harry, the eldest, didn’t go to school much because he was now dealing with the estate, helping his father and learning who was worth talking to and who wasn’t. Number two was Hugh, who had suggested to his father that he would like to go into the church. His father had said, ‘Only if it’s the Church of Om, but none of the others. I’m not having no son of mine fooling around with cultic activities!’ fn4 Om was handily silent, thereby enabling his priests to interpret his wishes how they chose. Amazingly, Om’s wishes rarely translated into instructions like ‘Feed the poor’ or ‘Help the elderly’ but more along the lines of ‘You need a splendid residence’ or ‘Why not have seven courses for dinner?’ So Lord Swivel felt that a clergyman in the family could in fact be useful. His third son was Geoffrey. And nobody quite knew what to make of Geoffrey. Not least, Geoffrey himself. The tutor Lord Swivel employed for his boys was named Mr Wiggall. Geoffrey’s older brothers called him ‘Wiggler’, sometimes even to his face. But for Geoffrey Mr Wiggall was a godsend. The tutor had arrived with a huge crate of his own books, only too aware that some great houses barely had a single book in them, unless the books were about battles of the past in which a member of the family had been spectacularly and stupidly heroic. Mr Wiggall and his wonderful books taught Geoffrey about the great philosophers Ly Tin Weedle, Orinjcrates, Xeno and Ibid, and the celebrated inventors Goldeneyes Silverhand Dactylos and Leonard of Quirm, and Geoffrey started to discover what he might make of himself. When they weren’t reading and studying, Mr Wiggall took Geoffrey to dig up things – old bones and old places – around the Shires, and told him about the universe, which he previously had not thought about. The more he learned the more he thirsted for knowledge and longed to know all about the Great Turtle A’Tuin, and the lands beyond the Shires. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said to his tutor one day. ‘How did you become a teacher?’ Mr Wiggall laughed and said, ‘Someone taught me, that’s how it goes. And he gave me a book, and after that I would read any book that I could find. Just like you do, young sir. I see you reading all the time, not just in lessons. ’ Geoffrey knew that his father sneered at the teacher, but his mother had intervened, saying that Geoffrey had a star in his hand. His father scoffed at that. ‘All he’s got in his hand is mud, and dead people, and who cares where Fourecks is? No one ever goes there!’ fn5 His mother looked tired, but took his side, saying, ‘He’s very good at reading and Mr Wiggall has taught him three languages. He can even speak a bit of Offleran!’ Again his father sneered. ‘Only handy if he wants to be a dentist! Ha, why waste time on learning languages. After all, everyone speaks Ankh-Morpork these days. ’ But Geoffrey’s mother said to him, ‘You read, my boy. Reading is the way up. Knowledge is the key to everything. ’ Shortly afterwards, the tutor was sent away by Lord Swivel, who said, ‘Too much nonsense around here. It’s not as if the boy will amount to much. Not like his brothers. ’ The walls of the manor could pick up voices a long way away and Geoffrey had heard that and thought, Well, whatever I do choose to become, I am not going to be like my father! With his tutor gone, Geoffrey wandered about the place, learning new things, hanging around a lot with McTavish, the stable-lad who was as old as the hills but somehow still was known as a ‘lad’. He knew all the bird songs in the world and could imitate them too. And McTavish was there when Geoffrey found Mephistopheles. One of the old nanny goats had given birth, and while she had two healthy kids, there was a third kid hidden in the straw, a little runt which its mother had rejected. ‘I’m going to try and save this little goat,’ Geoffrey declared. And he spent all night labouring to keep the newborn alive, squeezing milk from its mother and letting the little kid lick it off his finger until it slept peacefully beside him in a broken-up bale of hay, which kept them both warm. He is such a small thing, Geoffrey thought, looking into the kid’s letterbox eyes. I must give him a chance. And the kid responded, and grew into a strong young goat with a devilish kick. He would follow Geoffrey everywhere, and lower his head and prepare to charge anyone he thought threatened his young master. Since this often meant anyone within reach, many a servant or visitor found themselves skipping rather smartly out of the way when faced with the goat’s lowered horns. ‘Why did thee call that hell-goat Mephistopheles?’ asked McTavish one day. ‘I read it in a book. fn6 You can tell it is a very good name for a goat,’ Geoffrey replied. Geoffrey grew older, turning from a little boy into a young lad and then a bigger lad, wisely catching his father’s eye only occasionally. Then one day McTavish saddled a horse for him and they rode over to the fields at the edge of Lord Swivel’s estate and crept quietly to a fox’s earth in the woods. There, as they had done many times before, they watched the vixen play with her cubs. ‘Nice to see ’un like so,’ whispered McTavish. ‘A fox mun eat and feed yon cubs. But they has too much of a taste for me chickens for my liking. They kill things as matter to us, an’ so we kill them. ’Tis the way of the world. ’ ‘It shouldn’t be,’ said Geoffrey, sorrow in his voice as his heart went out to the vixen. ‘But we needs the hens and mun protect ’em. That’s why we hunts foxes,’ said McTavish. ‘I brings you here today, Geoffrey, for the time is coming when your father will want you to join the hunt. Of yon vixen mebbe. ’ ‘I understand,’ Geoffrey said. He knew about the hunt, of course, as he had been made to watch them ride out every year since he was a baby. ‘We must protect our hens, and the world can be cruel and merciless. But making a game of it is not right. That’s terrible! It’s just execution. Must we kill everything? Kill a mother who is feeding her cubs? We take so much and we give back nothing. ’ He rose to his feet and went back to his horse. ‘I do not want to hunt, McTavish. My word, I do not like to hate – I don’t even hate my father – but the hunt I would like to see put in a dark place. ’ McTavish looked worried. ‘I think thee needs to be careful, young Geoffrey. You knows what your father is like. He’s a bit of a stick-in-the-mud.

’ ‘My father is not a stick-in-the-mud; he is the mud!’ Geoffrey said bitterly. ‘Well then, if you tries talking to him – or your mother – mebbe he might understand that you are not ready to join the hunt?’ ‘No point,’ said Geoffrey. ‘When he has made up his mind, you cannot get through to him. I hear my mother crying sometimes – she doesn’t like to be seen crying, but I know she cries. ’ Then it was, as he looked up to watch a hawk hovering, that he thought to himself: There is freedom. Freedom is what I want. ‘I would like to fly, McTavish,’ he said, adding, ‘Like the birds. Like Langas. ’ fn7 And almost immediately, he saw a witch flying overhead on a stick, following the hawk, and he pointed up and said, ‘I want one of those. I want to be a witch. ’ But the old man said, ‘It’s not for thee, boy. Everybody knows men can’t be witches. ’ ‘Why not?’ asked Geoffrey. The old man shrugged and said, ‘Nobody knows. ’ And Geoffrey said, ‘I want to know. ’ On the day of Geoffrey’s first hunt he trotted out with the rest, pale-faced but determined, and thought, This is the day I must try to stand up for myself. Soon the local gentry were galloping across the countryside, some taking it to the extreme by careering into ditches, through hedges or over gates, often minus their mounts, while Geoffrey carefully held his position well to the back of the throng, until he could slip away unnoticed. He circled the woods in the opposite direction to the hunt, his heart aching, especially when the baying of the hounds turned to joyous yelps as the prey was brought down. Then it was time to return to the house. There, everyone was at that happy stage of a hunt where ‘tomorrow’ is a word that still means something and you have a mug of hot beverage that is liberally laced with something not too dissimilar to Tiffany’s grandmother’s Special Sheep Liniment. A reward for the returning heroes! They had survived the hunt. Huzzah! They swigged and swilled and the drink ran over their non-existent chins. But Lord Swivel looked at Geoffrey’s horse – the only animal not to be lathered in sweat with its legs besplattered in mud – and his wrath was unquenchable. Geoffrey’s brothers held him while his mother looked on imploringly, but to no avail. She averted her face as Lord Swivel smeared vixen’s blood on Geoffrey’s face. His lordship was almost incandescent in his rage. ‘Where were you? You should have been there at the kill!’ he roared. ‘You will do this, young man – and like it! I had to do it when I was young, and so did my father before me. And so will you. It is a tradition. Do you understand? Every male member of our family has been blooded at your age. Who are you to say it’s wrong? I’m ashamed of you!’ There it came, the swish of the crop, across Geoffrey’s back. Geoffrey, his face dripping with the vixen’s blood, looked to his mother. ‘She was a beautiful thing! Why kill her in such a way? For fun?’ ‘Please don’t upset your father,’ his mother pleaded. ‘I see them in the woods, and you just hunt them. Can you eat them? No. We – the unspeakable – chase and kill what we cannot eat, just for the blood. For fun. ’ Swish. It hurt. But Geoffrey was suddenly full of. . . what? All at once he had the amazing feeling that things could be made right, and he told himself, I could do it. I know I can. He drew himself up to his full height and shook himself free of his brothers’ grasp. ‘I must thank you, Father,’ he said with unexpected vigour. ‘I have learned something important today. But I won’t let you hit me again – never – and nor will you see me again unless you can change. Do you understand me?’ His tone was oddly formal now, as if befitting the occasion. Harry and Hugh looked at Geoffrey with a kind of awe and waited for the explosion, while the rest of the hunt, which had given Lord Swivel space in which to deal with his son, stopped pretending that they weren’t watching. The world of the hunt was out of kilter, the air frozen but somehow contriving also to seem to hold its breath. In the charged silence, Geoffrey led his horse off to the stables, leaving Lord Swivel standing there like a stone. He gave the horse some hay, took off its saddle and bridle, and was rubbing the beast down when McTavish walked up to him and said, ‘Well done, young Geoffrey. ’ Then, surprisingly outspoken, the stable-lad added under his breath, ‘You stood up for yourself, right enough. Don’t let that bastard grind thee down. ’ ‘If you talk like that, McTavish, my father could turn you out,’ Geoffrey warned. ‘And you like it here, don’t you?’ ‘Well, lad, you’re right there. I’m too old to be changing my ways now, I reckon,’ McTavish replied. ‘But you stood your ground and no man could do better nor that. I expect thee’ll be leaving us now, Master Geoffrey?’ ‘Alas, yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But thank you, McTavish. I hope my father doesn’t take it out on you for talking to me. ’ And the oldest stable-lad in the world said, ‘He won’t do that, no, never, not while I’m still useful like. Anyways, after all these years, I know him – like one of them volcanee things, he is. Powerful dangerous explosions for a while, and no care for who gets caught by the red-hot boulders spewing every which way, but it still blows out in the end. Smart folks just keep out of sight until it’s over. You’ve been very pleasant and respectful to me, Master Geoffrey. I reckons you take after your mother. A lovely lady, always so good to me and so helpful when my Molly was dying. I remember that. And I’ll remember you too. ’ ‘Thank you,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And I will remember you. ’ McTavish lit up a most enormous pipe and the smoke billowed. ‘I reckon you’ll be wanting to take away that dratted goat of yourn. ’ ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But I don’t think I have any say in the matter – Mephistopheles will make up his own mind. He usually does. ’ McTavish gave him a sideways look. ‘Got any food, Master Geoffrey? Got any money? I reckon you won’t want to go into the house now. I tell you what, I’ll loan thee a bit o’ cash till you finds out where you wants to be. ’ ‘No!’ said Geoffrey. ‘I can’t possibly!’ ‘I’m your friend, Master Geoffrey. Like I said, your mother has been good to me and I owes her a lot. You come back and see her sometime. And when you do that, just make sure you look up old McTavish. ’ Geoffrey went to fetch Mephistopheles and hitched him up to the little cart McTavish had made for him. He loaded a few things into the cart, picked up the reins, clicked his tongue and they set off out of the stable yard. As the goat’s dainty hooves echoed down the drive, McTavish said to himself, ‘How does the boy do it? That hell-goat kicks the arse of everybody who comes here. But not Geoffrey. ’ If Geoffrey had looked back, he would have seen his mother’s beseeching look as she sobbed, while his father still stood there like a statue, amazed at such defiance. His brothers made as if to follow, but halted when they saw the rage in their father’s eyes. And so Geoffrey and his goat went off to find a new life. Now, he thought, as they rounded the first of the drive’s many bends and he rode into his future, I’ve got nowhere to go. But the wind whispered, ‘Lancre. ’ In Lancre, it hadn’t been a good day for Granny Weatherwax. A young lumberjack at work higher up in the Ramtop mountains had nearly severed his own foot. And on a day when the resident Igor was elsewhere so unable to patch him up. When Granny arrived at the camp on her rickety old broomstick she immediately saw that the lad was in an even worse mess than she had expected. He had been doing his best to look brave in front of his mates, who were clustered around him trying to cheer him up, but she could see the pain in his face. As she examined the damage, he cried out for his mother. ‘You, lad,’ Granny said sharply, turning a piercing look on the nearest of his mates. ‘You know where this lad’s family live?’ And at the boy’s scared nod – a witch’s pointy hat often seemed to make young lads suddenly very scared – she went on, ‘Go then. Run.

Tell the lady I’m bringing her son back and she’ll need hot water on and a clean bed. Clean , mind. ’ And as the boy raced off, Granny glared at the others standing sheepishly around. ‘You others,’ she said sharply, ‘don’t just stand around. Make a stretcher from some of that there wood lying about so’s I can take your friend there. ’ The lad’s foot was all but hanging off and his boot was full of blood. Granny gritted her teeth, and set to with everything in her armoury and all the knowledge accumulated over many years, quietly, gently, taking his pain away from him, drawing it into herself to hold until she could release it. His face came alive and his eyes sparkled and he started chatting to the witch like an old friend. She cleaned and she stitched, all the while telling the lad what she was doing in a cheerful and calm voice before giving him what she called ‘a little tincture’. To the onlookers it looked like the boy was almost himself again when they brought to her a rather makeshift stretcher and found the lad dreamily telling Granny how to get to his home. The habitations of the lumberjacks up in the mountains were often no better than sheds and it turned out the boy – a lad by the name of Jack Abbott – and his mother lived in one of these. It was a rickety little hut held together more with dirt than with anything else, and when Granny Weatherwax arrived outside with the stretcher lashed underneath her broomstick, she frowned, wondering how this lad’s injury could possibly be kept clean in such surroundings. The mother ran out to her boy and flapped around as the lad who had run down to her with the news helped Granny carry the stretcher inside and move the boy onto a pallet onto which the mother had heaped blankets to create a bed fit for an invalid. Granny Weatherwax said quietly to the injured boy, ‘You lie right there and don’t get up. ’ And to the distraught mother, who was wringing her hands and making noises about paying something, she said, ‘No payment necessary, mistress – that’s not how we witches work – and I’ll come back to see him in a few days, and if I can’t make it then send for Mrs Ogg. I know boys, and your son’ll want to be up and doing as soon as possible, but mark my words, bed rest is the thing for him now. ’ The boy’s mother stared at Granny and said, ‘Thank you so much, Mrs. . . um. . . well, I ain’t never had need to call on a witch before, and I’ve heard some folks round here say witches do nasty things. But I can tell ’em now as I ain’t seen nothing of that sort. ’ ‘Really?’ said Granny, struggling to keep her temper. ‘Well, I would like to do some nasty things to the overseer for not keeping an eye on these lads, and don’t you let that man tell your boy to get up until I do. If he does, tell him that Granny Weatherwax will be after him for using these young men who don’t really know how to climb trees. I’m a good witch, as it happens, but if I find your boy working before that foot is healed there will be a reckoning. ’ As the mother waved Granny away she said, ‘I will pray to Om for you, Mrs Weatherwax. ’ ‘Well, do tell me what he says,’ said Granny sharply. ‘And that’s Mistress Weatherwax, thank you. But if you’ve got some old clothing I could take back with me when I come again – well, that would help. I’ll see you in a day or so, along with your boy. And mind you keep that wound clean. ’ You, Granny’s white cat, was waiting for her when she arrived back at her cottage, along with several people wanting potions and poultices. One or two were looking for advice but generally people were careful not to ask Granny Weatherwax, as she had a tendency to dish out advice whether wanted or not, such as the wisdom of not giving little Johnny hand-made soldiers until he was old enough to know not to stuff them up his nose. She bustled around for another hour, dishing out medicaments to person after person, and it was only much later that she realized that although she had fed the cat, obviously, she herself had had nothing to eat or drink since the dawn. So she heated up some pottage – not a great meal, but it filled her up. Then she lay on her bed for a while, even though sleeping in the daytime was something that only very grand ladies did, and so Granny Weatherwax allowed herself not forty winks but just the one. After all, there were always more people to see and things to do. Then she pulled herself up, and despite it being now quite late she went out and cleaned the privy. And she scrubbed it. She scrubbed it so hard that she could see her face in it. . . But somehow, in the shimmering water, her face could also see her, and she sighed and said, ‘Drat, and tomorrow was going to be a much better day. ’ fn1 The Feegles believed to a man that they had to be dead, as the world they now lived in was grand, filled as it was with so many opportunities for stealin’ and fightin’ and boozin’. A land fit for dead heroes. fn2 Sometimes literally, since a kelda usually gave birth to about seven Feegle babies at a time. Jeannie herself had produced a daughter in amongst her first brood. fn3 Lord Swivel’s father reckoned it was no waste, and that he had thoroughly enjoyed drinking the family fortune. At least, he thought this until he drank so much he fell over and met a gentleman with a decided lack of flesh on his bones and the definitive addition of a scythe a good few years earlier than he should have done. fn4 He knew, too, that gods could sometimes make inconvenient requests. He had an associate who had chosen to follow the crocodile god Offler and then found he had to keep an aviary of tooth-cleaning birds handy to fulfil his god’s dental whims. fn5 Very true, but a lot of people came from Fourecks, as is often the case with a Place-That-Nobody-Has-Ever-Heard-Of. They just never bothered to go back again. fn6 Thus proving that books can teach you much, if only to give you a good name for a devilish smart goat. fn7 The legend of Pilotus and his son Langas, who wanted to fly like the birds, was known by every well-educated boy. They did indeed build themselves wings by sewing together feathers and thistledown. The boy at least flew a little way, but his elderly and portly father crashed. The moral of the story is: understand what you are doing before you do it. CHAPTER 2 A Voice in the Darkness IT WAS A bright sunny day, thought Granny Weatherwax, a perfect day in fact. She had been up all night and cleaned the hall and kitchen in her cottage until everything that could shine was shining – the stove polished, the rag rug shaken and the flagstones scrubbed. She moved up her corkscrew staircase and concentrated next on the floor in the bedroom. She had made some very good soap this year, fn1 and the jug and little wash basin by the bed were gleaming. The spiders in the corners, who had thought they had tenure unto Doomsday, were carefully shown the window, webs and all. Even the mattress looked clean and wholesome. Every so often You, her cat, appeared to see what was going on, and to lie on the patchwork quilt that was so flat it looked like someone had trodden on a huge tortoise. Then Granny cleaned the privy once again, just for good measure. Not an errand for a fine day, but Esmerelda Weatherwax was meticulous in these things and the privy yielded to her efforts and, yes, it shone. Amazingly so. Watching her, the intensity that showed on her cat’s face was remarkable. This was a different day, You sensed. A day not yet experienced. A day that bustled as if there would never be another day, and with the inside of the cottage up to scratch, You now followed Granny into the scullery. A bucket of water, filled from the pump by the well, did the trick there. Granny smiled. She had always liked the scullery. It smelled of hard work being done properly. Here there were also spiders, mostly hiding around the bottles and jars on the shelves, but she thought scullery spiders didn’t really count. Live and let live. She went outside next, to the walled paddock at the back of the cottage, to check on her goats.

The itinerary of her thinking was declaring that once again all things were in their rightful place. Satisfied, or as satisfied as a witch ever could be, Granny Weatherwax went to her beehives. ‘You are my bees,’ she said to them. ‘Thank you. You’ve given me all my honey for years, and please don’t be upset when someone new comes. I hope that you will give her as much honey as you have given me. And now, for the last time, I will dance with you. ’ But the bees hummed softly and danced for her instead, gently pushing her mind out of their hive. And Granny Weatherwax said, ‘I was younger when I last danced with you. But I am old now. There will be no more dances for me. ’ You kept away from the bees, but stalked through the garden, following Granny as she moved through the herbs, touching a frond or a leaf as she passed, and the whole garden seemed to answer her, the plants almost nodding their heads in respect. You narrowed her eyes and looked sideways at the plants with what might be called feline disfavour. An onlooker might swear Granny’s herbs were sapient, as they often moved without the wind blowing. On at least one occasion, to the cat’s horror, they had actually turned round to watch her as she sneaked past on a hunting expedition. She preferred plants that did what they were told, which was mostly to stay dead still so that she could go back to sleep. At the far end of the herbs, Granny came to the apple tree old Mr Parsons had given her only last year, planting it roughly where anyone else would have a fence around their garden – for no witch’s cottage ever needed an actual fence or wall. Who would cross a witch? The wicked old witch in the woods? Sometimes stories can be useful for a witch without, it must be said, any fence-building skills. Granny eyed the tiny apples appearing on the bough – they had only just begun to grow and, well, time was waiting. And so she walked again back to her cottage door, acknowledging every root, stem and fruit she passed. She fed the goats, who looked at her askance with their slotted eyes. Their gaze followed her as she turned to the chickens, who always squabbled over their feed. Today, however, they didn’t squabble, but looked at the old witch as if she wasn’t there. With the animals fed, Granny Weatherwax went into the scullery and came back with a switch of willows. She got to work, teasing every piece of resilient willow into the right place. Then, when the thing she had made was clearly excellent and fit for purpose, Granny Weatherwax left it near the foot of the stairs where it would be noticed, for those with eyes to see. She tidied the remnants of her work back to the scullery and came out again with a small bag. A white one. And a red ribbon coiled in her other hand. She looked to the sky. Time was wasting. She walked briskly into the woods, You trailing behind, curious as only a cat can be until at least the first eight of its lives have been used up. Then, her task completed, Granny Weatherwax retraced her steps towards the little stream which ran through the woods close by. It gurgled and tinkled. She knew the woodlands. Every log. Every bough. Every creature that lived in there. More intimately than anyone not a witch could ever know. When her nose told her there was no one around apart from You, she opened the bag, took out a bar of her soap and undressed. She stepped into the stream, getting as clean as could be. And now, drying herself off and wrapping just her cloak around her washed body, she went back to the cottage, where she gave You an extra meal, stroked her head, and climbed the squeaking staircase to her bedroom, humming an old dirge as she went. Then Esmerelda Weatherwax brushed out her long grey hair and repinned it into its usual bun with an army of pins, and dressed again, this time choosing her best witch’s dress and least-mended pair of drawers. She paused to open the little wooden window to the soft evening air and carefully placed two pennies on the small bedside table, beside her pointy witch’s hat festooned with unused hatpins. The last thing she did before she lay down was to pick up a familiar card she had written on earlier. And a little later, when the cat jumped up onto the bed, it appeared to You that something strange was happening. She heard an owl hoot, and a fox barked in the darkness. And there was just the cat, You. All alone. But if cats could smile, this one did. It was a strange night; the owls hooted almost non-stop, and the wind outside for some reason made the wicks of the candles inside wobble with a vengeance and then blow out; but Granny Weatherwax was dressed in her best and ready for anything. And now in the deep warm darkness, as dawn began to stealthily steal the night, her soul had a visitor, an individual with a scythe – a scythe with a blade so shadow-thin that it could separate a soul from a body. Then the darkness spoke. ESMERELDA WEATHERWAX, YOU KNOW WHO COMES, AND MAY I SAY IT’S A PRIVILEGE TO DEAL WITH YOU. ‘I know it is you, Mister Death. After all, we witches always knows what’s coming,’ said Granny, looking down at her body on the bed. Her visitor was no stranger, and the land she knew she was going to was a land she had helped many others to step through to over the years. For a witch stands on the very edge of everything, between the light and the dark, between life and death, making choices, making decisions so that others may pretend no decisions have even been needed. Sometimes they need to help some poor soul through the final hours, help them to find the door, not to get lost in the dark. And Granny Weatherwax had been a witch for a long, long time. ESMERELDA WEATHERWAX, WE HAVE MET SO MANY TIMES BEFORE NOW, HAVEN’T WE? ‘Too many to count, Mister Reaper. Well, you’ve finally got me, you old bugger. I’ve had my season, no doubt about it, and I was never one for pushing myself forward, or complaining. ’ I HAVE WATCHED YOUR PROGRESS WITH INTEREST, ESMERELDA WEATHERWAX , said the voice in the dark. He was firm, but oh so polite. But now there was a question in his voice. PRAY TELL ME, WHY WERE YOU CONTENT TO LIVE IN THIS TINY LITTLE COUNTRY WHEN, AS YOU KNOW, YOU COULD HAVE BEEN ANYTHING AND ANYBODY IN THE WORLD? ‘I don’t know about the world, not much; but in my part of the world I could make little miracles for ordinary people,’ Granny replied sharply. ‘And I never wanted the world – just a part of it, a small part which I could keep safe, which I could keep away from storms. Not the ones of the sky, you understand: there are other kinds. ’ AND WOULD YOU SAY YOUR LIFE BENEFITED THE PEOPLE OF LANCRE AND ENVIRONS? After a minute the soul of Granny Weatherwax said, ‘Well, not boasting, your willingness, I think I have done right, for Lancre at least. I’ve never been to Environs. ’ MISTRESS WEATHERWAX, THE WORD ‘ENVIRONS’ MEANS, WELL, THEREABOUTS. ‘All right,’ said Granny. ‘I did get about, to be sure. ’ A VERY GOOD LIFE LIVED INDEED, ESMERELDA. ‘Thank you,’ said Granny. ‘I did my best. ’ MORE THAN YOUR BEST, said Death. AND I LOOK FORWARD TO WATCHING YOUR CHOSEN SUCCESSOR. WE HAVE MET BEFORE. ‘She’s a good witch, to be sure,’ said the shade of Granny Weatherwax. ‘I have no doubts whatsoever. ’ YOU ARE TAKING THIS VERY WELL, ESME WEATHERWAX. ‘It’s an inconvenience, true enough, and I don’t like it at all, but I know that you do it for everyone, Mister Death. Is there any other way?’ NO, THERE ISN’T, I’M AFRAID. WE ARE ALL FLOATING IN THE WINDS OF TIME. BUT YOUR CANDLE, MISTRESS WEATHERWAX, WILL FLICKER FOR SOME TIME BEFORE IT GOES OUT – A LITTLE REWARD FOR A LIFE WELL LIVED. FOR I CAN SEE THE BALANCE AND YOU HAVE LEFT THE WORLD MUCH BETTER THAN YOU FOUND IT, AND IF YOU ASK ME, said Death, NOBODY COULD DO ANY BETTER THAN THAT. . . There was no light, no point of reference except for the two tiny blue pinpricks sparkling in the eye sockets of Death himself. ‘Well, the journey was worth taking and I saw many wonderful things on the way, including you, my reliable friend. Shall we go now?’ MADAM, WE’VE ALREADY GONE.

In the early morning light, in a village pond near Slice, bubbles came to the surface, followed by Miss Tick, witch-finder. There was no one there to observe this remarkable occurrence, apart from her mule, Joseph, grazing steadily on the river bank. Of course, she told herself sadly as she picked up her towel, they all leave me alone these days. She sighed. It was such a shame when old customs disappeared. A good witch-ducking was something she had liked doing in the bad old days – she had even trained for it. All those swimming lessons, and practice with knots at the Quirm College for Young Ladies. She had been able to defeat the mobs under water if necessary. Or at least work at breaking her own record for untying the simple knots they all thought worked on the nasty witch. Now, a bit of pond-dipping had become more like a hobby, and she had a nasty feeling that others were copying her after she passed through their villages. She’d even heard talk of a swimming club being started in one small hamlet over by Ham-on-Rye. fn2 Miss Tick picked up her towel to dry herself off and went back to her small caravan, gave Joseph his breakfast nosebag and put the kettle on. She settled down under the trees to have her snap – bread and dripping, a thank-you the day before from a farmer’s wife for an afternoon’s knowledge of reading. Miss Tick had smiled as she left because the eyes of the rather elderly woman had been sparkling – ‘Now,’ she had said, ‘I can see what’s in those letters Alfred gets, especially the ones that smell of lavender. ’ Miss Tick wondered if it might be a good idea to get moving soon. Before Alfred got another letter anyway. Her stomach filled, ready for the day ahead, she sensed an uneasiness in the air, so there was nothing for it but to make a shamble. A shamble is a witch’s aid to inner concentration and always has to be made right there and then, when needed, to catch the moment. It could be made of pretty much anything, but had to include something alive. An egg would do, though most witches would prefer to save the egg for dinner, in case it exploded on them. Miss Tick dug in her pockets. A woodlouse, a dirty handkerchief, an old sock, an ancient conker, a stone with a hole in it, and a toadstool which Miss Tick couldn’t quite identify and so couldn’t risk eating. She expertly strung them all together with a bit of string and a spare length of knicker elastic. Then she pulled at the threads. But there was something wrong. With a twang that reverberated around the clearing, the tangle of objects threw itself into the air and spun, twisting and turning. ‘Well, that’s going to complicate things,’ Miss Tick groaned. Just across the woods from Granny Weatherwax’s cottage, Nanny Ogg nearly dropped a flagon of her best home-made cider on her cat, Greebo. She kept her flagons of cider in the shady spring by her cottage. The tomcat considered a growl, but after one look at his mistress he tried to be a good boy, for the normally cheerful face of Nanny Ogg was like thunder this morning. And he heard her mutter, ‘It should have been me. ’ In Genua, on a royal visit with her husband Verence, Queen Magrat of Lancre, former witch, discovered that even though she might think she had retired from magic, magic had not retired from her. She shuddered as the shock wave was carried across the world like a tsunami, an intimation that things were going to be. . . otherwise. In Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium in Ankh-Morpork, all the whoopee cushions trumpeted in a doleful harmony; while over in Quirm, Agnes Nitt, both witch and singer, woke with the sinking feeling known to many that she might have made a fool of herself at the previous evening’s first-night party. fn3 It certainly still seemed to be going on behind her eyeballs. Then she suddenly heard her inner Perdita wail. . . Over in the great city of Ankh-Morpork, at Unseen University, Ponder Stibbons had just finished a lengthy breakfast when he entered the basement of the High Energy Magic Building. He stopped and gaped in amazement. In front of him, Hex was calculating at a speed that Ponder had never seen before. And he hadn’t even entered a question yet! Or pulled the Great Big Lever. The ant tubes that the ants crawled through to make their calculations were blurred with their motion. Was that. . . was that an ant crash by the cogwheel? Ponder tapped a question into Hex: What do you know that I don’t? Please, Hex. There was a scuffling in the anthills and the answer spat out: Practically everything. Ponder rephrased his question more carefully with the requisite number of IF and BEFORE clauses. It was wordy and complicated, a huge ask for a wizard with only one meal in him, and no one else would have understood what Ponder even meant, but after a big hiccough of ants, Hex shot out: We are dealing with the death of Granny Weatherwax. And then Ponder went to see the Archchancellor, Mustrum Ridcully, who would definitely want to hear this news. . . In the Oblong Office of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, Lord Vetinari watched amazed as his Times crossword filled itself in. . . High above the Ramtops, in the monastery of Oi Dong, the Abbot of the History Monks licked his mystic pencil and made a note of it. . . The cat called You purred like a kind of feline windmill. And in the travelling now, Eskarina, a woman who had once been a wizard, held the hand of her son and knew sorrow. . . But in a world shimmering just the other side of the Disc, a world where dreams could become real – where those who lived there liked to creep through to other worlds and hurt and destroy and steal and poison – an elf lord by the name of Peaseblossom felt a powerful quiver shoot through the air, as a spider might feel a prey land on his web. He rubbed his hands in glee. A barrier has gone, he whispered to himself. They will be weak. . . Back on the Chalk the kelda of the Wee Free Men watched her fire flicker and thought, The witch of witches is away to the fair lands. ‘Mind how ye go, Hag o’ hags. Ye’ll be sore missed. ’ She sighed then called to her husband, the Big Man of the clan. ‘Rob, I’m afeared for oor big wee hag. She is going to ha’ need of ye. Gae to her, Rob. Take a few of the lads and get ye awa’ to her. ’ Jeannie bustled into her chamber to fetch her cauldron. The edges of oor world will nae be as strong, she said to herself. I need to ken what may be comin’ oor way. . . And far away, in some place unthinkable, a white horse was being unsaddled by a figure with a scythe with, it must be said, some sorrow. fn1 Granny’s soap was like her advice: strong and sharp and it stung a bit at the time, but it worked. fn2 A popular idea among the young lads, since they felt that everyone – and ‘everyone’ definitely included the young ladies – should swim without their clothes. fn3 Though Agnes does have the very handy excuse that if she behaves badly, it might not be Agnes doing the Devil-Amongst-the-Pictsies dance on the table, but her other personality, Perdita, who is much more outgoing and, incidentally, a lot thinner. CHAPTER 3 An Upside-down World IN A SMALL cottage in a little hamlet on the rolling fields of the sheep-haunted Chalk, Tiffany Aching had her sleeves rolled up and was sweating just as much as the mother-to-be – a young girl only a few years older than she herself was – who was leaning on her. Tiffany had already helped more than fifty babies into the world, plus lots and lots of lambs, and was generally held to be an expert midwife. Unfortunately, Miss Milly Standish’s mother and several other women of varying ages, who had all claimed to be relatives and asserted their right to a place in the very small room, thought they were experts themselves and were generously telling Tiffany what she was doing wrong. Already one or two of them had given her old-fashioned advice, wrong advice and possibly dangerous advice, but Tiffany kept her calm, tried not to shout at anybody and concentrated on dealing with the fact that Milly was having twins.

She hoped that people couldn’t hear her teeth grinding. It was always going to be a difficult birth with two boisterous babies fighting one another to be the first out. But Tiffany was focused on the new lives, and she would not allow Mr Death a place in this room. Another sweating push from the young mother, and first one and then another baby came yelling into the world to be handed to their grandmother and a neighbour. ‘Two lads! How wonderful!’ said Old Mother Standish with a distinct note of satisfaction. Tiffany wiped her hands, mopped her brow and continued to look after the mother while the crowd cooed over the new arrivals. And then she noticed something. There was another child in that capacious young woman. Yes, a third baby was arriving, hardly noticed because of the battling brothers ahead of it. Just then, Tiffany looked down and in a slight greenish-yellow haze saw a cat, pure white and as aloof as a duchess, staring at her. It was Granny Weatherwax’s cat, You – Tiffany knew the cat well, having given her to Granny Weatherwax herself only a few years ago. To her horror one of the older ladies went to shoo You away. Tiffany almost screamed. ‘Ladies, that cat belongs to Granny Weatherwax,’ she said sharply. ‘It might not be a good idea to make a very senior witch angry. ’ Suddenly the gaggle backed away. Even here on the Chalk, the name of Mistress Weatherwax worked a treat. Her reputation had spread far and wide, further and wider than Granny Weatherwax had been in the habit of travelling herself – the dwarfs over in Sto Plains even had a name for her that translated as ‘Go Around the Other Side of the Mountain’. But Tiffany, sweating again, wondered why Granny’s cat was here. Usually You would be hanging around Granny Weatherwax’s cottage back in Lancre, not all the way down here on the Chalk. Witches saw omens everywhere, of course. So was it some kind of omen? Something to do with what Jeannie had said? Not for the first time, she wondered how it was that cats seemed to be able to be in one place one moment, and then almost at the same time , reappear somewhere else. fn1 There was a cry of pain from the young mother and Tiffany gritted her teeth and turned her attention back to the job in hand. Witches do the task that is in front of them and what was in front of her right at that moment was a struggling young mother and another small head. ‘One big push, Milly, please. You’re having triplets. ’ Milly groaned. ‘Another one. A small one,’ said Tiffany cheerfully, as a girl child arrived, unscathed, quite pretty for a newborn and small. She handed the baby girl to another relative, and then reality was back again. As Tiffany began clearing up, she noticed – because noticing was the ground state of her being as a witch – that there was a lot more cooing over the two boys than there was for their sister. It was always good to recognize those things and put them away and keep them in mind, so that a little trouble wouldn’t, one day, become a larger trouble. The ladies had produced the family groaning chair for Milly, so that she could sit in state to receive the congratulations of the throng. They were also busy congratulating each other, nodding sagely about the advice given which had, clearly, been the right advice since here was the evidence. Two strapping boys! Oh, and a little girl. Bottles were opened, and a child was fetched and told to go across the fields to find Dad, who was working on the barley with his dad. Mum was beaming, especially since young Milly was very soon to be Mrs Robinson, because Mum had put her foot down very, very hard about that and made certain that young Mister Robinson was definitely going to do his duty by her girl. There hadn’t been a problem about this; this was the country after all, where boy would meet girl, as Milly had met her beau at Hogswatch, and nature would eventually take its course, right up until the moment when the girl’s mother would notice the bump. She would then tell her husband and her husband, over a convivial pint of beer, would have a word with the boy’s father, who would then talk to the boy. And usually it worked. Tiffany went over to the old lady holding the little girl. ‘Can I see her for just a moment, please, just to see if she’s, you know, if she’s all right?’ The rather toothless old crone handed over the little girl with alacrity. After all, she knew that Tiffany, apart from being a midwife, was a witch, and you never knew what a witch might do if you got on the wrong side of one. And when the old granny went to get her share of the drink, Tiffany took the child in her arms and whispered a promise to her in a voice so low that no one could have heard. This little girl would clearly need some luck in her life. And with luck, now, she would get some. She took her back to her mother, who didn’t seem very impressed with her. By now, Tiffany noticed, the little boys had names, but the girl didn’t. Worried about this, Tiffany said, ‘What about your girl? Can’t she have a name?’ The mother looked over. ‘Name her after yourself. Tiffany is a nice name. ’ Tiffany was flattered, but it didn’t take the worry away about baby Tiffany. Those big, strapping boys were going to get most of the milk, she thought. But not if she could do something about it, and so she decided that this particular family was going to be visited almost every week for a time. Then there was nothing for it, but to say, ‘Everything looks fine, you know where to find me, I’ll pop in and see you next week. And if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have other people to see. ’ She kept on smiling, right up to the time when she came out of the cottage, picked up her broomstick and the white cat leaped onto the handle of it like a figurehead. The world is changing, Tiffany thought – I can feel it. Suddenly she caught a flash of the red that showed a Feegle or two lurking behind a milk churn. Tiffany had, if only for a few days, once been the kelda of the Nac Mac Feegle, and this created a bond between them that could never be broken. And they were always there – always, watching over her, making sure no harm came to their big wee hag. But there was something different today. This lurking was somehow not like their usual lurking, and. . . ‘Oh, waily waily,’ came a voice. It was Daft Wullie, a Feegle who had been somewhere else when the brains of a Feegle – small enough to begin with – had been handed out. He was shut up suddenly with a ‘whmpf’ as Rob slapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Shut yer gob, Wullie. This is hag business, ye ken,’ he said, stepping out to stand in front of Tiffany, shuffling his feet and twiddling his rabbit-skull helmet in his hands. ‘It’s the big hag,’ he continued. ‘Jeannie tol’ me to come fetch ye. . . ’ All the birds of the day, the bats and the owls of the night knew Tiffany Aching and didn’t fly in her way when she was busy, and the stick ploughed on through the air to Lancre. The little kingdom was a long flight from the Chalk and Tiffany found her mind filling up with an invisible grey mist, and in that thought there was nothing but grief. She could feel herself trying to push back time, but even the best witchcraft could not do that. She tried not to think, but it’s hard to stop your brain working, no matter how much you try. Tiffany was a witch, and a witch learned to respect her forebodings, even if she hoped that what she feared was not true. It was early evening by the time she settled her broomstick down quietly outside Granny Weatherwax’s cottage, where she saw the unmistakable rotund shape of Nanny Ogg. The older witch had a pint mug in one hand and looked grey. The cat, You, jumped off the broomstick instantly and headed into the cottage. The Nac Mac Feegles followed, making You scuttle just a little faster in that way cats scuttle when they want to look like, oh yes, it was their decision to speed up and, oh no, nothing to do with the little red-haired figures melting into the shadows of the cottage. ‘Good to see you, Tiff,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ said Tiffany.

‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘Esme’s gone. In her sleep, last night, by the looks of it. ’ ‘I knew it,’ said Tiffany. ‘Her cat came to tell me. And the kelda sent Rob. . . ’ Nanny Ogg looked Tiffany in the face and said, ‘Glad to see you’re not cryin’, my dear; that’s for later. You knows how Granny wanted things: no fuss or shoutin’, and definitely no cryin’. There’s other things as must be done first. Can you help, Tiff? She’s upstairs and you know what them stairs is like. ’ Tiffany looked and saw the long, thin wicker basket that Granny had made, waiting by the stairs. It was almost exactly the same size as Granny. Minus her hat, of course. Nanny said, ‘That’s Esme for you, that is. Does everything for ’erself. ’ Granny Weatherwax’s cottage was largely built of creaks, and you could play a tune with them if you wanted to. With accompaniment from the harmonious woodwork, Tiffany followed Nanny Ogg as she huffed and puffed up the cramped little staircase that wound up and round like a snake – Nanny always said that you needed a corkscrew to get through it – until they arrived at the bedroom and the small, sad deathbed. It could, Tiffany thought, have been the bed of a child, and there, laid out properly, was Granny Weatherwax herself, looking as if she was just sleeping. And there too, on the bed by her mistress, was You the cat. There was a familiar card on Granny’s chest, and a sudden thought struck Tiffany like a gong. ‘Nanny, you don’t suppose Granny could just be Borrowing, do you? Do you think that while her body is here, her actual self is. . . elsewhere?’ She looked at the white cat curled upon the bed and added hopefully, ‘In You?’ Granny Weatherwax had been an expert at Borrowing – moving her mind into that of another creature, using its body, sharing its experiences. fn2 It was dangerous witchery, for an inexperienced witch risked losing herself in the mind of the other and never coming back. And, of course, whilst away from one’s body, people could get the wrong idea. . . Nanny silently picked up the card from Granny’s chest. They looked at it together: Nanny Ogg turned it over as Tiffany’s hand crept towards Granny Weatherwax’s wrist and – even now, even when every atom of her witch being told her that Granny was no longer there – the young girl part of her tried to feel for even the slightest beat of life. On the back of the card, however, there was a scrawled message that pretty much put the final strand in the willow basket below. Quietly Tiffany said, ‘No longer “probably”. ’ And then the rest of the note rocketed into her mind. ‘What? What does she mean by “All of it goes to Tiffany. . . ”?’ Her voice tailed off as she looked at Nanny Ogg, aghast. ‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘That’s Granny’s writing, right enough. Good enough for me. You gets the cottage and the surroundin’ grounds, the herbs and the bees an’ everything else in the place. Oh, but she always promised me the pink jug and basin set. ’ She looked at Tiffany and went on, ‘I hopes you don’t mind?’ Mind? Tiffany thought. Nanny Ogg is asking me if I mind? And then her mind rattled on to: Two steadings? I mean, I won’t need to live with my parents. . . But it will be a lot of travel. . . And the main thought hit her like a thunderbolt. How can I possibly tread in the footsteps of Granny Weatherwax? She is. . . was. . . unfollowable! Nanny didn’t get to be an old senior witch without learning a thing or two along the way. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot just yet, Tiff,’ she said briskly. ‘It won’t solve anything an’ will just make you walk odd. There’s plenty of time later to talk about. . . all of that. Right now, we needs to get on with what must be done. . . ’ Tiffany and Nanny had dealt with death many times. Out in the Ramtops, witches did the things that had to be done to make the departed presentable for the next world – the slightly messy things that weren’t talked about, and other little things like opening a window for the soul to get out. Granny Weatherwax had, in fact, already opened the window, though her soul, Tiffany thought, could probably get out of anywhere and go anywhere she chose. Nanny Ogg held up the two pennies from the bedside table and said, ‘She left ’em ready for us. Just like Esme, thoughtful to the end like. Shall we begin?’ Unfortunately Nanny had brought Granny Weatherwax’s bottle of triple-distilled peach brandy – for medicinal use only – from the scullery; she said it would help her as she went through the rites for their sister in the craft, and although they dealt with Granny Weatherwax as if she were a precious gem, Nanny Ogg’s drinking was not helping. ‘She looks good, don’t she?’ said Nanny after the nasty bits – and, thank goodness, Granny had still had all her own teeth – were over and done with. ‘It’s a shame. Always thought as I’d be the first to go, what with my drinkin’ and suchlike, especially the suchlike. I’ve done a lot o’ that. ’ In fact, Nanny Ogg had done a great deal of everything , and was commonly held to be so broad-minded that you could pull her mind out through her ears and tie a hat on with it. ‘Is there going to be a funeral?’ asked Tiffany. ‘Well, you know Esme. She wasn’t one for that kind of thing – never one to push herself forward fn3 – and we witches don’t much like funerals. Granny called them fuss. ’ Tiffany thought of the only other witch’s funeral she had been to. The late Miss Treason, for whom she had worked, had wanted a lot of fuss. She hadn’t wanted to miss the event herself either, so she had sent out invitations in advance. It had been. . . memorable. As they put Granny Weatherwax to bed – as Granny had called it – Nanny said, ‘Queen Magrat has to be told. She’s away in Genua at the moment with the King, but I daresay as she’ll be along soon as possible, what with all these railways and whatnot. Anyone else as needs to know will probably know already, you mark my words. But first thing tomorrow, before they get here, we’ll bury Esme the way she wanted, quiet-like an’ no fuss, in that wickerwork basket downstairs. Very cheap, wickerwork baskets are, and quick to make, Esme always said. An’ you know Esme, she’s such a frugal person – nothing goes to waste. ’ Tiffany spent the night on the truckle bed, a tiny thing which was usually pushed away when it wasn’t needed. Nanny Ogg had settled for the rocking chair downstairs, which squeaked and complained every time she rocked back. But Tiffany didn’t sleep. There were a series of half-sleeps as the light of the moon filtered into the room, and every time she looked up there was You, the cat, asleep at the foot of Granny’s bed, curled up like a little white moon herself. Tiffany had watched the dead before many times, of course – it was the custom for a departing soul to have company the night before any funeral or burial, as if to make a point to anything that might be. . . lurking: this person mattered , there is someone here to make sure nothing evil creeps in at this time of danger. The night-time creaking of woodwork filled the room now and Tiffany, fully awake, listened as Granny Weatherwax began making sounds of her own as her body settled down. I’ve done this often, she told herself. It’s what we witches do. We don’t talk about it, but we do it. We watch the dead to see that no harm comes to them out of the darkness. Although, as Nanny said, maybe it’s the living you have to watch – for despite what most people thought, the dead don’t hurt anybody. What do I do now? she thought in the small hours of the night. What’s going to happen tomorrow? The world is upside down. I can’t replace Granny. Never in a hundred years. And then she thought, What did young Esmerelda say when Nanny Gripes told her that her steading was the whole world? She twisted and turned, then opened her eyes and looked up suddenly to see an owl gazing in at her from the windowsill, its huge eyes hanging in the darkness like a lantern to another world. Another omen? Granny had liked owls. . . Now her Second Thoughts were at work, thinking about what she was thinking.

You can’t say you’re not good enough – no witch would ever say that, they told her. I mean, you know you are pretty good, yes; the senior witches know that you once threw the Queen of the Fairies from our world, and they saw you go through the gate with the hiver. They all saw you return too. But is that enough ? her First Thoughts butted in. After. . . after we have done what we need to do, I could just put on my number-two drawers and go home on my broomstick. I have to go anyway, even if I take on the steading. I have to tell my parents. And I’m going to need help on the Chalk. . . it’s going to be a nightmare if I have to be in two places at once. I’m not like a cat. . . And as she thought that, she looked down, and there was You looking at her, but not just looking – a penetrating stare of the kind that only cats can achieve, and it seemed to Tiffany that this meant: Get on with your job, there is a lot of work to be doing. Don’t think of yourself. Think for all. Then tiredness was finally her friend, and Tiffany Aching had a few hours’ sleep. The clacks rattled as the news of Granny Weatherwax went down the lines in the morning, and people who got the message faced it in their various ways. In the study of her manor house, Mrs Earwig fn4 got the news while she was writing her next book on ‘Flower Magick’ and there was a sudden sense of wrongness, of the world going askew. She put the right expression of grief on her face and went to tell her husband, an elderly wizard, trying to keep her joy hidden as she realized what this could mean: she, Mrs Earwig, was going to be one of the most senior witches in Lancre. Perhaps she could get her latest girl into that old cottage in the woods? Her sharp face went even sharper as she thought how magickal she could make it look with the help of a few curse-nets, charms, runic symbols, silver stars, black velvet drapes and – oh yes, the essential crystal ball. She called to her latest young trainee to fetch her cape and broomstick, and pulled on her very best pair of black lacy gloves, the ones with the silver symbols stitched over each fingertip. She would need to Make an Entrance. . . In Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium, 4 Tenth Egg Street, Ankh-Morpork – ‘ Everything for the Hag in a Hurry ’ – Mrs Proust said, ‘What a shame, but the old girl had a good innings. ’ Witches don’t have leaders, of course, but everyone knew that Granny Weatherwax had been the best leader they didn’t have, so now someone else would need to step forward to generally steer the witches. And to keep an eye too on anyone prone to a bit of cackling. Mrs Proust put down an imitation cackle she had taken from her Compare the Cackle display, and looked towards her son Derek and said, ‘There’s going to be an argument now, or my name’s not Eunice Proust. But it will surely be young Tiffany Aching who gets that steading. We all saw what she can do. My word, we did!’ And in her mind, she said, Go to it, Tiffany, before somebody else does. In the palace, Drumknott the clerk hurried with the Ankh-Morpork Times to the Oblong Office where Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of the city, had been waiting for his daily crossword to arrive. But Vetinari already knew the news that mattered. ‘There will be some trouble. Mark my words, I expect squabbling on the distaff side. ’ He sighed. ‘Any ideas, Drumknott? Who will rise to the top of the brew, do you think?’ He tapped the top of his ebony cane as he considered his own question. ‘Well, my lord,’ said Drumknott, ‘the rumour on the clacks is that it’s likely to be Tiffany Aching. Quite young. ’ ‘Quite young, yes. And any good?’ asked Vetinari. ‘I believe so, sir. ’ ‘What about this woman called Mrs Earwig?’ Drumknott made a face. ‘All show, my lord, doesn’t get her hands dirty. Lot of jewellery, black lace, you know the type. Well-connected, but that’s about all I can say. ’ ‘Ah yes, now you tell me, I’ve seen her. Pushy and full of herself. She’s the kind who goes to soirees. ’ ‘So do you, my lord. ’ ‘Yes, but I am the tyrant, so it’s the job I have to do, alas. Now, this Aching young lady – what else do we know about her? Wasn’t there some bother the last time she was in the city?’ ‘My lord, the Nac Mac Feegles are very fond of her and she of them. They consider themselves an honour guard to her on occasions. ’ ‘Drumknott. ’ ‘Yes, my lord?’ ‘I’m going to use a word I’ve not used before. Crivens! We don’t want Feegles around here again. We can’t afford it!’ ‘Unlikely, my lord. Mistress Aching has them in hand and she’s unlikely to want to repeat the events of her last visit, which after all had no long-lasting damage. ’ ‘Didn’t the King’s Head become the King’s Neck?’ fn5 ‘Yes indeed, my lord, but it has in fact proved a welcome change to many, most of all to the publican, who is still getting wealthy because of the tourists. It’s in the guide books. ’ ‘If she has the Nac Mac Feegles on her side, she is a force to be reckoned with,’ Vetinari mused. ‘The young lady is also known to be thoughtful, helpful and clever. ’ ‘Without being insufferable? I wish I could say the same of Mrs Earwig. Hmm,’ said Vetinari, ‘we should keep a careful eye on her. . . ’ Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, stared at his bedroom wall, and cried again, and once he’d pulled himself together he sent for Ponder Stibbons, his right-hand wizard. ‘The clacks confirms what Hex told you, Mr Stibbons,’ he said sadly. ‘The witch Esme Weatherwax of Lancre, known to many as Granny Weatherwax, has died. ’ The Archchancellor looked slightly embarrassed. There was a bundle of letters on his lap, which he was turning over and over. ‘There was a bond, you see, when we were both young, but she wanted to be the best of all witches and I hoped one day to be Archchancellor. Alas for us, our dreams came true. ’ fn6 ‘Oh dear, sir. Would you like me to arrange your schedule so that you can attend the funeral? There will be a funeral, I assume. . . ’ ‘Mr Stibbons, schedules be damned. I am leaving now. Right now. ’ ‘With respect, Archchancellor, I must tell you, sir, that you promised to go to a meeting with the Guild of Accountants and Usurers. ’ ‘Those penny-pinchers! Tell them that I have got an urgent matter of international affairs to deal with. ’ Ponder hesitated. ‘That is not strictly true, is it, Archchancellor. ’ Ridcully riposted with, ‘Oh yes, it is!’ Rules were for other people. Not for him. Nor, he thought with a pang, had they been for Esme Weatherwax. . . ‘How long have you been working for the University, young man?’ he boomed at Stibbons. ‘Dissembling is our stock in trade. Now I am going to get on my broomstick, Mr Stibbons, and I will leave the place in your very capable hands. ’ And in that. . . other world, that parasite with its evil little hooks in the gateways of stone, an elf was hatching his plans. Plotting to seize Fairyland from the control of a Queen who had never fully recovered her powers after her humiliating defeat at the hands of a young girl named Tiffany Aching. Plotting to pounce, to spring through a gateway that – for a time, at least – would be gossamer-thin. For a powerful hag no longer stood in their way. And those in that world would be vulnerable. The Lord Peaseblossom’s eyes gleamed and his mind filled with glorious images of victims, of the pleasures of cruelty, the splendours of a land where the elves could toy once more with new playthings. When the moment was right. . . fn1 She did not know it, but a keen young philosopher in Ephebe had pondered exactly that same conundrum, until he was found one morning – most of him, anyway – surrounded by a number of purring, and very well fed, cats. No one had seemed keen to continue his experiments after that. fn2 And its meals. It’s amazing how a night as an owl, snacking on voles, can really leave a nasty taste in your mouth. fn3 She hadn’t ever needed to. Granny Weatherwax was like the prow of a ship. Seas parted when she turned up. fn4 Pronounced Ah-wij.

fn5 The only known instance of the Feegles rebuilding a pub they had drunk dry and demolished. The rebuilt version, however, turned out back to front. Complete with a big ripe boil on the neck in question. fn6 Thus proving that dreams that come true are not always the right dreams. Does wearing a glass slipper lead to a comfortable life? If everything you touch turns into marshmallows, won’t that make things a bit. . . sticky? CHAPTER 4 A Farewell – and a Welcome GETTING GRANNY WEATHERWAX’S corpse down the winding stair with its tiny little steps in the tiny little cottage the following morning was not helped by the big jug of cider which Nanny Ogg was emptying speedily, but nevertheless they got it done without a bump. They laid Granny’s body carefully in the wicker casket, and Tiffany went out to the barn to fetch the wheelbarrow and shovels while Nanny Ogg caught her breath. Then, together, they gently lifted the basket into the wheelbarrow, and placed the shovels on either side of her. Tiffany picked up the handles of the barrow. ‘Ye stay here now, Rob,’ she said to the Feegle as he and his little band appeared from their varied hiding places and lined up behind her. ‘This is a hag thing, ye ken. Ye cannot help me. ’ Rob Anybody shuffled his feet. ‘But ye are oor hag, and ye ken that Jeannie—’ he began. ‘Rob Anybody. ’ Tiffany’s steely gaze pinned him to the ground. ‘Ye remember the chief hag? Granny Weatherwax? Do ye want her shade to come back and. . . tell ye what tae do for ever and ever? ’ There was a group moan and Daft Wullie backed away, whimpering. ‘Then understand this : this is something we hags must do by ourselves. ’ She turned to Nanny Ogg, resolute. ‘Where are we going, Nanny?’ ‘Esme marked a spot in the woods, Tiff, where she wanted to be planted,’ Nanny replied. ‘Follow me, I know where it is. ’ Granny Weatherwax’s garden was cheek by jowl with the woodland beyond, but the journey felt a long way to Tiffany before they arrived at the heart of the forest where a stick was pushed into the ground, a red ribbon tied to the top of it. Nanny passed Tiffany a shovel and the two of them started digging in the cool early morning air. It was hard work, but Granny had chosen her place well and the soil was soft and friable. The hole finally dug – mostly, it has to be said, by Tiffany – Nanny Ogg, sweating cobs (according to her), rested on the handle of her shovel and took a swig from her flagon as Tiffany brought the wheelbarrow over. They laid the wicker basket gently in the hole and then stood back for a moment. Without a word being said, together, solemnly, they bowed to Granny’s grave. And then they picked up the shovels again and started to fill it back in. Ker-thunk! Ker-thunk! The earth built up over the wicker until all that could be seen was soil, and Tiffany watched it flow in until the last crumb had stopped moving. As they smoothed the fresh mound of earth, Nanny told Tiffany that Granny had said she wanted no urns, no shrines and definitely no gravestone. ‘Surely there should be a stone,’ said Tiffany. ‘You know how badgers and mice and other creatures can lift the earth. Even though we know the bones are not her, I for one would want to be sure that nothing is dug up until. . . ’ She hesitated. ‘The ends of time?’ said Nanny. ‘Look, Tiff, Esme tol’ me to say, if you wants to see Esmerelda Weatherwax, then just you look around. She is here. Us witches don’t mourn for very long. We are satisfied with happy memories – they’re there to be cherished. ’ The memory of Granny Aching suddenly shone in Tiffany’s mind. Her own granny had been no witch – though Weatherwax had been very interested in hearing about her – but when Granny Aching had died, her shepherding hut had been burned and her bones had gone down into the hills, six feet deep in the chalk. Then the turf had been put back with the spot marked only by the iron wheels of the hut. But it was a sacred spot now, a place for memories. And not only for Tiffany. No shepherd ever passed without a glance at the skies and a thought for Granny Aching, who had tramped those hills night after night, her light zigzagging in the darkness. Her nod of approval had meant the world on the Chalk. This spot in the woods, Tiffany realized, would be the same. Blessed. It had been a nice day for it, she thought, if there ever was such a thing as a good day to die, a good day to be buried. And now the birds were singing overhead, and there was a soft rustling in the undergrowth, and all the sounds of the forest which showed that life was still being lived blended with the souls of the dead in a woodland requiem. The whole forest now sang for Granny Weatherwax. Tiffany saw a fox sidle up, bow and then run away because a wild boar had arrived, with its family of piglets. Then there was a badger, paying no heed to those who had come earlier, and it remained, and Tiffany was astounded when creature after creature settled down near the grave and sat there as if they were domestic pets. Where is Granny now? Tiffany wondered. Could a part of her still be. . . here? She jumped as something touched her on the shoulder; but it was just a leaf. Then, deep inside, she knew the answer to her question: Where is Granny Weatherwax? It was: She is here – and everywhere. To Tiffany’s surprise, Nanny Ogg was weeping gently. Nanny took another swig from her flagon and wiped her eyes. ‘Cryin’ helps sometimes,’ she said. ‘No shame in tears for them as you’ve loved. Sometimes I remember one of my husbands and shed a tear or two. The memories’re there to be treasured, and it’s no good to get morbid-like about it. ’ ‘How many husbands have you actually had, Nanny?’ asked Tiffany. Nanny appeared to be counting. ‘Three of my own, and let’s just say I’ve run out of fingers on the rest, as it were. ’ But she was smiling now, perhaps remembering a very treasured husband, and then, bouncing back from the past, she was suddenly her normal cheerful self again. ‘Come on, Tiff,’ she said, ‘let’s go back to your cottage. Like I always says, a decent wake don’t happen by itself. ’ As they made their way back to the cottage, Tiffany asked Nanny the question which had been burning in her mind. ‘What do you think will happen next?’ Nanny looked at Tiffany. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well, Granny wasn’t exactly the head witch. . . except that most people thought she was. . . ’ ‘There ain’t no such thing as a head witch, Tiff, you know that. ’ ‘Yes, but. . . if Granny’s not here any more, do you become the not-head-witch?’ ‘Me?’ Nanny Ogg laughed. ‘Oh no, dear, I’ve had a very good life, me, lots of children, lots of men, lots of fun and, yes, as witches go, I’m pretty good. But I never thought of steppin’ into Esme’s shoes. Ever. ’ ‘Well, who is, then? Someone’s got to. ’ Nanny Ogg scowled and said, ‘Granny never said as she was better than others. She just got on with it and showed ’em and people worked it out for themselves. You mark my words, the senior witches will get together soon enough to talk about this, but I know who Granny would choose – and it’s as I would too. ’ She stopped and looked serious for a moment. ‘It’s you, Tiff. Esme’s left you her cottage. But more’n that. You must step into the shoes of Granny Weatherwax or else’n someone less qualified will try an’ do it!’ ‘But— I can’t! And witches don’t have leaders! You’ve just said that, Nanny!’ ‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘And you must be the best damn leader that we don’t have. Don’t look at me sideways like that, Tiffany Aching. Just think about it. You didn’t try to earn it, but earn it you has, and if you don’t believe me, believe Granny Weatherwax. She tol’ me that you was the only witch who could seriously take her place, she said that on the night after you run with that hare. ’ ‘She never said anything to me,’ said Tiffany, feeling suddenly very young. ‘Well, she wouldn’t say nothing, o’ course she wouldn’t,’ said Nanny. ‘That’s not Esme’s way, you know that. She would have given a grunt, and maybe said, “Well done, girl.

” She just liked people to know their own strengths – and your strengths are formidable. ’ ‘But, Nanny, you are older, more experienced, than me – you know lots more!’ ‘And some of it I wants to forget,’ said Nanny. ‘I’m far too young,’ Tiffany wailed. ‘If I wasn’t a witch, I’d still just be thinking of boyfriends. ’ Nanny Ogg almost jumped on her. ‘You’re not too young,’ she said. ‘Years ain’t what’s important here. Granny Weatherwax said to me as you is the one who’s to deal with the future. An’ bein’ young means you’ve got a lot of future. ’ She sniffed. ‘Lot more’n me, that’s for sure. ’ ‘But that’s not how it works,’ Tiffany said. ‘It ought to be a senior witch. It has to be. ’ But her Second Thoughts then leaped up in her head, challenging her. Why? Why not do things differently? Why should we do things how they have always been done before? And something inside her suddenly thrilled to the challenge. ‘Huh!’ Nanny retorted. ‘You danced with the hare to save the lives of your friends, my girl. Do you remember being so. . . angry that you picked up a lump of flint and let it dribble between your fingers as if it was water? All the senior witches were there, and they took their hats off to you. You! Hats!’ She stomped off towards the cottage, with just one parting shot. ‘And remember, You chose you. That cat there, she went to you when Esme up and left. ’ And there the white cat was, sitting on the stump of an old birch, preening herself, and Tiffany wondered. Oh yes, she wondered. Just as they got back to the cottage, a dishevelled but very large wizard was trying to land his broomstick by the goat shed. ‘It is good of you to come, Mustrum,’ Nanny Ogg shouted across the garden, as the gentleman smoothed down his robes, trod carefully past the herbs and doffed his hat to them – Tiffany noticed with glee that he had tied it onto his head with string. ‘Tiff, this is Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University. ’ Tiffany had only met one or two wizards, and they had mostly been of the type that relied on the robes, pointy hat and staff to make their point, hoping that they never had to actually do anything magical. On the face of it, Ridcully looked exactly the same – beard, big staff with a knob on the top, a pointy hat. . . wait, a pointy hat with a crossbow tucked into the hatband? The witch side of her stepped back and watched carefully. But Ridcully was not interested in her at all. To her astonishment, the Archchancellor actually appeared to be crying. ‘Is it true, then, Nanny? Has she really gone?’ Nanny gave him a handkerchief and as he blew noisily into it, she whispered to Tiffany, ‘He and Esme were, well, you know, good friends when they were younger. ’ She winked. The Archchancellor seemed to be overcome. Nanny handed him her flagon. ‘My famous remedy, your worship. Best to drink it down in one great gulp. Works a right treat for melancholy, it does. Whenever I’m a bit unsure of myself I drinks a lot of it. Medicinal use only, o’ course. ’ The Archchancellor took the flagon, swigged down a couple of gulps in one go and then flourished it at Nanny. ‘Here’s to Esmerelda Weatherwax and lost futures,’ he said in a voice choked with sorrow. ‘May we all go round again!’ He removed his hat, unscrewed the pointy bit and brought out a small bottle of brandy and a cup. ‘For you, Mrs Ogg,’ he boomed. ‘And now, may I see her, please?’ ‘We have laid her down already, where she wanted to rest,’ said Nanny. ‘You know how it is. She didn’t want no fuss. ’ She looked at him, and continued, ‘I’m very sorry about that, Mustrum, but we’ll take you to the spot where she is now. Tiffany, why don’t you lead the way?’ And thus the most important wizard in the world respectfully followed Tiffany and Nanny Ogg through the woods to the last resting place of the most important witch in the world. The trees surrounding the little clearing were full of birds, singing their souls out. Nanny and Tiffany held back to allow the wizard a private moment by the grave. He sighed. ‘Thank you, Mistress Ogg, Mistress Aching. ’ Then the Archchancellor turned to Tiffany and looked at her properly. ‘For the sake of Esmerelda Weatherwax, my dear, if you ever need a friend, you can call on me. Being the most important wizard in the world must mean something. ’ He paused. ‘I have heard of you,’ he said, and at her gasp, he added, ‘No, don’t be surprised. You must know that we wizards keep an. . . eye on what you witches do. We know when the magic is disturbed, when something. . . happens. And so I heard about the flint. Was it true?’ His voice was brusque now – a man who did not do small talk, only big talk, and in a big voice too. ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘All of it. ’ ‘My word,’ said Ridcully. ‘And now I feel certain that your future is going to be, let us say, very speckled. I can see the signs in you, Mistress Tiffany Aching – and I know many people of power, people who have so much power that they don’t have to wield it. You are hardly into your prime, yet I see this in you, and so I live in wonder about what you might do next. ’ His face now fell and he continued, ‘Would you ladies now leave me alone with my feelings. I am sure I can find my way back to the cottage. ’ Later on, the Archchancellor walked back to his broomstick and Tiffany and Nanny Ogg watched him disappear in the general direction of Ankh-Morpork. The broomstick itself was wobbling about as he rose over the woods in a final salute. Nanny smiled. ‘He is a wizard. He can be sober when he likes, and if he ain’t, well, he can fly a broomstick well enough with a brandy or two inside him. After all, there’s not much to bump into up there!’ As the morning progressed, more and more people were coming to pay their respects at the little cottage. The news had spread, and it seemed like everybody wanted to leave a gift for Granny Weatherwax. For the witch who had always been there for them, even if they hadn’t actually liked her. Esme Weatherwax hadn’t done nice. She’d done what was needed. She’d been there for them when they called at the cottage, she’d come out at whatever time of day or night when asked (and sometimes when not , which hadn’t always been comfortable), and somehow she had made them feel. . . safer. They brought hams and cheeses, milk and pickles, jams and beer, bread and fruit. . . It also seemed that broomsticks were coming through the trees from everywhere, and there was nothing a witch appreciated more than a bit of free food – Tiffany caught one elderly witch trying to stuff an entire chicken up her knickers. And as the witches turned up, the villagers began to melt away. It didn’t do to be around that many witches. Why risk it? Nobody wanted to be turned into a frog – after all, who would bring in the harvest then? They started to make their excuses and sidle off, with those who had partaken of Nanny Ogg’s famous cocktails sidling in a rather wobbly fashion. None of the witches had been invited, but it seemed to Tiffany they had been drawn there, just like the Archchancellor. Even Mrs Earwig turned up. She came in a carriage and pair, complete with black plumes, and her arms jingled with bangles and charms – as if the percussion section of an orchestra had suddenly fallen off a cliff – while her hat was festooned in silver stars. Her husband was dragged along beside her. Tiffany felt sorry for the man. ‘Hail, sisters, and may the runes protect us on this momentous occasion,’ Mrs Earwig pronounced, just loud enough to be heard by the remaining villagers – she did like to advertise her witchiness. She gave Tiffany a long stare, which infuriated Nanny Ogg. Nanny made the briefest possible bow, then turned and said, ‘Look, Tiffany, here’s Agnes Nitt. Wotcha, Agnes!’ Agnes – a witch with a waistline that suggested she had a similar attitude to eating as the Feegles’ kelda – was out of breath, saying, ‘I’ve been touring in Stackpole’s Much Ado About Everybody. I was in Quirm when I heard and I came as fast as I could.

’ Tiffany hadn’t met Agnes before, but from one look at her sensible face and good-natured smile, she thought she would probably get along with her very well indeed. Then she was overcome with delight as a broomstick wobbled down to land and she heard the familiar ‘Um’ of her friend Petulia. ‘Um, Tiffany, I heard you were here. Um, do you want some help with making any sandwiches?’ Petulia offered, waving a big side of bacon as she landed. Petulia was married to a pig farmer and was acknowledged to be Lancre’s best pig-borer. fn1 She was also one of Tiffany’s very best friends. ‘Dimity is here too, and, um, Lucy Warbeck,’ Petulia continued – the ‘um’s always got worse when she was in the company of other witches; amazingly, she never used the word when pig-boring, which had to say something about Petulia and pigs. Tiffany and Nanny Ogg’s grandsons had put up some makeshift tables. After all, everybody knows what a funeral is really for and most people like eating and drinking whatever the occasion. There was music, and over it all, Agnes’s heavenly voice. She sang the ‘Columbine Lament’, and as its soft tune wafted over the roof and into the forest beyond, Nanny said to Tiffany, ‘That voice could make the trees cry. ’ And there was dancing, no doubt helped along by Nanny Ogg’s brews. Nanny Ogg could get any party singing and dancing. It was a gift, Tiffany thought. Nanny could jolly up a graveyard if she put her mind to it. ‘No long faces for Granny Weatherwax, please,’ Nanny proclaimed. ‘She’s had a good death at home, just as anyone might wish for. Witches know that people die; and if they manages to die after a long time, leavin’ the world better than they went an’ found it, well then, that’s surely a reason to be happy. All the rest of it is just tidyin’ up. Now, let’s dance! Dancin’ makes the world go round. And it goes round even faster with a drop o’ my home liquor inside you. ’ Up in the roof of Granny’s cottage, swinging from the boughs of the little tree that grew out of the thatch, the Nac Mac Feegles – Rob Anybody, Daft Wullie, Big Yan and the gonnagle, Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin – were in agreement with the latter part of that statement, though they were keeping the dancing for later, mind. They stayed mostly out of sight, spotted only by one or two of the more observant witches, but now they came down to the scullery where Tiffany was starting on what the elderly, more senior witches always expected the younger girls to do – clearing up. The senior witches were beginning to gather together outside; it was time to discuss the appointment of a new incumbent to Granny Weatherwax’s steading, and Tiffany wanted to keep out of the way while she thought about what she might say. As the haunting tones of Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin’s mousepipes played a soft lament for the soul of the hag o’ hags, the other Feegles began raiding the tables for any leftovers the witches had missed. ‘Alas, poor Granny, I knew her well,’ sighed Big Yan, swigging from a bottle of Nanny’s home-made hooch. ‘No you didn’t,’ Tiffany snapped. ‘Only Granny Weatherwax really knew Granny Weatherwax. ’ The day was still too raw for her, and the witches outside were making her nervous. ‘Ha ha,’ laughed Daft Wullie. ‘It weren’t me, this time, Rob. Nae me what put my foot in it. I sez the hag were upset, Rob, didnae I?’ ‘I’ll put my boot inta yer face if ye don’t shut up,’ Big Yan growled. They’d had the drinkin’ and eatin’, postponed the dancin’, but wasn’t it time for a wee fight? He clenched his fists, but then had to suddenly retreat as Tiffany’s friends came into the scullery. ‘I think it’s going to be you , Tiffany,’ Dimity hissed, poking her in the back. ‘Nanny Ogg just stood up and asked for you. You’d better get out there. ’ ‘Go on, Tiff,’ Petulia urged. ‘Everyone knows, um, what Granny Weatherwax thought of you. . . ’ And so, pushed and pulled by her friends, Tiffany left the scullery, but she hovered by the back door of the cottage, unwilling to take that final step. To make a claim. This was Granny’s cottage, she still felt. Even though the not-Grannyness was beginning to feel like a huge hole in the air around her. Tiffany looked down at her feet; You was twining around her legs, arching her back and rubbing her hard little head against Tiffany’s boot. Outside, some of the witches were looking at Nanny Ogg, who was saying, ‘Yes, ladies, Esme did tell us who her successor was to be. ’ She turned and gestured to Tiffany to come nearer. ‘I wish I’d been there,’ she added, ‘when Esme Weatherwax was made witch by Nanny Gripes. You think who makes you a witch is the kind of witch you’re goin’ to become, but we all has to find our own way, as we go along like. Granny Weatherwax was always her own true witch self – never just another Nanny Gripes. And though I think we can all talk for ourselves, people like the Archchancellor, and Lord Vetinari, and indeed someone like the Low Queen of the dwarfs – well, they want to know sometimes that they can talk to somebody who can speak, officially like, for all witches. And I’m pretty certain they looked on Esme as bein’ that voice of witchcraft. So we needs to listen to her voice too. And she tol ’ me who her successor should be. Yes, and wrote it on this here card. ’ Nanny brandished in the air the card Granny Weatherwax had left on her bedside chest. Someone had clearly raised the idea of Mrs Earwig taking over the steading – or Mrs Earwig had raised the prospect of her latest trainee getting the cottage. Nanny glared at her, and there was no trace of the jolly witch in her now, oh no. ‘Letice Earwig just makes shiny things for her would-be witches!’ she stated. She ignored the ‘Humph’ from Mrs Earwig as she continued, ‘But Tiffany Aching – yes, sisters, Tiffany Aching – we’ve all seen what she can do. It’s not about shiny charms. Not about books. It’s about bein’ a witch to the bone in the darkness, an’ dealing with the lamentation an’ the tears! It’s about bein’ real. Esme Weatherwax knew this, knew this with every bone in her body. And so does Tiffany Aching, and this steadin’ is hers. ’ Tiffany gasped as the other witches turned to look at her. And as the muttering began, she stepped forward hesitantly. Then You meowed, the cry cutting through the murmuring in the crowd, and the white cat came again to Tiffany’s side. Suddenly there was a humming in the air, and the bees were there too. They flowed out of Granny Weatherwax’s hive, circling Tiffany like a halo, crowning her, and swarm and girl stood on the threshold of the cottage and Tiffany reached out her arms and the bees settled along them, and welcomed her home. And after that, on that terrible day when a farewell was said to the witch of witches, there was no more argument as Tiffany Aching became in all eyes the witch to follow. fn1 Pig-boring saved a lot of nasty squealing. A pig-borer, like Petulia, would talk to the pigs until they simply died of boredom. CHAPTER 5 A Changing World THE QUEEN OF the Elves sat in state on a diamond throne in her palace, surrounded by her courtiers, foundlings and lost boys, and creeping creatures with no names – all the detritus of the fairy folk. She had chosen to sparkle today. The everlasting sunlight shining through the exquisitely carved stone windows had been pitched exactly to strike the tiny gems on her wings so that delicate rainbows of light danced around the audience chamber as she moved. The courtiers lounging about the place in lace-trimmed velvet and feathers were almost, but not quite, as beautifully dressed. Her eyes slid sideways, ever alert to the actions of her lords and ladies. Was that Lord Lankin over there in the corner with Lord Mustardseed? Whispering. . . And where was Lord Peaseblossom? One day, she thought, she would have his head on a pole! She didn’t trust him at all, and his glamour had been strong of late, almost as glorious as her own. Or, she reminded herself bitterly, as glorious as her own had been. . . before.

Before that young witch – Tiffany Aching – had come into Fairyland and humiliated her. Lately she had felt shivers between their two worlds, understood that things were shifting, the edges becoming more blurred. Softer. A few of the stronger elves had even been slipping through from time to time for a little mischief. Perhaps soon she could lead the elves on a proper raiding party. . . fetch another child to play with. Have her revenge on the Aching witch. The Queen smiled at the thought, licking her lips in anticipation of the fun ahead. But for now there was other troubling news to deal with. Goblins! Mere worms, who should be grateful if an elvish lord or lady even looked their way, but who were now foolishly refusing to do her bidding. She would show them all, she thought. Lords Lankin, Mustardseed, Peaseblossom – they would all see how powerful she was again. They would see her strike down this goblin filth. . . But where was Peaseblossom? The goblin prisoner was brought into the audience chamber under guard. The whole effect was visually stunning, the goblin thought sourly. Exactly as a fairy court would look in a human child’s story book. Until you looked at the faces and realized that there was something not quite right about the eyes and the expressions of the beautiful creatures in the scene. The Queen considered the goblin for a while, resting her fine-boned chin on the fingers of one exquisitely thin hand. Her alabaster brow furrowed. ‘You, goblin, you call yourself Of the Dew the Sunlight, I believe. You and your kind have long enjoyed the protection of this court. Yet I hear talk of rebellion. A refusal to do my bidding. Before I hand you over to my guards for their. . . amusement, tell me why this is. ’ Her melodious voice was rich with charm as the words were spoken, but the goblin seemed unmoved. He should have fallen to his knees and begged for her forgiveness, hypnotized by the power of the Queen’s glamour, but instead he stood his ground stockily and grinned at her. Grinned at the Queen! ‘Well, Queenie, it’s like this, you see. Goblins is now treated as upright citizens in human world. Humans say goblins useful. We likes being useful. We gets paid for being useful and finding out things and making things. ’ The Queen’s beautiful visage slipped and she glared at the cheeky creature in front of her. ‘That’s impossible,’ she shouted. ‘You goblins are the dregs, everyone knows that!’ ‘Ah ha!’ laughed the goblin. ‘Queenie not so clever as she thinks. Goblins riding on hog’s back now. Goblins know how to drive the iron horses. ’ There was a shiver in the court as the goblin uttered the word ‘iron’ and the magical glimmer dimmed. The Queen’s dress changed colour from silver gossamer to blood-red velvet and her blonde ringlets turned into straight, raven-black locks. Her courtiers followed suit as the pastel silks and lace made way for leather breeches, scarlet sashes and scraps of fur over woad-covered torsos. Elven stone knives were drawn and sharp teeth bared. The little goblin did not flinch. ‘I don’t believe you,’ said the Queen. ‘After all, you are just a goblin. ’ ‘Just a goblin, yess, your queeniness,’ he said quietly. ‘A goblin what understands iron and steel. Steel as goes round and round and chuffs. Takes people to faraway places. And a goblin what is a citizen of Ankh-Morpork, and you know what that means, my lady. The dark one there gets upset when his citizens get killed. ’ ‘You are lying,’ said the Queen. ‘The Lord Vetinari would not care what happens to you. You goblins always lie, Of the Dew the Sunlight. ’ ‘Not my name any more. I am now Of the Lathe the Swarf,’ said the goblin proudly. ‘Swarf,’ said the Queen. ‘What is that?’ ‘Itty bits of iron, they is, Queenie,’ said the goblin, his eyes hardening. ‘Of the Lathe the Swarf no liar. You talks to me like that again, your majisteriousness, I opens my pockets. Then we sees what swarf is!’ The Queen drew back, her eyes fixed on the goblin’s hands hovering near the pockets of his dark blue jacket, wooden toggles fastening it over his skinny chest. ‘You dare threaten me?’ she said. ‘Here in my own realm, you worm? When I could shrivel your heart within you with just a word? Or have you dropped where you stand?’ She gestured to the guards standing ready with their crossbows aimed at the goblin. ‘I is no worm for you, Queenie. I have the swarf. Tiny bits of steel that can float in the air. But I is here to bring news. A warning. Of the Lathe the Swarf still has fancy for the old days. I likes to see humans squirm. Likes to see you fairy folk stirring things up, I does. Some goblins thinks as I does, but not so many now. Some goblins almost not goblins now. Almost human. I don’t likes it but they says the times they is a-changing. The money is good, see, Queenie. ’ ‘Money?’ sneered the Queen. ‘I give you goblins money, you wor—’ She paused as she saw the goblin’s hand move into his pocket. Could the horrible little creature really be bringing iron into her world? Iron – a terrible substance for any of the fairy folk. Painful. Destructive. It blinded, deafened, made an elf feel more alone than any human could ever feel. She finished her sentence with gritted teeth. ‘Worthy creature. ’ ‘Gold as melts away as sun rises,’ said the goblin. ‘They – we – gets real money now. I just wants goblins to remain goblins. Goblins with status. Respect. Not pushed around no more by you or anyone else. ’ He glared at Peaseblossom, who had suddenly stepped to the side of the Queen. ‘I don’t believe you,’ said the Queen. ‘Your funeral, Queenie,’ said the goblin. ‘Don’t believe me. Go to gate. Not so much trouble now old witch gone. You sees for yourself. World has changed, Queenie. ’ And the Queen thought, Changed, yes. She had felt the tremors, known something momentous was afoot, but not known exactly what. So the old witch was gone. With no hag to stop them, why, she realized, we can ride through in splendour once more. Then her face fell. Except for this. . . swarf. This iron. ‘Bind this maggot’s arms behind him,’ she ordered her guards, pointing at the goblin. ‘I wish to see if he speaks true. And he will ride with us. . . ’ She smiled. ‘If he speaks false, we will tear out his tongue. ’ Next morning, alone in Granny Weatherwax’s cottage – her cottage, now – Tiffany woke early knowing that her world had changed. You was watching her like a hawk. She sighed. It was going to be a busy day. She had been in many houses where death had recently visited, and always the lady of the house, if there was one, would be shining anything that shined and cleaning everything that could be cleaned. And so, with rags and polishing cloths, Tiffany Aching cleaned everything that was already spick and span clean: it was a kind of unspoken mantra – the world had gone bad, but at least the grate had been polished and now had a fire ready to light in it. All the time, like a statue, there was You, staring at her. Did cats know about death? she wondered. What about the cats of witches? Especially. . . what about Granny Weatherwax’s cat ? Tiffany tidied that thought away for now, and started on the kitchen, burnishing anything that could be burnished, and yes, it shone. She was cleaning things already clean, but the algebra of mourning required the effort of getting all the death out of the house; and there was no shrinking from it: you cleaned everything, regardless. She’d finished in the kitchen and the scullery, leaving everything so bright that her eyes watered, and then there was nothing for it but to go upstairs. On her hands and knees, with bucket and brush and rags and grease – that is, elbow grease – Tiffany cleaned and cleaned until her knuckles were red and she was satisfied. But that wasn’t the end of it: there was Granny’s small wardrobe, with its few well-worn and serviceable dresses hanging in there, along with a cloak. All black, of course.

Tucked away on a shelf was the Zephyr Billow Cloak Tiffany herself had given Granny – unworn, as far as she could see, but kept carefully, like a special possession. She felt her eyes begin to prickle. . . Beside the bed were Granny Weatherwax’s boots. Good, serviceable boots, Tiffany thought. And Granny had hated waste. But. . . to actually wear them? She was going to find it hard enough to follow in Granny’s footsteps. She swallowed. She was sure she could find a good home for the boots. In the meantime, well, she poked forward a toe and pushed them out of sight, beneath the bed. Then of course there was the kitchen garden and, above all, the herbs. Tiffany found a pair of heavy gloves in the scullery – you didn’t go into Granny’s herbs without heavy gloves until they knew you. Granny had foraged, bartered and been given herbs from just about everywhere, and she had Rotating Spinach, and Doubting Plums, Ginny Come Nether, Twirlabout, Tickle My Fancy Root, Jump in the Basin and Jack-go-to-bed-and-never-get-up, Daisy-upsy-Daisy and Old Man Root. There was a clump of Love Lies Oozing by the Jack by Moonlight and a very active Maiden’s Respite. Tiffany did not know what all of them were for; she would have to ask Nanny Ogg. Or Magrat Garlick, who – like her husband Verence, the King of Lancre – was very enthusiastic about herbs. fn1 Though un like her husband, Magrat did actually know her Troubling Tony from her Multitude Root. It was never easy being a witch. Oh, the broomstick was great, but to be a witch you needed to be sensible, so sensible that sometimes it hurt. You dealt with the reality – not what people wanted. The reality right now was suddenly You, meowing and banging her head against Tiffany’s legs, demanding food, which she then ignored completely when Tiffany went back into the kitchen and placed a dish of it down for her on the floor. Tiffany went outdoors again and fed the chickens, let the goats out to graze, had a word with the bees and then thought, I’ve done my bit. The place is spotless, the bees are happy, even the lean-to is clean. If Nanny can come in and feed the animals, keep an eye on You, then I can go back home for a few days. . . Reaching the Chalk after a flight that was long and, sadly, very wet, since the rain was teeming down, fn2 she flew to the house of young Milly Robinson, the Feegles clinging on behind, under and actually on her in their usual style. Milly’s two baby boys looked well fed, but the little girl – baby Tiffany – didn’t. Unfortunately Witch Tiffany was used to this sort of thing, especially when the mothers weren’t very clever or had bossy mothers and thought feeding the boys was the main thing in life. It was why, just after the baby’s birth, she had whispered that spell into the baby’s ear. A simple tracking magic, so she would know if any harm befell the little girl. Just a precaution, she had told herself at the time. There was no use getting nasty about all this, so she took the young woman aside and said, ‘Milly, listen. Yes, your boys have to be straight and strong when they grow up, but my mother always used to say to me: Your son’s your son until he takes a wife, but your daughter is your daughter all of your life. And I think that’s right enough. You help your mother out still, don’t you? And she helps you. So fair shares for the little girl is the right thing to do. Please. ’ Then, because the carrot – or in this case, the breast milk – sometimes needed to be accompanied by the stick, she added sternly, the pointy hat making her seem older and wiser than she would otherwise appear, ‘I shall be watching after her interests. ’ A little bit of menace often did the trick, she had learned. And, of course, she would watch. Then there was only one person she wanted to talk to; and the rain was getting harder still as her stick drifted down towards the Feegle mound on the hill, Rob and the other Feegles toppling off as she approached. Daft Wullie made a spectacularly bad landing, head first into the gorse, and a rabble of young Feegles rushed up joyously to unscrew him. There were a couple of Rob’s older sons lounging around outside the entrance. They were scrawny, even by Feegle standards, with barely a wisp of beard hair between them and impractically low-slung spogs knocking about their knees, their kilts hung low on their skinny hips. To Tiffany’s amazement, she could see the top bands of coloured pants riding high above them. Pants? On a Feegle? The times were indeed changing. ‘Pull yon kilts up, lads!’ Rob muttered as they pushed their way past. The kelda was in her chamber, surrounded by Feegle babies, all rolling around on a floor covered with the fleeces of sheep gone to another land. And the first words she said were, ‘I know. . . ’ She sighed and added, ‘It’s grieving I am, but the wheel takes all in time. ’ Her face crinkled into a huge smile. ‘It’s happy I am to see you as leader of the witches, Tiffan. ’ ‘Well, thank you,’ said Tiffany. How did Jeannie know? she wondered for a moment. But every kelda used the way of the hiddlins to see things past, present and future. . . and it was a secret known only to the keldas, passed down one to the other. She understood too that although Jeannie was very small, she was someone to whom she could tell every secret, in the assurance that it would never be passed on to anyone. And now she hesitantly said, ‘Jeannie, I don’t think I could ever fill her boots. ’ ‘Really?’ said the kelda sharply. ‘Dinna you think Esmerelda Weatherwax may nae have kenned the same thing when the position was gi’n to her? Do ye suppose yon hag then said, Nae me. I’m nae guid enough?’ The wise little pictsie was looking at Tiffany as if she was some kind of specimen, a new plant perhaps, and then she lowered her voice and said, ‘I ken well enough that ye will be a guid leader. ’ ‘Though only the first amongst equals rather than a leader,’ Tiffany added. ‘At least, I’m sure that’s what the other witches think. . . ’ Her voice trailed off, her doubts hanging in the air. ‘Is that so?’ said the kelda. She went quiet for a moment, then said softly, ‘Ye who kissed the spirit of winter and sent him packing, aye. Yet I ken that ye have in front of ye something less easy, Tiffan. There is a change coming in the heavens, and ye will need to be there. ’ Her voice grew even more sombre and her small eyes were fixed on Tiffany now. ‘Be aware, Tir-far-thóinn; this is a time of transition,’ she said. ‘Mistress Weatherwax is nae longer wi’ us, and her goin’ leaves a. . . hole that others willnae fail to see. We mus’ watch the gateways, and ye mus’ tak’ great care. For them ye don’t wish to know might be seeking ye out. ’ It was good to be home, Tiffany thought, when at last she arrived there. Back at her parents’ farm – it was even called Home Farm – back where her mother cooked a hot dinner every night. Back where she could sit at the big wooden kitchen table, which was scarred by generations of Achings, and become a little girl again. But she wasn’t a little girl any more. She was a witch. One with two steadings to look after. And over the next week as she flew back and forth from the Chalk to Lancre, from Lancre to the Chalk, in weather that seemed to be enjoying a competition to be the wettest ever for the time of year, it seemed to her that she was always arriving late, wet and tired. People were nearly always polite – to her face, anyway, and certainly to the pointy hat – but she could tell from what they didn’t say that somehow, indefinably, whatever she did, it wasn’t quite enough. She got up earlier every day and went to bed later, but it still wasn’t enough. She needed to be a good witch. A strong witch. And in between the carrying and the healing, the helping and the listening, she could feel sudden prickles of alarm run up and down her body. Jeannie had warned her that something dreadful might be coming. . . Would she be up to the job? She didn’t even think she was doing very well with all the usual stuff. She couldn’t be Granny Weatherwax for them in Lancre.

And it was getting harder and harder to be Tiffany Aching for the Chalk. Even at home. Even there. She struggled in wearily one night, longing for food, peace and her bed, and as her mother pulled a huge pot from the big black oven and placed it in the centre of the table, a family row was just starting. ‘I met Sid Pigeon outside the Baron’s Arms today,’ her brother Wentworth, a strapping lad not quite old enough for the pub yet, but certainly old enough to hang around outside, was saying. ‘Sid Pigeon?’ Mrs Aching wondered. ‘The younger of the two Pigeon brothers,’ her father said. Younger , thought Tiffany. That counted for a lot in farming country. It meant the older brother got the farm. Though if she remembered correctly, the Pigeon farm was a pretty poor place, not very well run. Wasn’t Mr Pigeon a regular at the Baron’s Arms? She tried to remember Mrs Pigeon, and failed. But yes, she remembered Sid. She’d seen him only a few weeks back, up near Twoshirts – a small boy who had seemingly grown into his name when someone had given him a peaked cap and a whistle to hang around his neck. ‘He was telling me about them railway jobs,’ Wentworth went on enthusiastically. ‘He’s earning good money, is Sid. Says they need more men. It’s the future, Dad. Railways, not sheep!’ ‘Don’t get any daft ideas, lad,’ his father warned. ‘Railways is for them as don’t take on land to farm. Not like us Achings. Not like you. You know what your future holds for you. It’s right here, where it’s always been for an Aching lad. ’ ‘But—’ Wentworth wasn’t happy. Tiffany shot him a look. She knew how he felt. And after all, she herself wasn’t doing what had been expected of her, was she? If she had, she’d be getting married about now, like her sisters had, getting ready to produce a few more grandchildren for her mother to fuss over. Her mother seemed to be thinking of the same thing. ‘You always seem to be somewhere else these days,’ she said, changing the subject from Wentworth to Tiffany, trying hard not to sound like she was complaining. ‘I wish you could be with us more, Tiff,’ she added a bit sadly. ‘Don’t bother the lass. She’s some kind of top witch now, you know. She can’t be everywhere,’ her father said. Feeling like a little girl, Tiffany said, ‘I try to be around here as much as possible but we don’t really have enough witches to do the work that’s needed. ’ Her mother smiled nervously and said, ‘I know you work hard, dear. There’s lots of people who stop me in the road to say that my girl has helped their kid or their father. Everybody sees that you are running about like nobody’s business. And you know what people are saying? They are saying to me, you are growing up like your granny. After all, she used to tell the Baron what to do. And you do the same. ’ ‘Well, Granny Aching wasn’t a witch,’ said Tiffany. ‘That depends,’ said her father, turning away from Wentworth, who stomped out and slammed the kitchen door behind him. Joe Aching looked after him for a moment, then sighed and winked at Tiffany. ‘There are surely different kinds of witches. You remember how your granny wanted the shepherd’s hut burned down once she was dead? “Burn everything,” she told me. ’ He smiled and said, ‘I almost did what I was told. But there was a thing she had and it was not for the burning, so I wrapped it up, and now, seeing you, my girl, here’s a little memento from Granny Aching. ’ To Tiffany’s surprise her father was crying, under his smiles, as he gave her a little package wrapped up in crinkled paper and tied with a piece of old wool. She opened it and turned the little ridged object over in her hand. ‘It’s a shepherd’s crown,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them before – they are quite easy to find. ’ Joe Aching laughed and said, ‘Not this one. Your granny said it was special – the crown of crowns. And if the Shepherd of Shepherds picked it up, it would turn into gold. Look, beneath the grey you can see the hints of gold. ’ Tiffany looked at the little object while she ate her stew, made as only her mother could make it, and she thought about the days when Granny Aching would come down to the farm for a meal. It seemed to some that the old woman had lived on Jolly Sailor tobacco; and there was no doubt about it – when it came to sheep, Granny Aching knew everything. But the mind starts running all by itself and Tiffany thought about all the things Granny had done and the things that Granny had said. Then the memories came as a cavalcade, whether she wanted them or not, settling on her like snow. Tiffany thought of the times she had walked with her granny. Mostly in silence, sometimes with Thunder and Lightning – Granny Aching’s sheepdogs – at their heels. She had learned a lot from the old woman. She taught me so much, she said to herself. She built me as we were walking around after the sheep, and she told me all those things that I needed to know, and the first thing was to look after people. Of course, the other thing had been to look after the sheep. And all she had ever asked for was her shepherd’s hut and some horrible tobacco. Tiffany dropped her spoon. It was all right to sob in this familiar kitchen like she had when she was a girl. Immediately, her father was there beside her. ‘You can do a lot, jigget, but no one could do it all. ’ ‘Yes,’ said her mother. ‘And we keep your bed ready every day. And we know you are doing a lot of good and I am proud when I see you flying around. But you can’t do everything for everybody. Don’t go out again tonight. Please. ’ ‘We like seeing our girl, but it’d be nice to see her properly and not always in a blur,’ her father added, putting his arm around her. They finished their dinner in silence, a warm silence, and as Tiffany prepared to go up the stairs to her childhood bedroom, Mrs Aching stood and pulled out an envelope from where she had tucked it out of the way on the dresser, amongst the blue and white jars that, surprisingly in a working farm kitchen, were simply for show. ‘There’s a letter here for you. From Preston, I expect. ’ Her tone was very mother-ish now; she only had to say ‘Preston’ and there was a question there. And Tiffany crept up the stairs, feeling the care and love of her parents flowing around her, and into her room, relishing the familiar creak of the boards. She placed the shepherd’s crown on the shelf by her few books – a new treasure – and pulled on her nightdress wearily. Tonight, she decided, she would try to forget her fears, allow herself to just be Tiffany Aching for a while. Not Tiffany Aching, the Witch of the Chalk. Then, while there was still light to see, she read Preston’s letter, and the weariness fled for a moment, replaced by a wave of sheer happiness. Preston’s letter was wonderful! Filled with new language, new words – today he wrote about taking up a scalpel – ‘such a sharp, strong word’ – and how he had learned a new way to suture. ‘Suture,’ Tiffany said quietly to herself. A soft word, so much smoother than ‘scalpel’, almost healing. And in a way she needed healing. Healing from the loss of Granny Weatherwax, healing from the strain of too much to do – and healing from the effort of trying to match the expectations of the other witches. She carefully read every word, twice, then folded the letter up and put it away in a small wooden box in which she kept all his letters, as well as the beautiful golden hare pendant he had once given her. There was no point resealing it: she could keep nothing secret from the Feegles and she preferred not to have the box full of the snail slime they used to restick anything they had opened. Then she slept in her childhood bedroom. And beside her there was the cat, You. And Tiffany was a child again. A child with parents who loved her very much. But also a young girl. A girl with a boy who sends her letters. And a witch. A witch with a cat that was very. . . special. While her parents lay in bed, talking about their daughter. . . ‘It’s right proud of our girl I am,’ Joe Aching began.

‘And of course she is a really good midwife,’ Mrs Aching said, adding rather sadly, ‘But I wonder if she might ever have children of her own. She doesn’t talk about Preston to me, you know, and I don’t much like to ask. Not like with her sisters. ’ She sighed. ‘But so much is changing. Even Wentworth, tonight. . . ’ ‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ Mr Aching said. ‘’Tis right for a lad to want to find his own feet, and most likely he’ll bluster for a bit and shout and argue, but he’ll be here when we’ve gone, looking after the Aching land, you mark my words. There’s nothing to beat land. ’ He sniffed. ‘Certainly not them railways. ’ ‘But Tiffany’s different,’ his wife continued. ‘What she’s going to do I really don’t know, though I do hope, in time, that she and Preston might settle round here. If he’s a doctor and she’s a witch, that’s no reason why they can’t be together, is it? Tiffany could have children too then, like Hannah and Fastidia. . . ’ They thought of their other daughters, of their grandchildren. Joe sighed. ‘She’s not like our other daughters, love. I believe Tiffany may even surpass her grandmother,’ he said. And then he blew out the candles, and they slept, thinking of their Tiffany, a skylark among the sparrows. fn1 Basically, if it had something herbal in it, Magrat and Verence thought it would do you good. With some of the herbs in Granny’s garden, this might be doubtful. At least in the short term. And it might not be wise to stray too far from the privy. fn2 And contrary to popular belief, no witch Tiffany knew had yet managed to control a broomstick whilst also using an umbrella. CHAPTER 6 Around the Houses WALKING STEADILY ALONG the road to Lancre with Mephistopheles trotting beside him and his little cart rattling behind, and swallows swooping overhead, Geoffrey realized that his old home seemed a long way away now. It had only been a week or so, but as they climbed higher into the Ramtops he began to understand what ‘geography’ meant in reality, rather than in the books Mr Wiggall had let him read – Lancre and its surrounding villages had a lot of geography. At the end of a day’s long but satisfying walk for both boy and goat, they arrived outside a village pub which proclaimed its name as The Star, the sign promising excellent ales and food. Well, let’s see how excellent it is, Geoffrey thought. He unhitched the cart and went into the pub with the goat following close behind. The pub was full of working men, who were now not working but enjoying a pint or two before dinner. It was rather stuffy inside with the usual rural tint of agricultural armpit. The regulars were used to people bringing a working dog in with them but they were amazed to see a dusty but well-dressed lad bringing a goat into their pub. The rather skinny barman said, ‘We only allow dogs in here, mister. ’ All eyes in the pub were by now focused on Mephistopheles and Geoffrey said, ‘My goat is cleaner and more knowledgeable than any dog. He can count to twenty, and when the time comes he’ll go outside to do his business. In fact, sir, if I can show him your privy now, he will use it when he needs it. ’ One worker appeared to take umbrage at this point. ‘Do you think that just because we work on the land, we don’t know nothing? I have a pint here that says that the goat can’t do it. ’ Innocently Geoffrey said, ‘You have a knowledgeable pint there, sir. ’ And everyone in the pub laughed. Now every eye was on Geoffrey as he said, ‘Mephistopheles, how many people are in this pub?’ The goat looked down his nose – and it was a nose a dowager would have been proud of – at the men around the bar and started his count, delicately hitting the floor with his hoof, the noise suddenly being the only sound in the place. He hit the floor eight times. ‘He got it right!’ declared the barman. ‘I saw something like that afore,’ said one of the men. ‘There was a travelling show. You know, clowns and tightrope walkers and folk with no arms and travelling doctors. fn1 They called it a carnival. And they had a horse they said could count. But it was just a trick. ’ Geoffrey smiled and said, ‘If a couple of you gentlemen would care to step out for a moment, I will ask my goat to do it again, and you will see that there is no trick involved. ’ Intrigued now, several of the men stepped out while the others started to take bets amongst themselves. ‘Gentlemen, my goat will tell you how many people are still in the room,’ said Geoffrey. Once again, daintily, Mephistopheles tapped out the correct number. Hearing the cheers, the men who had gone out came back in again, looking curious – and Mephistopheles’s hoof registered each one as he entered. The barman laughed. ‘This trick deserves a meal for you and your remarkable goat, mister. What does he like?’ ‘It’s no trick, I assure you, but thank you. Mephistopheles will eat almost anything – he’s a goat. Some scraps would be most acceptable. And for myself, just some bread would be welcome. ’ A bowl of kitchen scraps was produced for Mephistopheles and Geoffrey sat down beside him with his pint and a slab of bread and butter, chatting to some of the men who were interested in the goat. An interest which only deepened when Mephistopheles went out in the direction of the privy and after a while came back again. ‘You actually managed to get him to do that?’ said one of them in wonder. ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I trained him from when he was very small. He’s quite docile really. Well, if I’m around. ’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘It means he does what he’s told, but he has a mind of his own as well. I wouldn’t lose him for anything. ’ Just then, there were raised voices at the other end of the bar as one drinker, filled with the bluster that ale can give to a man, started a fight with someone else who had just come in. The more sensible people moved away as the two began to trade blows, seemingly intent on beating one another to death, while the barman bellowed about the damage to his furniture and threatened to wallop them with his grandfather’s knobkerrie, a souvenir from the Klatchian campaign, if they didn’t stop. Mephistopheles was suddenly alert at Geoffrey’s side, and every drinker who was sober understood in his soul that this was no time to be unpleasant to the lad. They didn’t know how they knew, but there was a kind of visceral power there waiting to be unleashed. ‘Why are they fighting? What’s wrong?’ Geoffrey asked his neighbour. ‘An old grudge about a young lady,’ said the man, rolling his eyes. ‘A bad business. Someone’s going to get hurt, you mark my words. ’ To everyone’s astonishment Geoffrey strolled across the pub, his goat watching his every step, dodged the wildly swinging blows and stood between the two men, saying, ‘There’s no need to fight, you know. ’ The barman’s face fell – he knew what happened to people who tried to get between two idiots smelling blood. And then he could hardly believe his eyes, for the two men abruptly stopped fighting and were standing there, looking rather bemused. ‘Why don’t you two just meet the young lady and see what she thinks before you start beating each other to death?’ Geoffrey said softly. The men looked at one another and the bigger of the two said: ‘He’s right, you know. ’ And the pub audience laughed as the two looked around at the wreckage, seemingly amazed that this could have had anything to do with them. ‘There, that was easy, wasn’t it?’ said Geoffrey, returning to the bar. ‘Ah,’ said the landlord, astonished that he wasn’t having to pick a battered Geoffrey off the floor. ‘You’re not a wizard, are you?’ ‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It’s a knack. It happens to me all the time, when I need it. ’ He smiled. ‘Mostly with animals and sometimes with people. ’ But alas, he thought to himself, not with my father, never with him. ‘Well, you must be some kind of wizard,’ said the barman. ‘You’ve broken up a fight between two of the nastiest bruisers we have around here. ’ He glared at the two miscreants. ‘As for you two,’ he said, ‘don’t come back here until you are sober.

Look at the mess you’ve made. ’ He grabbed both of them and pushed them out the door. The rest of the drinkers got back to their pints. The barman turned back to Geoffrey and looked at him in shrewd appraisal. ‘You want a job, lad? No pay, but you get your keep. ’ ‘I can’t take a job, but I’d be happy to stay for a few days,’ said Geoffrey with alacrity. ‘If you can find some vegetables for me – I eat no meat. And can there be a place for Mephistopheles as well? He’s not very smelly. ’ ‘Probably no worse than the people we have in here,’ said the barman, laughing. ‘I tell you what. You and your goat can stay in the barn and I’ll give you your dinner and breakfast, and then after that, we’ll see. ’ The man held out a rather dirty hand. ‘A deal, then?’ ‘Oh yes, thank you. My name is Geoffrey. ’ The man hesitated. ‘My name’s Darling. Darling Dove. ’ He looked at Geoffrey mournfully and said, ‘Have a laugh about it, will you? Everyone does. Might as well get it out of the way. ’ ‘Why?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Darling is a kind word and so is Dove. How can these be anything to worry about?’ That night, Mr Dove told his wife, ‘I got us a new bar boy. Funny cove he is too. But he seems, well, harmless. Sort of easy to talk to. ’ ‘Can we afford it, Darling?’ his wife said. ‘Oh,’ said Darling Dove, ‘he just wants feeding – doesn’t even want meat – and somewhere to sleep. And he’s got a goat. Quite a smart one, really. Does tricks and all. Might bring some more customers in. ’ ‘Well, dear, if you think it’s a good idea. What are his clothes like?’ asked Mrs Dove. ‘Pretty good,’ said Mr Dove. ‘And he talks like a toff. I wonder if he is running away from something. Best not to ask any questions, I reckon. I tell you what, though: between him and his goat, we won’t have any trouble in the bar. ’ And indeed Geoffrey stayed at The Star for two days, simply because Mr Dove liked him hanging around the place. And Mrs Dove said she was sad when he told her husband that he had to move on. ‘A strange boy, young Geoffrey. He kind of gives me the idea that everything is all right, even if I don’t know what it is that is right. A sort of rightness, floating in the air. I’m really sorry that he’s going,’ she said. ‘Yes, dear,’ said Mr Dove. ‘I asked him to stay, I really did, but he said he must go to Lancre. ’ ‘That’s where they have the witches,’ said his wife. She made a face. ‘Well,’ Mr Dove said, ‘that’s where he wants to go. ’ He paused, and added, ‘He said the wind is blowing him there. ’ Battling into a bitter headwind on her long journey back to her parents’ farm, Tiffany felt that there was altogether too much wind in and around Lancre. Still, at least it wasn’t raining, she told herself. Yesterday’s rain had been awful – the kind of joyous rain where every cloud had decided to join the party once one cloud had cracked open the first deluge. She had felt proud of having the two steadings at first, flying between Lancre and the Chalk every few days, but broomsticks are not very fast. Or warm. fn2 It was good that she could go back home to where her mother did the cooking, but even back home there was no time to rest, and being away in Lancre for half the week meant she was facing a plethora of demands from the Chalk. People weren’t getting nasty about it – after all, she was a witch, and Lancre had more people than the Chalk – but there were these little strains beginning to develop. A few mutters. And she had a horrible feeling that some of the muttering was coming from other witches – witches who were finding queues at their doors, people who had gone to find Granny Weatherwax and just found an empty cottage. Some of the problem in both steadings was with the old men left behind when their wives had died; a lot of them didn’t know how to cook. Occasionally some of the old ladies would help and you would see them carrying a pot of stew round for the old man next door. But the witch part of Tiffany couldn’t help but notice that this happened more often if the old lady was a widow and the old man had a nice cottage and a bit of money put by. . . There was always something that had to be done – and some days it seemed mostly to be about toenails. There was one old man in Lancre – a decent old boy – whose toenails were as sharp as a lethal weapon, and Tiffany had to ask Jason Ogg, a blacksmith, to make her a pair of secateurs tough enough to break through them. She always closed her eyes until she heard the patter of his toenails banging off the ceiling, but the old man called her his lovely lady and tried to give her money. And at least she now knew that the Feegles had a use for the toenail clippings. Witches liked useful things, Tiffany mused, as she tried to take her mind off the chill wind whipping around her. A witch would never have to ask for anything – oh no, no one wanted to owe a witch anything – and a witch didn’t take money either. Instead she accepted things she could make use of: food, and old clothing, and bits of cloth for bandages, and spare boots. Boots. She had tripped over Granny Weatherwax’s boots again that very day. She had put them in the corner of the room now, and there they sat, almost staring at her when she was too weary to think. You’re not good enough yet to fill these boots , they seemed to say. Y ou’ll have to do a lot more first. Of course, there always was such a lot to do. So many people never seemed to think about the consequences of their everyday actions. And then a witch on her broom would have to set out from her bed in the rain at the dead of night because of ‘I only’ and its little friends ‘I didn’t know’ and ‘It’s not my fault’. I only wanted to see if the copper was hot. . . I didn’t know a boiling pot was dangerous. . . It’s not my fault – no one told me dogs that bark might also bite. And, her favourite, I didn’t know it would go off bang – when it said ‘goes bang’ on the box it came in. That had been when little Ted Cooper had put an explosive banger fn3 into the carcass of a chicken after his mum’s birthday party and nearly killed everybody around the table. Yes, she had bandaged and treated everybody, even the joker, but she hoped very much his dad had kicked his arse afterwards. And when the witch wasn’t there, well, what harm was there in trying out a few things for yourself? Most people knew about using plants to cure things. They were certain about that. But the thing about plants is that many of them look like all the others, and so Mistress Holland, wife of the miller of the Chalk, had treated her husband’s unfortunate skin condition with Love Lies Oozing rather than with Merryday Root and now his skin had turned purple. Tiffany had treated the man, but then it had been time for her to go back to Lancre, and she was up, up and away again on her stick, hoping that they had both learned their lesson. She was very thankful that Nanny Ogg was not too far away from Granny’s. . . no, her cottage. There were a lot of things that Tiffany was good at, but cookery wasn’t one of them, and so just as she relied on her mum and dad for meals in the Chalk, in Lancre she relied on Nanny. Strictly speaking, this meant she was relying on Nanny’s army of daughters-in-law, who couldn’t do enough for their old Nanny. fn4 But wherever the pair of them took their meals – either in Tiffany’s little cottage in the woods, or at Tir Nani Ogg, the overcrowded but very comfortable home where Nanny Ogg ruled the roost – it seemed that You was there too. No cat could move as fast as her, but you never saw her move fast, she just arrived. It was baffling. What was also baffling was how Greebo – Nanny’s ancient tomcat who treated a bit of eyeball scratching as a friendly hello – slunk away when You appeared. The white cat had clearly made her decision and was a constant presence in Tiffany’s life in Lancre. Now, when Tiffany got ready for an afternoon of going round the houses, You would jump on the broomstick before Tiffany had even looked at it, which made Nanny laugh, saying, ‘She’s got you down pat, my girl.

Maybe she could go round the houses by herself!’ Nanny Ogg was actually rather impressed by Tiffany. But also worried. ‘Really,’ she said to her one day as they shared a quick meal, ‘ you know you’re good, Tiff. I know you’re good. Granny , wherever she is now, knew you was good, but you don’t have to keep tryin’ to do it all on your own, my girl. Let some of them young girls around here – the apprentices – take some of the strain. ’ She paused as she chewed on a big mouthful of stew, then added, ‘That young lumberjack up in the mountains what Esme sewed up just the day afore she died? Well, young Harrieta Bilk’s been goin’ on up there to see to him, an ’ doin’ a good job too. Tiff, you have to do it your own way, I know, but you ain’t the only witch in Lancre. Sometimes you needs to put your feet up and let the parade go by. ’ Tiffany had barely had time to listen before she was back on her stick and heading down to the Chalk again. No rest for the busy witch with two steadings! But as the ear-numbing wind whistled by, she considered what Nanny had said. It was true that there were other witches in Lancre, but in the Chalk – unless Letitia decided to stop being just a baroness – Tiffany was the only witch. And if her forebodings were right, if Jeannie’s words came true, then one witch for the Chalk might not be anywhere near enough. She shivered. She was looking forward to getting out of the icy wind and into the warmth of her mother’s kitchen. But there was one person she needed to see first. . . It took Tiffany a long time to find Miss Tick, but eventually she landed in a little wood just outside Ham-on-Rye where the travelling witch, the witchfinder, had stopped her caravan for tea. A small mule was tethered nearby enjoying the contents of its feed bag. It looked at Tiffany as she approached and neighed. ‘He’s called Joseph,’ said Miss Tick. ‘A real witch’s mule. ’ It had started to rain again and Miss Tick quickly waved Tiffany up the wooden caravan steps. Tiffany was glad to see that there was a kettle bubbling on a little stove. She perched herself on the edge of a bench seat fitted just inside the door, facing the stove, and gratefully took the offered cup of tea. Inside the caravan, it was just as Tiffany expected. Miss Tick had everything ship-shape without needing a ship. On the walls were lots of little racks, neatly filled with many things, and all annotated in Miss Tick’s careful teacher-y hand. Tiffany looked closer and, yes , they were in alphabetical order. Elsewhere were little pots without labels, so you would never know what was inside them, and by the side of her bed there was a chart showing a variety of knots – escapology was a useful hobby for a witch. ‘I’ll be grateful if you don’t touch my little jars,’ said Miss Tick. ‘Some of those concoctions might not work properly and the results are often unpredictable. But, you know, one should keep on experimenting. ’ That’s what’s in all the pots, thought Tiffany, taking a sip of her tea. Experiments. ‘Glad to see you,’ Miss Tick continued. ‘I am hearing about you all the time. You know, almost every girl I meet wants to be you. They see you whizzing about all over the place on your broomstick and they all want to be you , Mistress Aching. Suddenly it’s become a career choice to be a witch!’ ‘Oh yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s how it starts out, and then you tell them exactly what they would spend their life doing, and quite a few of them decide to go to the big city and be a hairdresser or something. ’ ‘Well, I make no bones about it,’ said Miss Tick firmly. ‘I tell them to think hard; it’s not all magic and waving wands and all that silly business. It’s dirt and grime. ’ Tiffany sighed. ‘Being a witch is a man’s job: that’s why it needs women to do it. ’ Miss Tick laughed and continued, ‘Well, I remember a little girl who was unsure of herself and I told her that I would give her lessons that she would never forget in a hurry. ’ Tiffany smiled. ‘I remember. And now I am in a hurry everywhere these days. But Miss Tick’ – she paused and her voice went a bit quiet – ‘I have a feeling that some of the older witches are beginning to think I might not be able to cope. . . ’ She swallowed. ‘Up in Lancre, mostly. But it means I do have to be there a lot. ’ She bit her lip – she hated asking for help. Was she saying that she wasn’t really up to the job? Letting Granny Weatherwax down , since Granny had been the one to put her name up for it. She couldn’t remember Granny ever asking for help. ‘Down here, on the Chalk,’ she said, ‘I think I maybe need to. . . er. . . train an apprentice. Have some help. ’ The heavens didn’t open. There was no gasp of horror from the other witch at this request. Miss Tick simply crossed her arms sternly. ‘It’s Letice Earwig, I suppose, who’s put those doubts into people’s heads. She thinks things always have to be done the same way, so that means she would take over, I suppose? She’s a senior witch who believes she knows every blessed thing, but it’s all just tinkly-winkly stuff. The stupid woman who wrote My Fairy Friends should be ashamed to call herself a witch, and certainly shouldn’t hope to walk in the footsteps of Granny Weatherwax. Hah, Letice Earwig certainly couldn’t manage two steadings at once. She can’t really even cope with one. ’ She snorted derisively. ‘Do not forget, Tiffany, that I am a teacher. fn5 And we teachers can be really nasty when it comes to it. Ten Steps to Witchcraft and The Romance of the Broomstick are not what I would call proper books. Oh, I’ll certainly look out for a girl or two for you – it’s a very good idea. But you don’t need to worry about what Mrs Earwig might say, oh no. . . ’ fn1 There was the usual man-who-puts-weasels-down-his-trousers in action too. Hence the need for a doctor. fn2 It gets awfully cold up there, and no sensible witch ever took to the skies without several layers of flannelette between her and the stick. fn3 Another tiny clue. fn4 ‘Enough’ wasn’t really a long enough word to describe the numerous little tasks any young woman marrying into the Ogg family found were expected of her. fn5 Said in a way that made anyone listening know this instantly. CHAPTER 7 A Force of Nature LETICE EARWIG WAS not someone who would take being balked lying down. Or standing up, come to that. In truth, she was a force of nature and she hated to back down on anything. It hadn’t taken her long to hear that there had been a queue one day outside Nanny Ogg’s home. Tiffany Aching, Mrs Earwig decided, was Not Coping. And it needed a witch of senior stature to Do Something about it. In Letice Earwig’s opinion – never a small thing – she was in fact the only witch who had the stature to act, especially as that old baggage Nanny Ogg wouldn’t do a thing. Mrs Earwig had married an elderly retired wizard many years before. ‘Wizards ain’t allowed to get married,’ Nanny Ogg had told Tiffany scornfully. ‘But the silly man got what was comin’ to him. Talk about hen-pecked, he was earwig- pecked. She got through all his money, so they says!’ Tiffany wisely didn’t rise to that; it was quite probable that ‘they’ were actually Nanny Ogg, who hated Mrs Earwig with an unrelenting determination. But that was why she was relieved when Nanny Ogg wasn’t there when Mrs Earwig arrived at Granny’s cottage one morning a week or so later, for what she called ‘one of her little chats’. It would have been better, on reflection, if Mrs Earwig hadn’t found Tiffany out in the garden up to her elbows in suds in the middle of doing some washing for old Mr Price. Tiffany’s heart sank when she saw the woman coming, fn1 but she wiped her hands on a towel and welcomed her visitor into the cottage with as much politeness as she could muster. Mrs Earwig had a tendency to treat Tiffany like a child, and also she had bad manners, such as sitting down without being asked.

Mrs Earwig did, indeed, sit down in Granny’s old rocking chair, and she gave Tiffany a smile of blatant insincerity, then made it worse by saying, ‘My dear girl!’ ‘ Woman ,’ said Tiffany quietly as Mrs Earwig looked her up and down. She was acutely conscious of the suds still clinging to her apron and her dishevelled hair. ‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs Earwig, as if it didn’t matter. ‘Now, I thought I should come, as a friend and as one of the oldest witches in this area, to see how things were going and to offer some constructive advice. ’ She looked around the kitchen with a superior air, with a particularly sharp glare at the dust that was happily playing little games with itself over the stone flagstones, and Tiffany was suddenly very aware of the spiders which had remained in residence in the scullery, with lots of little ones adding to the colony – she hadn’t the heart to move them. ‘Don’t you think you are overstretched trying to look after two steadings, my dear?’ Mrs Earwig added with a saccharine smile. ‘Yes, my dear Mrs Earwig,’ Tiffany said back, rather sharply. ‘I am stretched because there is a lot to do in both places and not much time. ’ Which you are taking up, she thought. But two can play at your game. ‘If you have some advice,’ she added with a smile to match Mrs Earwig’s, ‘I’ll be glad to hear it. ’ Mrs Earwig was never one to ignore an invitation. Not that she had needed one, anyway, since she immediately launched into a prepared speech. ‘I’m not saying you are a bad person, my dear. It’s just that you can’t cope, and people are talking about it. ’ ‘Perhaps they do,’ said Tiffany. ‘And often they thank me, but I am just one woman – that is woman , not girl – so I can’t do everything at once. It’s just a shame that there aren’t more elder witches around. . . ’ Her voice trailed off, the memory of Granny Weatherwax lying in her willow casket still too fresh in her mind. ‘I understand,’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘It isn’t your fault. ’ Now her voice was silky smooth, but just a shade beyond patronizing and moving towards out and out rudeness. ‘You have indeed been flung into areas you can’t manage, and you are in fact far too young, dear Tiffany. To take the right steps on the path of Magick, you surely need the counsel of an elder witch. ’ She sniffed. ‘A serious elder witch with the right. . . approach. No. . . family ties. ’ And it was clear that she did not consider Nanny Ogg to be a candidate for this task. Tiffany bridled. If there was one thing she hated more than ‘my dear girl’, it was ‘dear Tiffany’. And she well remembered the ‘counsel’ Mrs Earwig had given to her protégée Annagramma Hawkin, who had taken over a witch’s cottage knowing everything possible about runes and tinkly spells but nothing at all useful. She had needed Tiffany’s help. As for implying that Nanny Ogg would not be a good mentor. . . ‘Well, my dear,’ Mrs Earwig continued, ‘as one of the most senior witches in this area, I therefore feel I should take the place of Granny Weatherwax. It’s the way it has always been done, and for a good reason – people need a senior witch to be a person whom they can respect, someone they can look up to. After all, my dear girl, a witch of high standing would never be seen doing the washing. ’ ‘Really?’ said Tiffany, gritting her teeth. A second ‘my dear girl’? One more and she would want not only to thrust Mrs Earwig into the suds but also to hold her head under for quite some time. ‘Granny Weatherwax always said, “You do the good that is in front of you,” and I don’t care who sees me doing an old man’s washing. There’s lots to do and a lot of it is dirty , Mrs Earwig. ’ Mrs Earwig flamed at that and said, ‘ Ah-wij , my dear girl. ’ ‘Not my dear girl,’ Tiffany snapped. ‘Mrs Earwig ’ – not a trace of Ah-wij – ‘your last book was called To Ride a Golden Broomstick. Can you tell me, Mrs Earwig, how does it fly? Gold is rather heavy. You might say, in fact, that it is extremely heavy. ’ Mrs Earwig growled. Tiffany had never heard her growl before but this one was a heavy-duty growl. ‘It’s a metaphor,’ she said sharply. ‘Really?’ said Tiffany. Now she was angry. ‘What’s it a metaphor for , Mrs Earwig? I’m on the sharp end of witchcraft, which means doing what should be done as best you can. It’s all about the people, Mrs Earwig, not about the books. Have you ever gone round the houses, Mrs Earwig? Helped a kid with his arse halfway out of his trousers? Do you even see the little children with no shoes? The cupboards with no food in them? The wives with a baby every year and a man down the pub? You have been kind enough to offer some advice. If I may offer you some advice in return, you will impress me if you too go round the houses – and not before. I am the acknowledged successor of Granny Weatherwax, who was brought up as a witch by Nanny Gripes, who learned it from witches going all the way back to Black Aliss, and that doesn’t change, whatever you might think. ’ She stood up and opened the front door. ‘Thank you for taking the time to come and see me. Now, as you have pointed out, I have lots to do. In my own way. And clearly you haven’t. ’ One thing about Mrs Earwig, Tiffany thought, was that she could flounce. She flounced so much that it almost hurt. Things jingled a merry farewell around her, and one charm even made a spirited attempt to stay by hooking itself around the doorknob as Mrs Earwig turned at the threshold. The last thing she said to Tiffany as she untangled the little pendant was, ‘I tried, I really tried. I invited you to take advantage of all I know about witchcraft. But no. You flung my good will right in my face. You know, we could really have been friends, if you weren’t so stubborn. Farewell, my dear girl. ’ Having got the last word in, Mrs Earwig slammed the door behind her as she left. Tiffany looked at it and said to herself, I do what is needful, Mrs Earwig, not what I want to do. But the banging of the door as punctuation caused Tiffany to think and she thought suddenly, I want to do it my way. Not how the other witches think it should be done. I can’t be Granny Weatherwax for them. I can only be me, Tiffany Aching. But she realized something else too. ‘Mrs Earwig was right about at least one thing,’ she said aloud. ‘I am trying to do too much. And if Jeannie is right and there is something awful coming’ – she shuddered – ‘which I will have to deal with, well, I really hope Miss Tick can find me a girl who might be some use. I do need some help. ’ ‘Aye, would seem so,’ said the voice of Rob Anybody. Tiffany almost exploded. ‘Are you always looking after me, Rob Anybody?’ ‘Och aye. Remember, there’s a geas upon us tae look after ye day and nicht and it’s a greet geas. ’ A geas. Backed up by tradition and magic, Tiffany knew that a geas was an obligation no Feegle would ever fail to meet. Except Daft Wullie, of course, who often mixed up his ‘geas’ with a flock of big burdies. She understood all this, but it still rankled. ‘You watch me all the time? Even when I’m bathing?’ she said wearily. It was a familiar argument. Tiffany – for no reason Rob could understand – seemed to take exception to the Feegles being around her everywhere. They had already come to an agreement about the privy. fn2 ‘Och aye, that we do. Not lookin’, ye ken. ’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘could you do me a favour?’ ‘Och aye,’ said Rob. ‘Would you like yon Earwig wifie dropped in a pond or something?’ Tiffany sighed. ‘Alas, no. I’m not that kind of person. ’ ‘Ah, but we is,’ said Rob Anybody cheerfully. ‘And anyway, ’tis traditional, ye ken. And we are guid at tradition, bein’ as we are part of folklore. . . ’ He smiled hopefully. ‘A very nice thought,’ said Tiffany. ‘But no, once again, no. Mrs Earwig is not really a bad soul. ’ That is true, she thought. Stupid, sometimes overbearing, unfeeling, and not really, if you get down to it, a very good witch. But there is a steel there at the core.

Tiffany knew Nanny Ogg rarely did any washing – what were daughters-in-law for? – but she realized suddenly that she had never seen Granny Weatherwax doing any laundry for the old gentlemen either, and that thought stopped her for a moment. I need time to work this out, she thought, looking at the Big Man of the Nac Mac Feegles standing in front of her, ready for anything. This would be a tough task for them, she knew. ‘I’ve a wee geas tae lay on ye,’ she said. ‘Och aye?’ ‘Rob, have you heard of washing clothes?’ ‘Och aye, we ken it happens,’ said Rob Anybody. He scratched at his spog and a mixture of dead insects, half-gnawed chicken’s foot bones and the like showered out. ‘Well then,’ said Tiffany, ‘I would deem it a favour if you could spend some time in my scullery whilst I am about my business. You would be helping an old man, indeed you would. He likes to be clean, and to have clean clothes. ’ She glared down at him. ‘A circumstance, Rob, which would be well considered by yourself. ’ She approached the scullery door in trepidation when she got back from her visits. Everything was shining clean, and draped among the trees outside were old Mr Price’s unmentionables, as white as white could be. Only then did Tiffany draw breath. ‘Excellent,’ she said to Rob Anybody. He smiled and said, ‘Aye, we kenned this would be a tricky job. ’ ‘Good job I wuz with ye this time,’ came a voice. It was Wee Mad Arthur, a Feegle who didn’t mind washing, due to his having been raised by a bunch of cobblers, and then being a polisman in the big city. Wee Mad Arthur, Tiffany often thought, had a battle raging inside him between his Feegle half and the city half, but since every Feegle liked a good punch-up, well, a fight inside yourself was just an extra treat. Big Yan pushed Wee Mad Arthur aside and said, ‘We dinnae mind helping old bigjobs and getting them squeaky clean, but we are the Feegles and we treasure our dirt. Washing makes a Feegle wither awa’. We cannae abide the soap, ye ken. ’ ‘Nae me, Rob. Nae me,’ came a happy voice and Daft Wullie fell off the wall of the goat paddock. Bubbles floated away on the air as he rolled across the grass. ‘I’ve told ye about that, Wullie,’ Rob snapped. ‘It just makes bubbles come out of your ears. ’ Tiffany laughed. ‘Well, you could make your own soap, Wullie. Make some for Jeannie. Take a wee present home to your kelda. It’s easy to make – you just need some fat and some lye. ’ ‘Och aye, we’re good liars, we are,’ Rob put in proudly. ‘Famed for it, ye ken. ’ Well, I tried, thought Tiffany. And anyway, their spirits are pure, if not particularly clean. Down on the Chalk, at the edge of a dark forest on the top of a hill overlooking Twoshirts, a small town with growing aspirations of being a bit more than one store, a coaching inn and a blacksmith’s shop, the Queen of the Elves smiled in satisfaction. It was a warm night and the air smelled as it always did, and the sky looked as it always did. There appeared to be a new road or stream into the town which glimmered in the moonlight, but otherwise things seemed just as they had been on her last visit. She turned to look at her goblin prisoner, who was perched with his hands bound on the saddle behind one of her guards. She smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. She would hand him over to Lord Lankin, she thought. The elf would enjoy tearing the wretched goblin limb from limb – after he had had his pleasure playing with his prey, of course. But first, this goblin filth had led them here – to this hillside. The Queen and her raiding party looked down at the sleeping valley ahead. Her warriors wore scraps of fur and leather, feathers tucked into headbands and dangling around their necks – and they carried bows with the arrows already nocked. The gate between the worlds had given them very little trouble in the end. It had not taken much effort for the stronger elves to push through – the barrier was, indeed, very weak just now. Before, the old witch would surely have kept it strong, kept them out. For she had been always on the watch for the fairy folk. Animals noticed them too. At the very moment the Queen stepped onto the Chalk, the hares on the downs had turned and frozen, whilst the owls out hunting had soared higher, sensing the unwelcome presence of another predator. Humans, however, were usually the last to notice anything. Which made them so much more fun. . . Apart from a glow above a mound on the hillside and a distant noise of roistering that the Queen recognized as being the usual sounds of the Nac Mac Feegle, there had been nothing so far to trouble the first elf incursion into the Discworld for many years, and the elves had begun to enjoy themselves. They had caroused through a couple of villages, letting out cows, upturning carts, turning the milk in the churns sour, spoiling a cask of ale and generally amusing themselves with such trifles. But the growing little town below promised all sorts of entertainment for elves who had been denied the pleasures of a raid for far too long. Apart from the delicate tinkling of myriad bells attached to the harnesses of the raiding party’s black horses, there was silence as the elves waited for their Queen to give the signal. She raised her arm. But before she could do anything, suddenly, screaming through the air, there came a noise as though someone was killing a gigantic pig. It was a sound which enveloped the whole of the Chalk. A screaming whistle which screeched around the hills, setting everyone’s teeth on edge. Down in the valley, the air now seemed to be full of fire as a huge iron monster tore along the silvery trail towards the town, clouds of steam marking its path. The elves reeled, panic spreading rapidly from elf to elf as they shrank from the noise. From the sound. From the very scent of iron in the air. Nonchalantly Of the Lathe the Swarf jumped down from the saddle, used his teeth to steal a stone knife from the guard, whose hands were now covering his pointy ears in an effort to block out the sound, and swiftly sliced through his bonds. ‘Told you. Iron Horse, that is,’ he said importantly. ‘Last train into Twoshirts is that. That’s where goblins work. With steel and iron. ’ The Queen hadn’t flinched. She knew that. Some of the others had, but she could deal with them later – no elf should show fear in front of his queen. But in her mind, she thought: Train? It’s big. It’s iron, and we don’t know about it. And what we don’t know about it could get us killed. ‘How can we tame it?’ she demanded. ‘More importantly, can we make it ours? What grief we could make with something like that!’ Peaseblossom – a calm Peaseblossom, seemingly impervious to the general sense of terror among the elves – was at her elbow and smiled; a smile the Queen didn’t like. It cut through the dramatic style of the face he had chosen to wear, his eyes cold and merciless. He said, ‘We can torment the goblins until they tell us how to control it. Then they can do it for us. ’ ‘They won’t,’ said Of the Lathe the Swarf, giving Peaseblossom a dirty look. ‘Why should they?’ Peaseblossom reached down to grab the goblin, and Of the Lathe the Swarf reacted quickly, thrusting his small hands into his pockets and throwing a shower of silvery scraps over the elf. Peaseblossom screamed in pain as he fell from his horse. The goblin laughed as the other elves hastily backed away. ‘Forgot what’s in my pockets, Mr Pee-pee flower? Told you about swarf, I did. Part of my name. Hurts, does it? Touch clever goblin these days, nasty things happens. Especially to elves. ’ He pointed down at Peaseblossom, whose glamour had completely deserted him under the onslaught of the shower of iron filings. The elf lay writhing on the grass, a small, weak, pathetic creature, crying from the pain. ‘Funny, no?’ said the goblin. ‘In this new world, little things like swarf – and goblins – do matter. ’ fn1 And heard her.

For Mrs Earwig’s copious amount of jewellery announced the witch with such a cheerful jangle that it was as if it had ambitions to move from being a set of charms and amulets to being a full instrumental fanfare. fn2 Though a Feegle will cheerfully lie about almost anything, so Tiffany still went into any privy with her eyes peeled for flashes of Feegle; she had even once had a nightmare about a Feegle popping up out of the other hole of her parents’ two-holer. CHAPTER 8 The Baron’s Arms THE BARON’S ARMS was the kind of pub where John Parsley, hereditary landlord and bartender, was happy for the locals to mind the pumps when there was a rush or he needed to answer the call of nature. The kind of pub where men would arrive proudly carrying a huge cucumber or any other humorously shaped or suggestive vegetable from the garden just to show it off to all their friends. Quite often there would be arguments, but arguments for the truth and not for a fight. Occasionally someone would try to wager money but this was frowned on by John Parsley. Although smoking was allowed – lots and lots of smoking – spitting was not tolerated. And, of course, there was swearing, with language as ripe as the humorous vegetables. After all, there were no women there except for Mrs Parsley, who turned a blind ear and would certainly put up with language such as ‘bugger’, it being considered nothing more than a colourful expression, used plentifully in this context as ‘How are you, you old bugger?’ and, more carefully, ‘Bugger me!’ The Barons, knowing the value of a thriving pub and not being above dropping in from time to time, had over the generations added improvements for the entertainment of their tenants. Soon after his marriage, for instance, the new young Baron had given the pub everything needful for playing darts. This hadn’t been a total success – in one enthusiastic match Shake Gently, widely acknowledged as the best ploughman on the Chalk, but not known for his intellectual acumen, had almost lost an eye. The darts were therefore now looked upon as deadly by all the locals, and the shove ha’penny board had been carefully put back into favour. After a long day’s slog in the fields or sheds, the pub was a welcome refuge to many. Joe Aching, tenant farmer of Home Farm, had been promising himself a quiet pint throughout a day which had been beset by obstreperous animals and broken equipment. A pint, he had told himself, would put him in a better frame of mind for the discussion which he knew awaited him over supper about his wedding anniversary, which to his dark dismay he had forgotten. From long experience, he knew that this meant at least a week of cold dinners and cold shoulders, even the risk of a cold bed. It was Saturday, a warm late summer evening, a clear night. The pub was full, though not as full as John Parsley would like. Joe took a seat at the long oak table outside the pub with his dog Jester curled around his ankles. Coming from a long line of Achings who had farmed on the Chalk, Joe Aching knew every man who lived in the area and their families; he knew who worked and who didn’t work much, and he knew who was silly and who was smart. Joe himself wasn’t smart, but he was clever and a good farmer and, above all things, every Saturday night, wherever he actually sat, he held the chair in the pub. Here he was the fount of all knowledge. At a smaller table just outside the door, he could hear two of the local men arguing about the difference between the paw prints of the cat and of the fox. One of them moved his hands in a slow pavane and said, ‘Look, I tell you this again, the cat, she walk like this, you old bugger, but Reynard, he do walk like this. ’ Once again fox and cat were demonstrated by the other man. I wonder, Joe thought, if we might be one of the last generations to think of a fox as Reynard. It had been a long day for all the men, working as they were with horses, pigs and sheep, not to mention the scores of chores that faced any countryman. They had a dialect that creaked, and they knew the names of all the songbirds throughout the valleys, and every snake and every fox and where it could be found, and all the places where the Baron’s men generally didn’t go. In short, they knew a large number of things unknown to scholars in universities. Usually, when one of them spoke, it was done after some cogitation and very slowly, and in this interlude they would put the world to rights until a boy was sent to tell the men their dinners were going cold if they didn’t hurry. Then Dick Handly – a fat man with a wispy fluff of a beard that should be ashamed to call itself a beard in this company – quite abruptly said, ‘This ale is as weak as maiden’s water!’ ‘What are you calling my beer?’ said John Parsley, clearing the empties from the table. ‘It’s as clean as anything. I opened the cask only this morning. ’ Dick Handly said, ‘I’m not saying maiden’s water is all that bad. ’ That got a laugh, albeit a small one. For they all remembered the time when curmudgeonly old Mr Tidder, putting his faith in a traditional cure, had asked his daughter to save some of her widdle to pour over his sore leg, and young Maisie – a sweet girl, but somewhat lacking in the brains department – had misunderstood the request and poured her father out a drink with a very unusual flavour. Amazingly, his leg had still got better. But another pint was pulled, from a new cask, and Dick Handly pronounced it satisfactory. And John Parsley wondered. But not much. For what was a pint among friends? The landlord sat down with his customers now, and said to Joe, ‘How do you think the young Baron is settling in?’ The relationship between the Baron and Mr Aching, his tenant, was not that unusual in the countryside. The Baron owned the land. Everyone knew that. He also owned all the farms in the neighbourhood, and the farmers, his tenants, farmed the land for him, paying rent every quarter day. He could, if he chose, take a farm back and throw a farmer and his family out. In the past, there had been barons who had occasionally indulged in displays of authority such as burning down cottages and throwing out whole families, sometimes just on a whim, but mostly as a daft way of showing who had the real power. They soon learned. Power means nothing without a decent harvest in the barn, and a flock of Sunday dinners grazing on the hills. Roland, the young Baron, had made a bit of a rocky start – made worse, it has to be said, by his new mother-in-law, a duchess who made sure that everyone knew it too. But he soon learned. Knowing that he wasn’t yet experienced at farming the land, he had followed his father’s general practice of wisely leaving his farmers to run their farms and their workers as they saw fit. Now everyone was happy. Also wisely, Roland would from time to time talk to Joe Aching, as had his father before him, and Joe, a kindly man, would offer to speak about the things the Baron’s land agent and rent collectors might not see, such as a widow who had fallen on bad times or a mother struggling to cope after her husband had been trampled by a bad-tempered young bull. Joe Aching would point out that a certain amount of charity would be a good thing and, to give the young Baron his due, he would do what he was told in a strange sort of way, and the widow would find that somehow she had managed to pay her rent in advance, so owed nothing for the time being, and a helpful young lad from the estate who needed to learn farming might turn up at the young mother’s little holding. ‘I don’t like to judge too soon,’ said Joe, leaning back on the bench and looking solemn in a way only a man who had the right to the chair on a Saturday had the right to look. ‘But to tell you the truth, he’s doing rather well. Picking it up as he goes along, you might say. ’ ‘That’s good then,’ said Thomas Greengrass. ‘Looks like he’s going to follow in the footsteps of his old man. ’ ‘We’ll be lucky then. The old Baron was a good man – tough on the outside, but he knew what was what. ’ Parsley smiled.

‘His young lady, the Baroness, has learned a lot of lessons without being taught them – have you noticed that? She’s always around the place talking to people, not putting on airs. The wife likes her,’ he added with a sage nod. If the wife approved, well, that was good. It meant peace at home, and every countryman wanted that after a day’s hard work. ‘I heard tell she’d been round to say well done whenever a man’s wife was having kids. ’ On that subject, Robert Thick said, ‘My Josephine will be having another one shortly. ’ Somebody laughed and said, ‘That’s pints all round, you know. ’ ‘Be sure to have a word with Joe’s Tiffany then,’ said Thomas Greengrass. ‘When it comes to birthing a child, I’ve never seen better. ’ Over his pint, Thomas added, ‘I saw her whizzing past yesterday. It made me right proud, it really did, a girl of the Chalk. I’m sure you must be just as proud, Joe. ’ Everyone knew Tiffany Aching, of course; had done ever since she was very small and played with their own children. They didn’t much like witches up on the Chalk, but Tiffany was their witch. And a good witch to boot. Most importantly, she was a girl of the Chalk. She knew the worth of sheep, and they’d seen her running around in her pants when she was growing up. So that was all right then. Tiffany’s father tried to smile as he reached down and gave his dog a pork scratching. ‘A present for you, Jester. ’ He looked up. ‘Of course, Tiffany’s mother would like to see her here more often, though she’s made up about our Tiff; can’t stop telling people about what she does, and neither can I. ’ He looked over at the landlord. ‘Another pint for me when you’ve time please, John. ’ ‘Of course, Joe,’ said John Parsley, heading into the bar and returning with the foaming tankard in his hand. As the pint was passed down to its destination, Joe said, ‘It’s strange, you know, when I think about how much time our Tiffany spends over in Lancre these days. ’ ‘Be a shame if she moved up there,’ Dick Handly commented. And the thought was there, floating in the air, though nobody said anything further. Not to Joe Aching, not on a Saturday. ‘Well, she’s always very busy,’ Joe said slowly, tucking Dick’s comment away in his head to think about later. ‘Lot of babies round here, lads!’ This brought a smile. ‘And it’s not just birthing. She came to my old mother when she was going,’ said Jim Twister. ‘Was with her all night. And she took the pain away! She does that, you know?’ ‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not just for barons, but that’s how the old boy went, you know – he had a nurse, but it was Tiffany who sorted him out. Made sure he had no pain. ’ There was a sudden silence at the table as the the drinkers reflected on the many times Tiffany Aching had crossed their paths. Then Noddy Saunters said, almost breathlessly, ‘Well, Joe, we are all hoping as your Tiffany stays round here, you know. You have got a good one there and no mistake. Mind you tell her that when you sees her. ’ ‘I don’t need telling, Noddy,’ said Joe. ‘Tiffany’s mother would like her to settle down, o’ course, on the Chalk with her young man – you know, young Preston, who’s gone off to learn to be a proper doctor in the big city. But I reckon she won’t, not for a while anyway. As I see it, there’s lots of Achings around here but our Tiff is following in the footsteps of her granny, only more modern thinking, if you get me? I reckon she’s out to change the world, and if not the world, then this little bit called the Chalk. ’ ‘She’s a right good witch for us shepherds,’ Thomas Greengrass added, and there was a murmur of agreement. ‘Do you remember, lads, when shepherds would all turn up here and fight in the Challenge?’ said Dick Handly after a pause to empty his glass. ‘We didn’t have witches then. ’ ‘Aye,’ said Joe Aching. ‘Those old shepherds didn’t fight with their sticks, mind you. They arm-wrestled. And the winner would be named head shepherd. ’ They all laughed at that. And most of them thought of Granny Aching, for Granny Aching had really been the last head shepherd. A nod from Granny Aching and a shepherd would walk like a king for the day, Challenge or no Challenge. ‘Well, we don’t have no head shepherd nowadays. We got a witch instead. Your Tiffany,’ said Robert Thick after another long silence in which more beer was drunk and pipes were lit. ‘So if we have a witch instead of a head shepherd. . . do you think any of you ought to arm-wrestle her?’ asked John Parsley with a big grin – and a sideways look at Tiffany’s father. Robert Thick said, ‘A witch? No fear. I would mend my manners. ’ Joe chuckled as the others nodded in agreement. Then they looked up as a shadow passed over them and the girl on her broomstick shouted down, ‘Evening, Dad! Evening, all. Can’t stop. This one’s having twins. ’ Roland de Chumsfanleigh, fn1 the young Baron on the Chalk, did want to be like his father in many ways. He knew the old man had been popular – what was known as an ‘old school baron’, which meant that everyone knew what to expect and the guards polished up their armour and saluted, and did what was expected of them , while the Baron did what was expected of him, and pretty much left them alone. But his father had also been a bit of a bad-tempered bully at times. And that bit Roland wanted to forget about. He particularly wanted to sound the right note when he called round to see Tiffany Aching at Home Farm. For they had once been good friends, and, to Roland’s alarm, Tiffany was thought of as a good friend by his wife Letitia. Any man with sense was wise to be fearful of a wife’s best friends. For who knew what. . . little secrets might be shared. Roland, having been educated at home and with limited knowledge of the world outside the Chalk, feared that ‘little’ might be exactly the kind of comment Letitia might share with Tiffany. He chose his moment when he saw her broomstick descend early that Saturday evening, at a time when he knew Joe Aching would be at the pub. ‘Hello, Roland,’ Tiffany said, not even turning round as he rode into the farmyard and dismounted from his horse. Roland quivered. He was the Baron. Her father’s farm was his. And as he thought this, he realized how stupid a thought it was. As Baron, he had the bits of paper that proved his ownership. But this farm was the Achings’. It always had been, and it always would be. And he knew that Tiffany knew exactly what he’d just thought, so he went a bit pink when she turned round. ‘Er, Tiffany,’ he began, ‘I just wanted to see you and. . . er. . . well, it’s like this. . . ’ ‘Oh, come on, Roland,’ she urged. ‘Just get on with what you’ve come to say; it’s been a busy day and I need to get back to Lancre tonight too. ’ It was the opening he needed. ‘Well, that’s what I came about, Tiffany. There have been. . . complaints. ’ It wasn’t the right word, and he knew it. Tiffany reeled at the word. ‘What?’ she said sharply. ‘Well, you’re never here , Tiffany. You’re supposed to be our witch, be here for us. But you’re off to the Ramtops almost every other day. ’ He straightened up, a metaphorical broomstick up his spine. He needed to sound official, not wheedle. ‘I am your baron,’ he said, ‘and I ask that you look to your responsibilities, do your duty. ’ ‘Do my duty?’ Tiffany echoed weakly. What did he think she had been doing over the past few weeks, bandaging legs and treating sores, birthing babies and taking pain away from those nearing the end of their days, and visiting the old folk and keeping an eye on the babies, and. . . yes, cutting toenails ! What had Roland been doing? Hosting dinner parties? Admiring Letitia’s attempts at watercolours? It would be far better if he could have offered Letitia’s help. For Roland knew, just as Tiffany did, that Letitia had the natural abilities of a witch. She could be useful on the Chalk. And then she thought, that was mean. For she knew that Letitia visited every new baby. Talked to the women. But she was angry with Roland.

‘I shall think on what you say,’ she said with an exaggerated politeness that made him blush even more. With the imaginary broomstick still rigidly attached to his back, Roland strode over to his horse, remounted and rode off. Well, I did try, he told himself. But he couldn’t help but feel that he had made a bit of a mess of it. There had been pandemonium when the Queen and her followers got back through the stone circle. The glittering Fairyland palace was gone and the council was taking place in a clearing in the depths of what might have been a magical wood if the Queen had bothered to put in the requisite details such as butterflies, daisies and toadstools. Even now, trees were frantically scribbling in branches and twigs as she passed, and parts of the ground seemed to be having a little race to create blades of grass on either side of her. She was furious. A goblin – a piece of filth – had dared to attack one of her lords. And he had fallen in front of that goblin, a goblin so fleet of mucky foot as he had run from her anger. But although it had been Peaseblossom who had fallen – and secretly the Queen was pleased that it had been him and not another of her lords – she knew that her elves blamed her for the shame. The failure. For she had led the raiding party, taken the goblin with them. Despite her orders, Peaseblossom was still with them. He’d been pale and staggering at first, but his glamour was almost back to its normal strength now the terrible iron had been cleansed from his body. Behind him were ranked her guards and she could feel defiance flowing from them. She glared at Peaseblossom with disdain, and said to one of the guards, ‘Take that weakling away. Get him out of my sight!’ But the guard did not move. Instead, he smiled insolently, and fingered the crossbow in his hands, casually nocking a feathered arrow and daring to point it in her direction. ‘My lady,’ Peaseblossom said with thinly veiled scorn, ‘we are getting lost. Our hold on the human world is weak. Even the goblins are laughing at us now. Why do we only learn from one of them that the humans have been encircling their world with iron? Why haven’t you done anything to stop this? Why haven’t we been out on the hunts? Why have you not allowed us to be true elves? It’s not like the old times. ’ His glamour was nearly powerful enough again to match hers, but his will was even stronger. How did I not fully see this? the Queen thought, though her face showed nothing of what she was feeling. Is he daring to challenge me? I am the Queen. The King may be in another world, lolling in his barrow, luxuriating in his pleasures, but I am still his queen. There is always a queen to rule. Never a lord. She pulled herself up to her full height and glared at her treacherous lord, willing her glamour to its full power. But there was a chorus of agreement with Peaseblossom from several elves. It was indeed a rare day when an elf agreed with another elf – disagreement was a far more normal state of being – but the mass of warriors seemed to be drawing closer together right now, their cold eyes examining their queen. Pitiless. Dangerous. Nasty. The Queen looked at each one before turning back to Peaseblossom. ‘You little squib,’ she hissed. ‘I could put out your eyes in a moment. ’ ‘Oh yes, madam,’ Peaseblossom continued as the pressure built. ‘And who lets the Feegles run amok? Now that the old crone is gone, the witches are weak. As is the gateway between our worlds. But you, despite all this, you seem still afraid of the Aching girl. She nearly killed you before by all accounts. ’ ‘She did not,’ said the Queen. But the other elves were looking at her now, looking at her like a cat looks at its prey. . . And he spoke true. Tiffany Aching had defeated her. The Queen felt her glamour flickering, fading. ‘You are weak, madam,’ said Peaseblossom. The Queen felt weak. And small, and tired. The trees were closing in. The light seemed to fade. She looked at the faces around her, then rallied and summoned up what power she had left. She was still the Queen. Their queen. They must listen to her. ‘The times are a-changing,’ she said, pulling herself to her full height. ‘Iron or not, goblins or not, that world is no longer the same. ’ ‘So we hide away, at your bidding,’ said Peaseblossom, his voice full of contempt. ‘If the world is changing, it is we who must change it. We who must decide how it will be. That is how it has always been. And how it must be again. ’ The elves around him sparkled their approval, their finery dazzling, their cold narrow faces surrounded by the glow of their glamour. The Queen felt lost. ‘You don’t understand,’ she tried. ‘We have that world there, for our pleasure. But if we try to act as it has always been, well, we will be rolled over by time. Just. . . fairies. This is what the iron in that world tells us. There is no future for us there. ’ Peaseblossom sneered and said, ‘This is rubbish. This talk of no future? We make our own futures. We don’t care about humans or goblins. But you – you seem to be rather soft on them. Could the great Queen be afraid? You are not certain of yourself, lady. That makes us uncertain of you. ’ The allegiance of elves is spider-web thin and the currency of Fairyland is glamour. The Queen could feel her glamour draining away more and more as her adversary talked. And then he struck. ‘You have become too soft, madam,’ he roared. ‘It began with that. . . girl. And it will end with. . . me !’ And now his glamour was growing in intensity and his eyes were glowing and the power was building around him, making the other elves wary and obedient. Peaseblossom pointed at the Queen, watching myriad faces and visages flicker across her features – golden hair, dark hair, long hair, short hair, wispy hair. . . balding, baby’s hair. Tall, strong. . . weak, child-like. Upright, curled over. . . whimpering. ‘The goblins no longer come at your beck and call these days,’ he hissed. ‘And Fairyland cannot survive without a strong leader. We elves need somebody to prevail – over goblins, over humans and everybody else. What we need now, what our king in the barrow needs, is a warrior. ’ Peaseblossom was like a snake now, his gaze piercing his victim, even as she shrivelled further and wept from the loss of her glamour. ‘We can’t be governed by such as this ,’ he concluded contemptuously. He turned to the other elves and said, ‘What do you say?’ And in the blankness of their eyes, the Queen saw her future drop away. ‘What should we do with her, Lord Peaseblossom?’ It was Mustardseed, striding forward to support his new leader. ‘She must quit the throne!’ another elf called out. Peaseblossom looked down at his former queen with disdain. ‘Take her away, toy with her as you will – and then tear off her wings ,’ he commanded. ‘That will be the penalty for those who fail. Now,’ he continued, ‘where are my musicians? Let us dance on the shame of her who was once our queen. Kick her memory, if you will, out of Fairyland with her, and may she never come back. ’ ‘Where should she go?’ Mustardseed called, grabbing the Queen by one of her tiny, stick-like arms. But Peaseblossom had gone, weaving amongst the throng of courtiers who now danced in his footsteps. As the helpless little elf who had once been a queen was dragged from his sight, Mustardseed heard her whisper a few words in her desperation: ‘Thunder. . . and Lightning. . . may you feel the force of Thunder and Lightning, Peaseblossom, and then the wrath of Tiffany Aching. It stings to the bone. . . ’ And the rain started and became hail. fn1 Pronounced ‘Chuffley’ under that strange rule that the more gentrified a family is, the more peculiar the pronunciation of their name becomes. Tiffany had once heard a highborn visitor named Ponsonby-Macklewright ( Pwt ) refer to Roland as Chf. She wondered how they managed at dinner when Pwt introduced Chf to Wm or Hmpfh.

Surely it could lead to misunderstandings? CHAPTER 9 Good with Goats THE BOY STANDING in the rain looking at Tiffany at the back door of the cottage that was now hers – no longer Granny’s – was not like her usual visitor. He was grubby, yes, but it was the grubbiness of the road rather than that of poverty, and he had a goat with him, which wasn’t usual. But he didn’t look in need. She looked closer. His clothing had once been expensive, high-class stuff. Needy , though, she thought. A few years younger than her too. ‘Are you Mistress Aching, the witch?’ he asked nervously as she opened the door. ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, thinking to herself, Well, at least he has done some homework and he’s not come knocking asking for Granny Weatherwax, and he’s knocked at the back door just as he should; and I’ve just made myself some pottage and it will be going cold. ‘What can I do for you? I’m sure you need something?’ she continued, because a witch turned nobody away. ‘No, mistress, by your leave, but I heard people talking about you as I was walking along the road. They say you are the best witch. ’ ‘Well, folks can say anything,’ said Tiffany, ‘but it’s what the other witches think that matters. How can I help you?’ ‘I want to be a witch!’ The last word resonated in the air as if it was alive, but the boy looked serious and unhappy, and he ploughed on doggedly, saying, ‘Mr Wiggall – my tutor – told me of one witch who became a wizard, so surely, mistress, the concept must go both ways? They say what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, don’t they?’ ‘Well, yes,’ said Tiffany, uncertain of herself. ‘But many ladies do not like to deal with an unknown man, as it were, in private circumstances. A lot of our work involves being midwives, you know, with the accent on wives. ’ The boy’s Adam’s apple was shaking, but he managed to say, ‘I know that in the big city the Lady Sybil Free Hospital helps women and men alike. There is no doubt about it, mistress, that when it comes to surgery, there are ladies who are sometimes glad to see the surgeon. ’ The boy seemed to brighten up for a moment and said, ‘I really feel I can be a witch. I know a lot about country things, and I have very little fingers which were of great use some while ago on the road, when I had to deal with a goat in labour, and it was in trouble. I had to roll up my sleeves and fiddle about with care to get the kid lined up to leave his mother. It was messy, of course, but the kid was alive, and the old man who owned the goat was in tears of gratitude. ’ ‘Really,’ said Tiffany stonily, wondering when ‘good with goats’ had become a qualification for being a witch. But the boy looked like a lost soul – so she relented and invited him in for a cup of tea. The goat was shown an overgrown patch of Creepalong Minnie under the apple tree, out of the rain, and seemed content to be left outside, although Tiffany could not help noticing – as any witch would notice – that it gave her an odd look of a kind not often seen in a goat’s slotted eyes. The type of look that makes you wary of turning your back, definitely, but something. . . more than that too. As she beckoned the boy in, she saw You stroll past the apple tree and suddenly stop, her back arching and her tail fluffing out to a remarkable size as she spotted the goat. There was a pregnant pause as the two eyed each other up – and Tiffany could have sworn she saw a quick flash of fluorescent light, greenish-yellow-purple – and then all was suddenly calm, as if there had been an agreement signed and sealed. The goat returned to its nibbling, and You subsided to her normal size and strolled past, almost brushing against the goat’s legs. Tiffany was amazed. She had seen Nanny Ogg’s cat Greebo run from You! What kind of goat was this? Perhaps, she thought with interest, this boy is also more than he seems. As they sat at the little kitchen table, she learned that the boy’s name was Geoffrey and that he was a long way from home. She noticed that he didn’t seem to want to talk about his family, so she tried another tack. ‘I am intrigued, Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to be a witch instead of a wizard, which is something traditionally thought of as a man’s job?’ ‘I’ve never thought of myself as a man, Mistress Tiffany. I don’t think I’m anything. I’m just me,’ he said quietly. Good answer! Tiffany said to herself. Then she wondered, not for the first time, about the differences between wizards and witches. The main difference, she thought, was that wizards used books and staffs to create spells, big spells about big stuff, and they were men. While witches – always women – dealt with everyday stuff. Big stuff too, she reminded herself firmly. What could be bigger than births and deaths? But why shouldn’t this boy want to be a witch? She had chosen to be a witch, so why couldn’t he make the same choice? With a start, she realized it was her choice that counted here too. If she was going to be a sort of head witch, she should be able to decide this. She didn’t have to ask any other witches. It could be her decision. Her responsibility. Perhaps a first step towards doing things differently? She looked at Geoffrey. There’s something about this lad and I don’t know what it is, she decided. But he seems harmless and looks quite down-trodden, so I will decide, and I choose to give him a try. As for the goat. . . ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I can give you some bedding in the lean-to, and some food and drink for today. Your goat is your responsibility. But it’s getting late now, so we will talk again tomorrow. ’ Next morning, whilst waiting for Nanny to drop by, Tiffany went to the lean-to with some food. The boy was asleep. She coughed carefully and the boy jumped at the sound. ‘Very well, Geoffrey, now tell me the truth. Are you running away from somebody? Parents, perhaps?’ ‘No, I’m not,’ said Geoffrey, taking a mouthful of the bread Tiffany had brought but pushing the slice of ham to one side. You little fibber, thought Tiffany, like any witch good at spotting a lie. fn1 She sighed. ‘Are you just running away from home then?’ ‘Well, you could say that, mistress, but I am sixteen and I just wanted to leave. ’ ‘Don’t get on with your father, do you?’ said Tiffany, and she saw the boy metaphorically jump, as if she’d hit a nerve. ‘How could you see that, mistress!’ Tiffany sighed. ‘It does say witch on the door, doesn’t it? I might not be much older than you, but you aren’t the first runaway I’ve dealt with, and I’m absolutely certain there will be many more. Although,’ she added, ‘never one as highborn as you are, Mister Geoffrey. Good coat, you see. Well now, of what use can you be to me and my steading, Geoffrey?’ ‘Oh, quite a lot, mistress,’ he said, trying to sound definite but just seeming hopeful. And at that moment Nanny Ogg came round the corner of the cottage, not there one minute and then suddenly there, which was, Tiffany knew, Nanny’s way. She looked at Geoffrey, made an instant judgement, then winked at Tiffany and said, ‘Anythin’ going on, Tiff?’ Tiffany saw a suggestive grin on Nanny’s wrinkled face, as if an apple was suddenly leering at her. Geoffrey looked as if he was going to flee. ‘It’s all right, Nanny. Meet Geoffrey here,’ Tiffany said sharply. ‘He wants to be a witch. ’ ‘Really?’ Nanny chortled. ‘You mean he wants to do magic. Send ’im to the wizards!’ Now Geoffrey looked like a little fawn about to dash away. Nanny Ogg could affect people like that. ‘No, he wants to be a witch , Nanny. Do you understand?’ Tiffany saw a naughty little gleam in Nanny’s eyes as she said, ‘So, he wants to be a witch, does he? Perhaps he should learn what us witches has to put up with before he decides proper like. I mean, he might still want to give them wizards a go if he’s got any magic in ’im. I know, make him a back-house boy. ’ A backhouse boy was like a male scullery maid, doing all the odd, and usually dirty, jobs around the homestead.

Things like killing chickens and stringing pheasants, cleaning shoes, peeling potatoes and any other task that was messy, and occasionally dangerous. There was usually one on Home Farm, gradually learning what farming was all about. ‘I tells you what,’ Nanny continued, looking at the trembling boy, ‘let’s try him out with Mr Nimlet. You knows what his toenails is like. ’ Yes, like all old men’s toenails, Tiffany thought. She looked at the boy who was so terribly anxious to be helpful and took pity on him and said, ‘There’s more to being a witch than you think, Geoffrey, but if you’d like to be my back-house boy, we’ll see how you go. And first of all, I’d like you to do something about an old man’s horrible toenails. ’ ‘You may need a shield,’ said Nanny Ogg. The boy looked at Tiffany questioningly. ‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany. ‘Mr Nimlet’s toenails tend to be thick and strong and very, very difficult to deal with. You need really sharp secateurs, and even then the blessed things go pinging off around the room. You have to be careful about your eyes too. ’ She studied the boy’s face; he looked determined to meet any obstacle, even flyaway toenails. Nanny was grinning, so Tiffany said, ‘I’ve got a birth to see to. Nanny, would you be kind enough to take Geoffrey to Mr Nimlet and see how he does. Oh, and tell him to remember to collect the clippings – Rob Anybody has a use for them, so he does. ’ ‘Can I take Mephistopheles with me?’ Geoffrey asked. Nanny spun on her heels. ‘Mephis what ?’ she said slowly. ‘My goat,’ Geoffrey said, pointing towards the paddock where Mephistopheles was investigating the remains of the dandelion patch. ‘Or rather, he is his own goat, but we travel together. He is a very clever companion. ’ Nanny snorted. ‘See,’ Geoffrey added proudly as they watched Mephistopheles daintily cross the paddock and nose open the door of the little shed by the beech tree. ‘He has even learned to use the privy. ’ And Nanny – for once in her life – was speechless. fn1 Spotting the truth was much harder. CHAPTER 10 Treasure DEEP IN THE heart of Fairyland, the triumphant Peaseblossom surveyed his court. Lord Lankin – tall, elegant, a tunic of moss and gorse slung casually over his darkened skin – lounged by his side, toying with a bronze dagger. ‘I am your king now,’ Peaseblossom declared. There was silence in the great hall as the elves considered this development and their chances. And one bold elf said, ‘What about the King himself? Down in the barrow? What do you think he will say?’ ‘Something like this ,’ said Peaseblossom, hurling a feathered arrow at the elf, striking him down. Injured, but not dead. Good, Peaseblossom thought. More fun for me later. He gestured to his warriors and the stricken elf was dragged away. ‘To hell with the King!’ he said, and this time there was no argument. Every elf knew that Peaseblossom wanted a showdown with the world of humans, of dwarfs and goblins and all the other peoples, wanted elves to run free and fierce through that world once again. ‘We have been elves since the dawn of time,’ Peaseblossom thundered. ‘Too long have humans had the upper hand. Upstart goblins will feel our wrath! The hootings of mechanical rubbish will be swept away! We will take back the world we have been denied!’ He smiled, and added softly, ‘Those who are not with us will suffer. ’ In the world of the train and the swarf, iron could kill elves. But no elf wanted to be the one to feel the dreadful temper of Peaseblossom by gainsaying him. And they were very aware that he knew exactly how to make a short word like ‘suffer’ turn into a very long experience. And as their new king’s glamour built and he stood tall and strong above them, they felt a sense of their world waking up once more. ‘What fools these mortals be!’ Peaseblossom roared. ‘They think they can stop us? They need us. They call to us. And we will come. We will make them want what they can’t have and we will give them nothing but our laughter. We will take everything!’ And the elves cheered. Becky Pardon and Nancy Upright, dressed in their best, stood in trepidation in front of Miss Tick, who said, ‘It’s not all spells and broomsticks. It’s heavy work, sometimes. Sometimes quite nasty. Yes, Becky?’ ‘I was there as my granddad died,’ said Becky, ‘and I watched all the things that had to be done. My dad said I shouldn’t, but my mother said, “Let the girl see. She’ll find out sooner or later how things are in the world. ”’ ‘What I want to know, girls, is that you can deal with magic. Both of you ought to have some basic magic, like blowing out a candle just by thought. What do you think we do with magic?’ Becky said, ‘You can cure warts. I know that one. My granny could do that. Magic can make you beautiful. ’ Her tone was wistful, and Miss Tick looked a little more closely at her. Oh, a rather nasty birthmark on one cheek. ‘You can magic someone to be your best friend,’ Nancy added. ‘Or’ – with a bit of a blush – ‘make a boy like you. ’ Miss Tick laughed. ‘Girls, I can tell you this, magic won’t make you beautiful if you are not. And it certainly won’t make you popular. It is not a toy. ’ Her face even redder, Nancy said, ‘But about boys. . . ’ Miss Tick’s face did not move a muscle, and then she said, ‘What about them?’ Nancy’s blush was now impressive – if she went any redder, Miss Tick thought, she would look like a lobster. Miss Tick continued, ‘You don’t have to use spells to get boys, Nancy, and if you wish to know more about that, I daresay Mistress Tiffany will point you towards Nanny Ogg, or possibly your grandmother. ’ ‘Do you have a beau, mistress?’ asked Nancy. ‘No,’ said Miss Tick. ‘They get in the way. Now, let’s see if you can make a shamble. If you can’t do that you are very unlikely to be a witch. A shamble will give you focus. ’ She flung her hand into the air and something was there. The very air seemed to be boiling. Dancing, fluttering. . . alive. And Miss Tick said, ‘See how the air moves, how it waits – it’s the place where my shamble could be. Where it could advise me. ’ Suddenly, she had produced an egg in her hand, with some thread, twigs, a small nut. ‘These items I had about me could make that shamble,’ she said. She looked at the serious little faces, sighed and said, ‘But now it’s time for each of you to make your shamble, and it must have something living in it. Look, just shut your eyes and make a shamble out of anything you have with you. ’ She watched them, their faces as solemn as a dirge as they pulled things out of their pockets. Miss Tick knew her witches, knew these girls had the innate magical talent, but to decide to train to be a witch was the kind of decision that took more than just a bit of talent. Hard work would have to come into it too. A lot of hard work. Even then it would not be easy, she knew. Apart from anything else, they had to have parents who would support their choice. A girl might be useful at home, helping with the younger children or working in a family business, for instance. That was before the question of grandchildren cropped up. And it always did, oh yes, always. Miss Tick knew too that you can find out a lot about somebody from what’s in their pockets, and sometimes a lot about them from what they don’t have. She herself generally had a small cheese in one of her pockets – you couldn’t do good magic without a snack. Out loud, she said, ‘Even a worm is alive, so keeping one in a little box with some wet leaves will help. ’ Nancy pulled off one of her boots, saying, ‘I’ve got a caterpillar in there. ’ ‘Well done,’ said Miss Tick. ‘You have been lucky, but being lucky is only part of being a witch. ’ Becky looked rather glum. ‘I’ve got a hairpin – am I allowed to use that?’ Miss Tick sighed. ‘In your shamble? Of course, but you must still have something living. Butterflies or ants or things like that, but remember – you shouldn’t kill them. Let them fly free. ’ ‘Oh, all right,’ said Becky. She rummaged around in the bushes behind them for a moment, then held up a large green hairy caterpillar.

‘Copycat!’ said Nancy. Miss Tick laughed. ‘Part of being a witch is being clever. Using your eyes and learning from what you see. Well done, Becky. ’ For Becky now had the caterpillar neatly trussed in a bit of old string, which also seemed to be knotted somehow around one of her fingers. Her other fingers were struggling to push the hairpin into the shamble. Nancy pouted and held up her caterpillar, which appeared to be trying to burrow into a tuft of sheep’s wool. There was a rumble of thunder and a strike of lightning and both girls said, ‘That was me, with my little shamble. ’ Miss Tick smiled again. Why were people so keen to look at a sunrise, a rainbow, a flash of lightning or a dark cloud and feel responsible for it? She knew that if either girl really believed they could control a storm in the skies, they would be running home, screaming in terror – and their mothers would probably have to wash out the girls’ underclothing. Still, a bit of self-belief in a witch was a good start. ‘Miss, miss!’ said Becky and pointed. There was a hairpin now floating in the air alongside her caterpillar. ‘Well done,’ said Miss Tick. ‘Very well done indeed. ’ ‘Well, what about this, then?’ said Nancy, as her own shamble collapsed and the sheep’s wool floated to the ground, the little caterpillar perched on top like a witch on a broomstick. She raised her finger, and fire appeared to come out of the tip. ‘Excellent,’ said Miss Tick. ‘Both of you have got the hang of it. After that, it’s just a matter of learning, learning every day,’ she said sternly. But what she thought was, Well, Mistress Tiffany will want to see you two and no mistake. The music was playing in Fairyland – a harmonious melody, notes spiralling into the empty air, where a lazing elf perched on a slender branch near the top of a blossoming tree allowed himself the pleasure of turning each note into a colour, so that they danced above their heads, delighting the court. It doesn’t take much to delight an elf. Hurting something is usually top of their list, but music comes a close second. The musician was a human, lured into the woods by the glamour of an elf’s harp, then snatched through to play, play, play for the Lord Peaseblossom. Elves were skilled at keeping their playthings alive, sometimes for weeks, and the man with the flute was a delightful new toy. Peaseblossom wondered idly how long the man would last. But he was pleased. His warriors were making little sorties into the human world, bringing him back presents such as this. And he knew that with each successful incursion their confidence was growing. Soon they would be ready to make their move. . . He frowned. He had to speak to Mustardseed. He needed to know that the elf had indeed thrown the wretched remains of the Queen out of Fairyland. He wanted no. . . complications. Just as he loved to watch wildlife, so Geoffrey observed people. He found them fascinating, and he watched closely all the time, learning more and more from what he saw. One thing he saw was that the old men seemed somehow in the way in their homes. It was so different from Geoffrey’s own home, where his father had decidedly ruled the roost. Here, where there were women in the old men’s lives, the women held all the power indoors – as they had for the years their men had been out working – and they had no intention of giving any of it away. This thought was in his mind when he went to tidy up the nostril hairs of Sailor Makepeace, an errand which even Nanny Ogg disliked. Now Mrs Sally Makepeace – too shortsighted to be trusted with a pair of scissors near her husband’s nose, as an earlier attempt had proved – appeared to be a good woman, but Geoffrey had noticed that she treated her husband almost as part of the furniture, and that made Geoffrey sad – sad that a seafaring man who had seen so many interesting things now spent much of his time in the pub because his wife was always washing, cleaning, polishing and, when no alternative was around, dusting. She only just managed to avoid washing, cleaning and dusting her husband if he sat still for long enough. Gradually it dawned on Geoffrey that the pub was both an entertainment and a refuge for the old boys. He joined them there one day and bought them all a pint, which got their attention. Then he had Mephistopheles do his counting trick. By the second pint the old boys had become quite avuncular and Geoffrey broached a subject which had been on his mind for a few days. ‘So, may I ask what you do, gentlemen?’ As it happened, he got laughter, and Reservoir Slump – a man whose grin, unlike his name, never slipped – said, ‘Bless you, sir, you could call us gentlemen of leisure. ’ ‘We are as kings,’ said Laughing Boy Sideways. ‘Though without the castles,’ Reservoir Slump added. ‘’Less’n I had one once and lost it somewhere. ’ ‘And do you like your leisure, gentlemen?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Not really,’ said Smack Tremble. ‘In fact, I hate it. Ever since my Judy died. We never had kids, neither. ’ There was a tear in his eye and a break in his voice, which he covered up by taking another swig from his tankard. ‘She had a tortoise though, didn’t she?’ Wrinkled Joe, who had been built to a size big enough to pick up cows, put in. ‘Right enough,’ Smack said. ‘She said she liked it because it walked no faster ’n her. Still got the tortoise, but it ain’t the same. Not much good at conversation. My Judy would rattle on all day about this ’n’ that. The tortoise listens well enough, mind you, which is more’n I could say for Judy sometimes. ’ This got a laugh. ‘It’s a petticoat government, when you get old,’ said Stinky Jim Jones. Geoffrey, now pleased to have got the ball rolling, said, ‘What do you mean by that?’ And then there was a kind of grumble from every man. ‘It’s like this, backhouse boy,’ said Wrinkled Joe. ‘My Betsy tells me what I am to eat and when and where, and if we are together, she fusses around me like an old hen. It’s like being a kid. ’ ‘Oh, I know,’ said Captain Makepeace. ‘My Sally is wonderful and I knows I would be lost without her but, well, put it like this: I was a man once in charge of many other men, and when the weather was fearsomely bad, I would be up there making sure that we didn’t founder because it was my job and I was the captain. ’ He looked around, seeing nods from the others, and then said directly to Geoffrey, ‘And best of all, young man, I was a man. And now? My job is to lift my feet while she sweeps around me. It’s our home and I love her, but somehow I’m always in the way. ’ ‘I know what you mean,’ said Stinky Jim. ‘You know me, I’m still a good carpenter, well known in the Guild, but my Milly frets about me handling all the tools and so on; and I tell you, when she’s got her eyes on me, my hands shake. ’ ‘Would you like them to stop shaking?’ asked Geoffrey, though he had in fact seen Stinky Jim lift a tankard to his lips with a hand as steady as a rock. ‘Because you gentlemen have given me an idea. ’ He paused, hoping they would listen. ‘My maternal uncle came from Uberwald and his name was Heimlich Sheddenhausen – he was the first man known to have a “shed”. ’ Stinky Jim said, ‘I’ve got a shed. ’ ‘No offence, you may think you have,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but what is in it? There are goat sheds and chicken sheds and cow sheds, but these sheds I’m proposing are for men. I reckon what we need around here is sheds for men. A man shed. ’ And now he did have their attention. Especially when he hailed the landlord with a ‘Let’s drink to that, gentlemen! Another pint all round, please!’ The ladies in the villages had taken Geoffrey to their hearts, too. It was astonishing. There was something about his willingness to stop and talk, his gentle smile and pleasant manner, that made them immediately warm to him. ‘Mister Geoffrey is so calm, all the time. He never gets in a tizz, oh no, and he speaks wonderful! A real educated man,’ old Betsy Hopper said to Tiffany one day. ‘And that goat of his!’ Mrs Whistler added, folding her impressive arms under her even more impressive chest.

‘Looks a testy animal to me, but that Geoffrey has him trotting along all peaceful like. ’ ‘Wish he could do the same to my Joe!’ Betsy cackled, and she and Mrs Whistler chortled together as they headed off down the street. Tiffany watched them go, and began thinking about her backhouse boy, wondering how he made things settle down so well, and she thought, I’ve seen those people before – the ones who seem to know everybody. They hold the ring, stop the fighting. I think I shall let him go round the houses with me now, and see what he does. And so Geoffrey went out the next day with Tiffany, hanging on behind her on the broomstick, his face lighting up with sheer joy as Tiffany awkwardly steered the much heavier stick into the mountains; and the houses lit up as soon as he came in, so cheerfully alive. He could be funny, he could sing songs, and somehow he made everything. . . a bit better. Crying babies began to gurgle instead of howl, grown-ups stopped arguing, and the mothers became more peaceful and took his advice. He was good with animals too. A young heifer would stand for him, rather than skitter off in fright at a stranger, while cats would stroll in and immediately decide that Geoffrey’s lap was the place to be. Tiffany once saw him leaning up against a woodland cottage wall with a family of rabbits resting at his feet – at the same time as the farm dog was by his side. Nanny Ogg, after seeing Geoffrey with Tiffany one day, said, ‘His heart’s in the right place, I c’n smell it. I knows men, you know. ’ She laughed. ‘I’ve seen a great many in my time in all kinds of circumstances, believe you me. I won’t say as he’s rich material right now, and some of the other witches might not like a boy comin’ into the business, but, Tiff, never let no one tell you as Granny Weatherwax wouldn’t like it. Remember, she chose you to be her successor, not none of them. An’ you got to do it your way too. Not hers. So if’n you wants to train up this lad, well, you go ’n’ do it. ’ Tiffany herself was becoming fascinated by Geoffrey’s goat. Mephistopheles came and went, but unless she and Geoffrey were off on the broomstick he would usually be somewhere near Geoffrey and it seemed to Tiffany that the goat watched over the boy. They had a code. It was as if the goat could talk just by tapping a hoof, and occasionally there would be a staccato of complicated hoof taps. If Mephistopheles had been a dog, he would have been a pointer, she thought. His master was his friend, and woe betide anyone who took advantage of Geoffrey’s good nature – the hooves of Mephistopheles were exceedingly sharp. When Geoffrey was away, the goat often took himself off. He had soon got the goats at Granny’s cottage doing his bidding, and Nanny Ogg said once that she had seen what she called ‘that devil goat’ sitting in the middle of a circle of feral goats up in the hills. She named him ‘The Mince of Darkness’ because of his small and twinkling hooves, and added, ‘Not that I don’t like him, stinky as he is. I’ve always been one for the horns, as you might say. Goats is clever. Sheep ain’t. No offence, my dear. ’ The triumph of Mephistopheles – proving Nanny right on both counts – happened at the edge of the woods surrounding the cottage, near the foothills of the nearest mountain, when Geoffrey had taken the cart over to look at a small boy who needed medicine. On this homestead, on this particular day, the mother was watching Geoffrey. In the flurry of worry about her son she had left the gate to the sheep pen open. And the sheep, like all sheep, got hysterical and were getting out and running away before she looked out of the window and noticed. ‘My husband isn’t going to like this. It takes ages to get them settled down,’ the young mother wailed. ‘Look at them, running everywhere!’ Geoffrey put his head out of the window and made a clicking sound to Mephistopheles, whom he had unhitched from the cart and allowed to graze. The goat stopped eating the herbage – and then what happened next went all round Lancre. To hear it, the goat Mephistopheles rounded up those sheep like the best of shepherds. The sheep outnumbered him, of course, but carefully – one after the other – he herded them neatly back through the gate. When the mother told her husband later that the goat had not only got the sheep into the pen but had also shut the gate after them, he thought that was a bit far-fetched, but it still made a good story down the pub, and the legend of Mephistopheles spread rapidly. Geoffrey and Nanny Ogg told Tiffany the tale. Along with Geoffrey’s work for the little boy, that made it a day well done. But Tiffany couldn’t help looking at the slot-eyed Mephistopheles. She knew goats. But this goat had a purpose, she was sure. And it was watching her, she noticed, and watching You, who was watching the goat whilst, of course, pretending to look anywhere else. Everybody was watching everybody else, it seemed. She smiled. And made a decision. The following morning she took Geoffrey to one side, and told him that she had something special to say to him. ‘There’s something else,’ she said. ‘Some. . . little friends I want to introduce you to. ’ She paused. ‘Rob,’ she called. ‘I know ye is there, and I ask ye to come out now. ’ She paused. ‘There’s a wee drop o’ scumble here for ye. ’ She placed a cup with a few drops of the liquor in it on the floor. There was a movement in the air, a flash of red hair, and Rob Anybody was there, a shiny claymore in his hand. ‘Rob, I want you to meet. . . Geoffrey,’ Tiffany said slowly, carefully, turning to see how Geoffrey was taking the sight of his first Feegle, but Rob took her by surprise. ‘Ach, the wee laddie, we kens him already,’ he announced. Geoffrey coloured up. ‘Well, I have been sleeping in the old lean-to,’ he said. ‘These gentlemen were kind enough to allow me to share their sleeping space. ’ Tiffany was astounded. Geoffrey had met the Feegles already! How had she not known! She was the witch. She should have known. ‘But—’ she began, as other Feegles began to appear, one swinging down on string from the ceiling beams, another sidling out from behind a handy bucket, a group edging over to form a semicircle around the scumble on the floor. ‘Nae trouble,’ said Rob, waving a hand in the air. ‘We has had the most interrresting discussions, ye ken, when ye are in your nightie and asleep. ’ ‘But we still watch over ye— mmpfh , mmpfh. ’ Rob had his hand clamped over Daft Wullie’s mouth. ‘In my nightie ?’ Tiffany began, but then gave up. Oh, what was the use. The Feegles would always be watching over her, and if she had to choose between having Feegles or no Feegles in her life, well, it was an easy decision. ‘Ye don’t mind, mistress?’ Rob added, shuffling his feet as he always did when he found himself having to do the Explainin’. ‘Jeannie sez as ye ha’ this yon laddie here, and he is a treasure. And ye knows how we Feegles are with treasure – we just ha’ to pick it up. ’ As one, the Nac Mac Feegles sighed in happiness. And Tiffany pushed the cup towards them, saying, ‘Well, you aren’t goin’ to steal this treasure. But I ken – I think – it may be time for me to take Geoffrey along to meet the kelda. ’ It was raining hard and they dried off sitting in front of the great fire in the mound. Geoffrey was elated after the trip, and seemed completely unfazed by having to squeeze through the bushes and wriggle down into the Feegle mound. Involuntarily he squirmed a little, fn1 for every Feegle eye was upon him. Especially that of Maggie, Jeannie’s eldest daughter, who had just bravely squeezed in to see the big wee hag and her friend. She ran her hands through her fiery hair now, and put on her best pout. Jeannie sighed. It would soon be time for her daughter to leave. There could only be one kelda. Just as she thought this, Rob held out his arms and Maggie scrambled across the chamber to sit by his side. ‘My daughter, Maggie,’ Rob said proudly to Geoffrey. ‘Soon to be off to her ain clan, ye ken, now she is a big grown-up lassie. ’ Maggie bridled.

‘But can’t I stay here?’ she wheedled, putting on her best little-lassie voice for her father. ‘I like it here, ye ken, and I dinnae want to ha’ a husband’ – she said the word like it was an abomination to her – ‘and babbies. I want to be a warrior. ’ Rob laughed. ‘But ye is a lassie, Maggie,’ he said, with a worried look at Jeannie. Had she not taught the hiddlins to Maggie? Taught her what she needed to know to be kelda herself in her own clan? ‘But I kens how to fight,’ Maggie said sulkily. ‘Ask Wee Duggie Bignose – I gave him such a kickin’ when we las’ had a wee brawl, ye ken. ’ Wee Duggie Bignose – one of Rob’s scrawnier teenage sons – scuffled his feet awkwardly in the corner and hung his head so that only his nose was visible as the beads in his plaits smacked him on the chin. ‘An’ I talked to the Toad,’ fn2 Maggie went on. ‘ He said I dinna ha’ to follow tradition, ye ken. He says it’s my Yuman Rites. ’ ‘Well, ye ain’t a human,’ Jeannie snapped. ‘An’ we’ll ha’ nae more o’ that nonsense. Gae and fetch oor guest a nice bit of mutton now, with some of oor special relish. ’ Tiffany knew of the Feegles’ relish. Snail was one of the key ingredients. ‘Snails,’ she murmured to Geoffrey under her breath as Maggie flounced off. To Tiffany’s amazement, the young Feegle lassie flounced in exactly the same way Mrs Earwig flounced. Except, of course, for the obvious fact that Maggie was only five inches tall, whilst Mrs Earwig was as tall as Tiffany’s father. Jeannie had sharp ears for a little woman. ‘Aye, it’s amazin’ what my boys can do with snails, ye ken,’ she said. ‘They can even make snail whisky. ’ Geoffrey smiled politely. ‘I thank you kindly, Kelda,’ he said softly, ‘but I do not eat anything that has been running, swimming or crawling around. And that includes snails. I prefer to let them live. ’ ‘Actually the Feegles cultivate snails,’ said Tiffany. ‘Everyone has to have a living, Geoffrey, there’s no getting away from that. ’ ‘Indeed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But not at the expense of others. ’ Jeannie leaned forward, her eyes bright, and laid a small nut-brown hand on his arm. The air stilled, and now Geoffrey and Jeannie were looking into each other’s eyes. ‘There were many like you once,’ Jeannie said quietly at last. ‘I was right. I sees ye in my cauldron and I sees that ye are one of those who can stop a fight, bring peace. . . ’ She turned to Tiffany. ‘Treasure him, Tir-far-thóinn. ’ As they left to head back to the farm for tea, Tiffany pondered on the kelda’s words. Stop a fight. Bring peace. She might have need of just those very skills. And as she thought this, a shiver ran down her spine, one of those nasty little shivers that are like a message that something dreadful might be about to happen, hard to ignore. On the other hand, she thought, perhaps it was just her body telling her that if it was all right by her, next time perhaps she should say no to the snail relish. . . She did her best to shake the unsettling feeling off, focusing instead on Geoffrey. Treasure him. Jeannie is right about him, she decided. There might just be some things that a boy like this can do best. And right there and then, she made a decision. She would go to Ankh-Morpork – and take Geoffrey with her. It was time anyway, as a sort of head witch, to make a trip to the city. What if all the city witches had heard of her and were talking about her like she was some little upstart? She ought to know. And, a little voice whispered in her head, I can maybe see Preston too. She tried to push the thought away. This trip was not about her. It was about being a witch, about doing what she ought to do, and that was what she would inform Nanny Ogg when she told her she’d be away for a few days. But the thought of seeing Preston again still crept back into her mind and made her feel a bit. . . tingly. Geoffrey had got some way ahead down the path, but when Tiffany called him, he came back with a question in his eyes. ‘Geoffrey,’ she said, ‘tomorrow we will go to get you your first broomstick. ’ fn1 It was a brave man indeed who could look upon a clan of Feegles and not want to tie the bottoms of his trousers tight around his ankles. fn2 The Toad was the Feegles’ lawyer, his toad body the result of a misunderstanding with a fairy godmother. CHAPTER 11 The Big City IT WAS A long journey to Ankh-Morpork. Tiffany and Geoffrey had to stay over on the way, one night at a local witch’s cottage and the other in a barn where the farmer had been delighted at Geoffrey’s ability to help him with a troublesome goat. But now they were there – at the great city – and Tiffany watched Geoffrey’s mouth drop open as they flew carefully along the route of the river Ankh and into the heart of the capital. Well, she thought to herself, Geoffrey had said he wanted to see the world. Ankh-Morpork would be a very good start. But she herself was amazed too when she went to the site of the old broomstick workshop, and they were directed to a new site. The railway was still in its infancy – and already there were these arches. There’s a kind of magic in the cavernous spaces under railway arches and a mystery known only to those who work there. There are always puddles, even if it hasn’t rained for weeks, and the puddles are glossy and slimy, the air above filled with the taint of oil and working man’s armpit. It is easy to recognize a habitué of the railway arch. He (it is rarely a woman) is the kind of man who keeps useful nails in old jam jars, and he might spend a considerable time talking about the merits of different kinds of grease or sprocket, and occasionally an onlooker might hear a proprietor saying quietly, ‘I can get them for you next week. ’ Sometimes accompanied with a knowing look and a finger tap to the side of his nose. If anyone comes and asks for something, well, there will always be someone, often a dwarf, who knows where everything is, and almost always it’s right at the back of the arch in a darkness of stygian proportions. And when the right piece is found and brought out, well, some people would call it a piece of junk, but in the arch the junk has somehow metamorphosed into exactly the item that the buyer really, really wants – no one knows why. It is as if that piece had just been waiting for the right person to wander in. The dwarfs Shrucker and Dave had relocated their established broomstick business to the second arch in the row, just after an arch where a passer-by’s ears were assaulted by the weird noises of musical instruments, and before one where the tang of a harness-maker’s fresh leather made its own happy raid on the nose. It was Dave who rushed towards Tiffany when she came in with Geoffrey in tow. He recognized her immediately – he had had a bad moment when she’d called in a year or two back and let slip she knew the Feegles. fn1 Once a dwarf workshop gets the Feegles, well, they might as well just pack up and go back to the mountains. Taking a big axe with them. Tiffany noticed how Dave’s eyes were everywhere. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t got any Nac Mac Feegles with me,’ she said, though she knew that this might not be quite accurate, for although she had told Rob Anybody that this was hag’s business and he and the Feegles had a geas to stay behind, there was no knowing if one hadn’t crept into the bristles of her stick somehow and would suddenly pop up waving a big stick and shouting ‘Crivens!’ But when she said they weren’t with her, she heard a sigh, and the dwarf almost grinned. Tiffany dodged a drip that fell merrily from the top of the arch, and added, ‘This is Geoffrey, and we’ve come to get him a stick. ’ She looked along the row of arches. ‘Took a bit of finding you, actually. Your new workshop. ’ Dave was eyeing Geoffrey up and down. ‘Good for us here,’ he said. ‘We gets our supplies quicker. And it’s easier to go see my old mum. Long journey though.

’ A belch of smoke from a train steaming over the arches almost enveloped both the dwarf and Geoffrey, and when Tiffany could see them again, Dave – who now had bits of smut sticking to his face – had decided exactly what the lad would need. ‘A number three, I think,’ he said. ‘Reckon we’ve got just the one in stock. Top-of-the-range, you know. Wood all the way from the Ramtops. Special wizard wood. ’ He stroked his beard, flicked the cinders off his nose, and walked around Geoffrey. ‘Training to be a wizard then, lad?’ Geoffrey didn’t quite know what to say. He looked over at Tiffany. Should he tell these men that he wanted to be a witch? ‘No,’ said Tiffany, the witch in her making her answer for Geoffrey. ‘My friend here is a calm-weaver. ’ The dwarf scratched his iron helmet, stared at Geoffrey and said, ‘Oh, and what do they do, miss?’ Tiffany thought, then said, ‘At the moment, Geoffrey just helps me. And for that, gentlemen, he needs a broomstick. ’ She had been holding two broomsticks, her own and one other, and now she held out the spare. ‘But we don’t want a new stick,’ she said. ‘You know how we witches hand our sticks down one to the other. Well, I’ve got this one, and I think it would do my friend very well with a bit of repair work on it. ’ At the word ‘repair’ Shrucker loomed out of the workshop. He looked almost affronted. ‘ Repair? ’ he groaned, as though anyone choosing to reject the new sticks on offer was missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime. ‘You want the lad to begin his career on a used broomstick?’ And then he saw the stick, and reeled back on his heels, grimacing and clutching at his back. ‘That’s. . . Granny Weatherwax’s stick,’ he said. ‘That’s famous, that is. ’ ‘A challenge, then,’ said Tiffany smartly. ‘Or aren’t you gentlemen up to the task? I expect I can find someone else. . . ’ ‘Oh, there’s no need to be hasty,’ said Shrucker, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead with a woolly cloth. He lit his pipe, giving himself time to think, and examined the stick in front of him. ‘I would be much obliged,’ said Tiffany. Shrucker made the usual sucking noise through his teeth. ‘Well,’ he said slowly at last, ‘I could take the shell off. Perhaps a new staff?’ ‘One of our gentlemen’s staffs,’ Dave added. He tapped his nose. ‘You know, with the. . . special indentation for the. . . delicate parts. A much smoother ride for the lad. ’ ‘Always wanted to get my hands on this stick,’ Shrucker said. ‘Do some proper work on it. But the dwarfs up there in the mountains said as Mistress Weatherwax always wanted, well. . . ’ ‘A bodge ,’ Dave put in, his forehead creasing as if the word caused him actual pain. ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘I am not that witch, but it’s always useful to be friends with any witch. ’ She smiled sweetly and added, ‘I’m feeling friendly at the moment. . . but I might not later. ’ This fell into a very handy pause as an almighty roar announced another train shooting overhead, smoke and smut billowing in the air. ‘Mistress Weatherwax was a powerful lady indeed,’ Shrucker said carefully once the noise had died down. ‘And I heard that she never paid her bills,’ Dave added grumpily. ‘I’ve got the money,’ said Geoffrey. He had been silent so far, allowing Tiffany to speak up for him, but after all, it was going to be his broomstick. Tiffany saw the dwarfs look up with a smile, Shrucker only just managing to stop himself rubbing his hands together. ‘ Some money,’ she said sharply, ‘but I don’t want my friend to have to use it – I promised him I would arrange this for him. Now, I will tell you what I will do. I will pay in obs. ’ Obs were the unspoken currency of the dwarfs. Why waste gold? Humans would call it favours, and the currency was negotiable. The obligation of a witch was particularly valuable, and Tiffany knew that. ‘Look,’ she added, ‘the stick isn’t that bad. ’ Shrucker sat down heavily on a chest brimming with bristles. fn2 ‘It’s funny you should suggest obs,’ he said slowly. ‘My lumbago is giving me gyp. Comes with the job, you know. Can you do something about that?’ ‘All right, then,’ said Tiffany. ‘Just stay there. ’ And she walked behind him. He shifted around a bit, then sat up straight with a look of amazement on his face. ‘Oh my, how did you do that?’ ‘I’ve taken away your pain,’ Tiffany explained. ‘So now it’s my pain. And I have to congratulate you for dealing with it, for it is, I must say, very bad. And now I’ve got it hovering in the air, like a dog on a leash. ’ The dwarfs automatically looked over her head, just in case there was some kind of big bubble up there marked ‘pain’, but all that happened was that a big drop of some oily substance fell right into Dave’s beard. ‘Is there a stonemason in these arches?’ Tiffany asked, watching the dwarf whip off his helmet and rummage through the beard. ‘If he needs some rocks split, I can use this pain to break them up!’ She looked appreciatively at the helmet. ‘But that would do,’ she added, and as Dave put it down on the ground, she shot the pain into the iron, which to the dwarf’s horror actually buckled, steam shooting up to mingle with the steam from the railways above. The obs were paid. So, his pain gone, Shrucker – a new, upright, lively Shrucker – was now whipping out his measures. He eyed up both Geoffrey and the old stick as he worked his own form of magic. ‘How do you dress, sir?’ he asked at one point. Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘I usually dress looking out of the window,’ he said. There was a little hiatus as the dwarfs told Geoffrey what ‘dressing’ meant in the circumstances. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I never thought about it before. ’ Shrucker laughed and said, ‘Well, that’s about it. All down to me now, but I daresay that if you come back sometime tomorrow, I will have it working a treat. ’ They left the dwarfs and Tiffany told Geoffrey they would now be visiting Mrs Proust, a witch who loved living in the city. She headed for the elderly witch’s shop, Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium on Tenth Egg Street. It would be an education for Geoffrey anyway, Tiffany thought. If he decided to follow the witching path, well, he might also need Boffo’s at some point – a lot of the younger witches liked Mrs Proust’s artificial skulls, cauldrons and warts to give them the right image for the job. To someone in need, someone punched so far down that it might seem there was no getting up again, well, a witch with the right look could make all the difference. It helped them to believe. Mrs Proust – a witch who had no need to add nasty witch accessories to her everyday look, given that she had been naturally blessed with the right kind of hooked nose, messy hair and blackened teeth – heard the novelty graveyard groan of the door opening and came over to greet them. Tiffany laughed. ‘That’s a new one,’ she said. ‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Can’t keep them on the shelves. Nice to see you, Mistress Aching, and who’s this young man, may I ask?’ ‘This is Geoffrey, Mrs Proust, and we’re in the city to fit him up for a witch’s broomstick. ’ ‘Are you indeed? A boy? A witch? On a broomstick?’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘the Archchancellor uses a broomstick sometimes. ’ ‘I know,’ said Mrs Proust, ‘but there might be trouble. ’ ‘Well, if there is,’ said Tiffany, ‘the trouble will come to me. I am the chosen successor to Granny Weatherwax, and I think it could be time for a few little changes. ’ ‘Well done,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s the spirit!’ She looked at Geoffrey, who was engrossed in the display of naughty doggy-dos. And then and there she loomed close to him, put a clawed hand on his shoulder, and said to him, ‘So you want to be a witch, do you?’ Geoffrey stood his ground well, and Tiffany was impressed. So was Mrs Proust. ‘Well, mistress,’ he said, ‘I think I can help witches anyway. ’ ‘Do you?’ said Mrs Proust with a glint in her eye. ‘We shall see, young man, won’t we?’ She turned back to Tiffany. ‘I am sure there will be some witches who will hate the idea,’ she said, ‘but it is your way, Tiffany, your time. And Esme Weatherwax was no fool.

She could see the future coming. ’ ‘We’re staying in Ankh-Morpork until the dwarfs have finished with Geoffrey’s stick,’ Tiffany said. ‘Can we stop here? We might need to stay overnight. ’ Mrs Proust grinned. ‘Well, there is plenty of space in my spare room, and it would be good to have a chinwag while you are here. ’ She looked at Geoffrey. ‘Have you been to the city before, young man?’ ‘No, Mrs Proust,’ he replied quietly. ‘We lived in the Shires, and my father was the only one to travel. ’ ‘Well then, my son Derek will show you around,’ Mrs Proust said, sounding satisfied. She followed this up with a shout for the lad, and Derek – the sort of lad you wouldn’t notice in a crowd of two, meaning that he shared very little in common with his mother’s looks – came stumbling up the stairs from the workshop below. Ankh-Morpork, Tiffany thought, would definitely be an education. As the two lads left, Mrs Proust said, ‘So how are things going with your young man then, Tiffany?’ Tiffany sighed. Why were elderly witches so nosy ? But then she thought: Actually, all witches are nosy. It’s part of what being a witch is. And she relaxed. At least Mrs Proust wasn’t trying to push her Derek at her again. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I do like Preston and he likes me – he’s my best friend – but I’m not sure either of us are ready for, well. . . anything more. You see, he does a lot of wonderful work at the hospital and we write to each other and even meet up sometimes. ’ She paused. ‘I think we are married to our jobs. ’ She swallowed, a lump suddenly appearing in her throat. ‘It’s not that we don’t want to be together. . . I mean, I. . . but. . . ’ The words trailed off and Tiffany just looked totally miserable now. Mrs Proust did her best to look sympathetic. ‘You’re not the first witch to have that problem, my dear,’ she said. ‘Nor will you be the last. ’ Tiffany could feel the tears beginning. She said, ‘But why do I feel like this? I know a part of me does want to be with Preston – and it would make my family so happy! – but I also want to be a witch. And I’m good at it – I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I measure myself against the other witches and I know I’m better than most of them when it comes to witchcraft. I can’t not do it. ’ A tear threatened to trickle down her cheek. ‘Just like Preston can’t not be a doctor,’ she finished sadly. ‘Oh, I understand all that,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘But this is today. It’s soon going to be tomorrow and things can change. Things are changing, especially for you young people, when you both want to do different things. Just do the work you find in front of you and enjoy yourself. After all, you are both still young, so you still have options for the future. Just like my Derek. ’ ‘But that’s the difficulty,’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t really want options. I know what I want to do. I enjoy my work, I really do. ’ This last word came out as a squeal. ‘I just wish Preston could be with me,’ she added quietly. ‘Not here in the city. ’ ‘But you tell me he is training to be a doctor,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘And he loves his work. You wouldn’t want him to give that up for you, now would you? So don’t worry so much. Think yourself lucky and don’t run ahead of the world. There is a saying, Don’t push the river. Although, of course, in Ankh-Morpork you can push very hard,’ she added with a cackle. fn3 More encouragingly, she continued, ‘Maybe in a year or two your young man can be a doctor in the same place where you are a witch. I had my Mr Proust. You can have your Preston. Just not yet. ’ ‘When I go around the houses,’ Tiffany said quietly, ‘I also see how some of the marriages, well, they’re not really. . . ’ That hung in the air. ‘There are happy marriages,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘Think of your parents, maybe? Isn’t that a happy marriage? Now, let your Auntie Eunice give you some help. Go and see your boy and have a chat to him. ’ She paused and added shrewdly, ‘He’s not interested in anyone else , is he?’ ‘Oh no,’ said Tiffany. ‘He’s working with the Igors fn4 and he said that he didn’t fancy the Igor girls because he likes a girl who stays the same shape every day. The Igorinas like to experiment. ’ Geoffrey came back late with Derek, singing a song worthy of Nanny Ogg, but Tiffany got a good night’s sleep – a rare treat! – and then a breakfast of ham and eggs courtesy of Mrs Proust. While Geoffrey and Derek still slept, Tiffany decided to go and visit Preston. Mrs Proust’s words had got her thinking. She headed for the Lady Sybil Hospital over in Goose Gate, but paused at the door, strangely uncertain. She hadn’t told Preston she would be in the city. Would her visit be a good one, or. . . ? It was a free hospital, so there was a queue of people waiting, all hoping for the happy result of seeing a doctor before old Boney turned up with his scythe. It looked like nobody would be moving for some time, so Tiffany did something she knew she shouldn’t. She stepped outside her body, leaving it standing demurely by the gates. It was an easy trick for a witch, but still dangerous, and she had no real reason to take the risk. Except. . . the Igor girls? They were beautiful. . . once you looked past the discreet stitches, anyway. She slid silently through the crowd, doing her best to ignore her First Thoughts, Second Thoughts and even her Third Thoughts, and drifted into the hospital itself, floating along the corridors until she found Preston. He was in his element, his gaze focused on a patient with a rather unsettling hole in the stomach – and when Preston looked at anything, it knew it was being looked at and was liable to stand up and salute. This was especially true of some of the spare parts the Igors used – a most unsettling experience – and Preston was indeed surrounded by Igors. And yes, that included girls. But, happy sight, he was paying them no attention. Tiffany sighed with relief, and then – allowing herself to listen to her Second Thoughts, which were telling her off in a style uncomfortably like the voice of Granny Weatherwax – whisked herself back into her body, which wobbled slightly as she took control again. The queue had moved a few inches. But the pointy hat took her to its head and the porter let her through immediately. She waved away his offer of directions and marched confidently off down the corridor, leaving the porter to mutter, ‘I didn’t even need to tell her where he was. That’s a proper witch, that is. ’ For at the hospital it was all too easy to set off confidently for one place but find yourself in the basement – which these days was home to goblins, who maintained the huge boilers and had set up a workshop manufacturing the very finest surgical instruments. Still, most people eventually made it out of the hospital and the record seemed to be improving. Preston was very glad to see Tiffany, saying, ‘I heard about Granny Weatherwax. Well done for being the top witch, it couldn’t happen to a better person; are you allowed to tell all the other witches what to do now?’ ‘What!’ Tiffany laughed. ‘It’s like herding goblins. No! Goblins are easier. Anyway, it works like this: I don’t tell them what to do, and they allow me to work hard – just as I like it. ’ ‘Just like me and the Igors,’ said Preston. ‘But I’ve got good news too. Doctor Lawn is getting on now and he has promoted me to be a surgeon; usually only Igors can be surgeons, so that’s a real feather in my hat. ’ Tiffany kissed him, and said, ‘That is good news; I am so proud of you! But I do wish he would give you more time off – and you could come and see me. Letters can only say so much. . . ’ Her voice faltered. ‘Though I do so love the way you write. ’ ‘And I like your letters too,’ Preston said, ‘and I wish I could visit home more. But I do enjoy the work here, Tiffany. And people need me. Every day. I’ve got a talent and it would be criminal not to use it. ’ ‘Yes, I know,’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s the story of my life as well. Our skills, you will find, could be our gaolers.

’ And it struck her that just as Preston was looking into people in one way – he knew the names of all the bones now, and could even say hello to a few of them – she was learning to look into people another way: into their heads, their minds. ‘But I couldn’t do anything else,’ she finished, a touch wistfully. Preston said, ‘No. Me neither. ’ Then the time for talking was over, and it was just Tiffany and Preston, together, snatching the moment and saying more with their eyes than any words could convey. And it was magic; a different kind of magic. Mrs Proust went with them to pick up Geoffrey’s broomstick – Granny Weatherwax’s stick had been a legend , and she was curious to see if the dwarfs had managed to make it work. Dave greeted them and said, ‘Well, here it is. It’s a good stick, it really is. I reckon Mistress Weatherwax never took any care of it at all, no matter what we dwarfs did to fix it up. ’ ‘All she did was curse it,’ Shrucker put in a bit sourly. It was clear that, to him, a broomstick was almost like a living creature. The stick gleamed. It shone. It looked almost alive, and the bristles were sleek. It was almost Granny Weatherwax’s old stick, if you discounted the new shell for the staff and new bristles. fn5 Tiffany and Geoffrey stared at it in amazement while the two dwarfs looked on, smiling. ‘It’s the best we ever made – I mean, mended,’ Shrucker added. ‘But please, use it gently and keep it oiled. Nothing but the best for Mistress Aching. ’ He straightened up proudly, a dwarf who could stand tall to his full four foot once again. Mrs Proust ran her fingers against the stick and nodded. ‘This is an excellent stick,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s even got a little cup to hold your drink. ’ Shrucker gave her a funny look. ‘And special today, for our good customers,’ he said instead, ‘those who don’t bring. . . trouble’ – with a sideways glance at Tiffany – ‘we have a bonus little gift. ’ He proudly presented Geoffrey with two furry white cubes covered in assorted spots. ‘You can tie them on the strap,’ he said. ‘Very popular with the lads for their carriages, these. Some lads also keep birds in a little cage to sing as they go along. They call it in-carriage entertainment. ’ Geoffrey shuddered at the thought. A bird, in a cage? His heart felt sorrow for them. But the broomstick, well, he could barely wait to have a go on it. Dave sniffed and said, ‘There you go, young man. So, do you want to give it a test drive then?’ He handed him the stick, and said, ‘Go on. Go to the end of the arches and give it a whirl. ’ Tiffany was about to speak, but already Geoffrey was sparkling with excitement. She looked at his glowing eyes and said, ‘Well, all right, Geoffrey. You’ve been on my stick with me, and watched the broomsticks going past overhead. Go up slowly, just a bit at a time. ’ She might as well have talked to the wall. Geoffrey straddled his broomstick, ran past the neighbouring arch, jumped – and went skywards very fast. A series of nightmares flashed through Tiffany’s mind. There was a distant boom! Then a little dot in the sky got bigger, and there was Geoffrey, coming back down, grinning from ear to ear. Tiffany almost squealed. ‘Look, Mrs Proust. He’s picked it up already. It took me ages to learn how to fly. ’ ‘But of course,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s this here technology. ’ And Shrucker said, ‘Wow! He’s a natural. Not even the goblins can do that. ’ For Geoffrey had just looped the loop, then got off his stick, leaving it hovering a few feet above the cobbles. ‘How did you do that ?’ asked Tiffany, genuinely impressed. ‘I don’t know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Just a knack, I suppose. ’ And Tiffany thought: When Geoffrey’s not anxious, he radiates calmness, which probably means he sees more things and finds more things than other people do. It makes him open to new things too. Yes, it’s a knack all right. Waving a goodbye to the dwarfs and Mrs Proust, Tiffany and Geoffrey took off together and floated back towards Lancre and the distant mountains, Geoffrey getting the feel of his stick immediately and disappearing into the sky ahead of Tiffany. She caught him up just outside the outskirts of Ankh-Morpork – he was soaring and swooping at a ferocious speed. ‘You do know your trousers are smouldering, don’t you?’ she said with a laugh. Geoffrey patted the smoke away with a sudden anxiety that made the stick wobble, saying, ‘Please don’t tell Nanny about this when we get back! She’ll laugh at me!’ But after they had travelled back to Lancre – quite a bit faster than on the outward journey – and before she set off back to the Chalk, Tiffany did of course tell Nanny Ogg. And the older witch did indeed laugh. ‘It was amazing, though,’ Tiffany said. ‘Flying seemed so natural to him. ’ ‘Ha!’ said Nanny. ‘Every man has a broomstick in the house, but they just don’t often know how to use ’em!’ fn1 The Feegles had, in fact, accidentally set fire to Tiffany’s broomstick, creating a need for new bristles. fn2 There are some advantages to wearing layers needing double figures to count. Dwarfs like lots of layers of chainmail, jackets and – of course – the traditional woolly vest which actually makes the chainmail unnecessary. fn3 ‘River’ as a term doesn’t quite describe the sludge of the river Ankh in its course through the city, though it is of course a decent torrent up in Lancre. fn4 Uberwald servants, usually working as doctors, or assistants to mad scientists, who believe a stitch in time saves a lot of bother later. They like to swap body parts from an early age, often within the same family, such that an Igor saying ‘He’s got his uncle’s nose’ really means something. fn5 So a new stick, really. As new as the famous nine-hundred-year-old family mining axe owned by the King of the Dwarfs was anyway. CHAPTER 12 An Elf among the Feegles THERE WAS THUNDER and there was lightning. It was raining and there was water everywhere, running down the chalk hills. The Queen screamed as she was thrown out of Fairyland, her wings torn from her body, her blood staining her shoulders. A scream with a life of its own, which ended in a dew pond on the Chalk, surprising a stoat on the prowl. And Tiffany Aching woke up. Her heart was thumping, a sudden chill making her shiver in the dark of the night. She looked over at the window. What had made her wake? Where was she needed? She sat up and reached wearily for her clothes. . . Up on the downs, the Feegle mound was still its usual hive of activity and song, a Feegle mound being very like a beehive but without the honey, and to be sure a Feegle could sting much worse than a bee. But when something was being celebrated – and they didn’t need much to pick a reason for a celebration – the Nac Mac Feegles always made sure that it went on happily for a long time. A short time past midnight, however, the revels that night were interrupted by Big Yan, the Feegle nightwatchman, as he ran in from the storm raging outside. fn1 He kicked the helmet of his chief, the Big Man of the clan, and shouted, ‘There’s elves here! I can smell it, ye ken!’ And from every hole in turn, the clan of the Nac Mac Feegle poured out in their hundreds to deal with the ancient enemy, waving claymores and swords, yodelling their war cries: ‘Ach, stickit yer trakkans!’ ‘Nac Mac Feegle wha hae!’ ‘Gae awa’ wi’ ye, yer bogle!’ ‘Gi’e you sich a guid kickin’!’ ‘Nae king! Nae quin! We willnae be fooled agin!’ There is a concept known as a hustle and bustle, and the Feegles were very good at it, cheerfully getting in one another’s way in the drive to be the first into battle, and it seemed as if each small warrior had a battle cry of his own – and he was very ready to fight anyone who tried to take it away from him. ‘How many elves?’ asked Rob Anybody, trying to adjust his spog. There was a pause. ‘One,’ said Big Yan sheepishly. ‘Are ye sure?’ said Rob Anybody, as his sons and brothers flowed around him and hurried past to the mouth of the mound. Ach, the embarrassment.

The whole Feegle colony bristling with weaponry, full of alcohol and bravado and apparently nothing to do with it. Of course, they were always itching for a fight but most Feegles itched all the time, especially in the spog. They rushed about on the sodden hilltop looking for the enemy, while Big Yan led Rob to the dew pond on the top of the hill. The storm had passed and the water gleamed under the stars. There, half in, half out of the pond, the battered body of an elf lay groaning. And indeed it was, apparently, a solitary elf. You could almost hear the Feegles thinking: One elf? Feegles loved a spat with the elves, but. . . just one? How did that happen? ‘Ach crivens, it’s a long time since we had a reely good fight. ’ Rob sighed, and for a moment he was, for a Feegle, quite sombre. ‘Aye, but where there’s the one, there’s sure to be a plague o’ them,’ Big Yan muttered. Rob sniffed at the air. The elf just lay there and it was doing nothing. ‘There are nae ither elves aboot. We’d smell them if they were,’ he pronounced. He reached a decision. ‘Big Yan, ye and Wee Dangerous Spike, grab a-hold of that scunner. Ye know what to dae if it gets feisty. Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin’ – he looked for the clan gonnagle, who was the least likely to mangle the facts – ‘hie ye awa’ tae the kelda and tell her what’s abroad. What we are bringin’ back to the mound. ’ Then he shouted so that the rest of the clan could hear him, ‘This elf is oor prisoner. A hostage, ye ken. That means ye are nae tae kill it until ye are told. ’ He ignored the grumbles from the clan. ‘As tae the rest o’ ye, tak guard around yon stones. And if they come in force show them what the Feegles can dae!’ Daft Wullie said, ‘I can play the harmonica. ’ Rob Anybody sighed, ‘Aye, weel, I suppose that puts the willies up me, so wud likely keep them awa’. ’ Back at the mound – outside , mind, for no elf would find itself a place for long inside a Nac Mac Feegle mound – the kelda looked at the stricken elf and then back at Rob Anybody. ‘Just one?’ she asked. ‘Weel, one elf alone is nae challenge tae a young Feegle even. And this elf has been beaten, aye, its wings torn from its back. Did oor boys dae that?’ ‘No’ us, Jeannie,’ said Rob. ‘Big Yan said it drappit oot o’ the sky intae the auld dew pond up by the stones, ye ken. It were battered like that afore it got there. ’ He looked anxiously at his wife, who had a frown on her face. ‘We be warriors, no’ butchers, Jeannie. The lads are raring tae gae, o’ course, and if yon elf was facin’ me in a fight, my claymore would ring aloud, but whin it looks like a wee slunkit mowpie there’s nae honour in killin’ it. ’ ‘Brawly spoken, Rob,’ said the kelda as she considered the unconscious creature. ‘But why just one? Are ye sure?’ There was a groan from the elf and it stirred. Rob’s claymore leaped into his hand but the kelda gently held him back. The bedraggled elf groaned again and whispered something, its voice weak and faltering. The kelda pricked up her ears and listened carefully before turning to her husband with some surprise. ‘It said, “Thunder and Lightning”!’ she said. The elf whispered again and this time Rob could hear the words too: ‘ Thunder and Lightning. ’ Everyone on the Chalk knew about Granny Aching’s famous dogs, Thunder and Lightning, long gone but, as all the local farmers believed, still roaming the hills in spirit. Several years before, young Tiffany Aching had summoned them to help rid the Chalk of the Queen of Fairyland. Now here was an elf, at the very entrance to a Feegle mound, invoking their names. ‘There’s somethin’ I dinnae like aboot this,’ said the kelda. ‘But I cannae decide what it means withoot oor hag. Can ye send for her, Rob?’ ‘Aye, Hamish can gae. I mun get back to the stones and the clan. ’ He looked at his wife anxiously. ‘Will ye be all richt here wi’ that scunner?’ ‘Aye, I’ll take it inside, ye ken, to dry by the fire. It’s too weak tae dae anything tae me. And the boys kin look after me. ’ Jeannie nodded over at a happy bundle of young Feegles, who were tumbling out of the mound, waving their crescent-shaped clubs in the air. ‘Aye, it will be good practice for them,’ Rob said, looking at them proudly. And then ducked as one of the Feegles let loose his club and it shot through the air and nearly smacked him on the ear. To his amazement, the weapon swung round in the air and shot back to the young Feegle who had hurled it, giving him a bang on the head, saving Rob the trouble. ‘Ach, boys,’ Rob shouted. ‘It fights ye back! Now that’s a weapon fit for any Feegle. Double the fun, ye ken. ’ Tiffany had just begun to dress when there was a whistling sound outside, followed by the thump of something falling past, merrily breaking branches, and then a tapping on the window. She opened the window and she could see a tangle of cotton and cloth down below, which after a good kickin’ fell away to reveal Hamish, the Feegle aviator. fn2 With the window open, it was suddenly very cold in the bedroom, and Tiffany sighed and said, ‘Yes, Hamish, now tell me what you need me for. ’ Hamish, adjusting his goggles, jumped up onto the sill and into the room. ‘Oor kelda hae sent for ye, hag o’ the hills. I mun get ye tae the mound as soon as ye can. ’ It had been a long day, but Tiffany knew that if the kelda wanted her, even after midnight, then that was where she needed to be. So she put on her heavy-duty travelling pants, left a saucer of milk on the hearth and cranked up the broomstick. And once again You was staring at her, the white cat who seemed now to be everywhere. The fire inside the mound was like a furnace. The young Feegles who had been left to guard their kelda were all scowling at the hated adversary. When Rob Anybody returned, each Feegle wanted to look like he had been the one to keep the scunner from causing any trouble. Especially now she was inside the mound. But the elf appeared to have been crying. The kelda shifted her bulk and said softly, ‘So now, elf, you come to me. For what purpose? Why do we nae kill ye right noo?’ This caused a susurration of expectation among the Feegles, each of whom was hoping to kill an elf before too long, and trepidation on the part of the elf. The kelda turned away, then said softly, ‘I ha’ the secrets of the hiddlins, and what I see is that everything we do today was ordained afore the seas were made. There is nae turning back. But there is a mist in what is afore me. I cannae see for sure beyond this day, ye ken. ’ There was a shiver from the elf. ‘Haed yer tongue richt noo, elf,’ Jeannie mused. ‘For I wonder what my position were tae be if things were otherwise. Yoor people are sae. . . inventive. ’ That caused the young Feegles to brandish their weapons playfully, and the kelda turned back to the elf and went on, ‘Ye are sent tae me by the calling of Thunder and Lightning. I ken those twa spirit dogs, aye, and also their owner, will be with us soon enough. Right now, shivering elf, tell me what is the geas you are under? Why are ye here? Who are ye? What is your name? And dinnae lie tae me, elf. Because I ha’ a way of kenning. ’ The kelda looked at the elf – tiny, shrivelled, rags and drying blood – something that could have been kicked about for days before being left to end its life in a dew pond. ‘I can’t ask for anything, Kelda. I am empty to your pleasure or your wrath. ’ The Queen’s voice was very small. ‘But I was – until just now – the Queen of the Elves. ’ The young Feegles stopped rattling their weapons and began to crowd nearer. Could this wee little mowpie be the fearsome Quin they had heard about from the Big Man? Wee Duggie Bignose leaned over and bravely poked the elf with his finger, the effect slightly spoiled by his rabbit-skull helmet falling over his eyes and making him reel forwards as it stuck on his nose. ‘Get awa’ wi’ ye, lads,’ the kelda said sharply, rapping Duggie’s helmet with her fist and spinning him away from the elf. She turned back to the Queen. Drily she said, ‘Then it appears ye ha’ had a misfortune, your majesty.

And I’ve a mind to mention that there appear to be many queens of the elves. I ask myself, which one do we have here? What I want is your name , madam. Be careful: if ye should gi’ me a name which is nae yours, your majesty will find me somewhat acerbic. ’ The elf said, ‘My name, Kelda, is Nightshade. ’ The kelda sent a sideways look to Rob Anybody that said, What have we here? The real Quin? For she knew that although there were many leaders among the elves of Fairyland, there had always been only the one King and Queen. The King, of course, had gone away some years ago, creating a separate world just for himself and his pleasures, leaving the Queen behind. And although it was rarely used, the Queen did have a name of her own. A name known to the Feegles from their time in Fairyland. A name now to be passed from each kelda to her successor. The name of Nightshade. Quietly she said, ‘We are the Nac Mac Feegle, and we dinnae bow down to queens. ’ Rob Anybody was silent, but the sound of him whetting his claymore against the stone was a song, an invitation to death. Then he looked up and his gaze was fearsome. ‘We are the Nac Mac Feegle! The Wee Free Men! Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna’ be fooled again! ’ he thundered. ‘Your life, elf, is on the edge o’ my blade. ’ There was a scuffling noise behind them and Tiffany crawled in, followed by Hamish, with more Feegles pushing around after them. ‘It’s happy I am tae see ye, hag o’ the hills,’ Jeannie said. ‘We have ourselves. . . an elf. Tell us, what shall we dae with it?’ And at that word ‘elf’ every weapon sang. Tiffany looked at the elf. It was in terrible shape and she said, ‘We aren’t the kind of people who kill those who are unarmed. ’ Rob Anybody put up his hand. ‘Excuse me, mistress, but some of us do, or are. ’ Nonplussed, Tiffany thought, Well, I’m their big wee hag, and the kelda has asked for my help. And then, despite its bedraggled state, she recognized the Feegles’ captive. After all, how could she have forgotten? ‘I know you, elf, and I told you never to come here again,’ she said. She frowned. ‘You remember? You were a great elvish queen and I was a little girl. I drove you away with Thunder and Lightning. ’ She watched the elf’s face when she said that. It had gone white. ‘Yes,’ said the elf faintly. ‘We came raiding into your world, but this was before the time of. . . iron. ’ Her face twisted with fear and Tiffany sensed a change in the world, a feeling that she stood between two courses of action, and what she did next would matter. This, she realized, was what she had suspected was coming her way, what Jeannie had warned her about. A witch is always on the edge, between the light and the dark, good and bad, making choices every day, judging all the time. It was what made her human. But what was it that made an elf? she wondered. ‘I hear that the goblins believe that the railway engines have a soul, elf,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me, what kind of soul have you? Do you run along your own elvish rails? With no time or place for turning?’ She looked at the kelda and said, ‘Granny Aching told me to feed them that was starving and clothe them as is naked and help the pitiful. Well, this elf has come to my turf – starving, naked, pitiful – do you see?’ The kelda’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yon creature is an elf! It has nae care for ye! It has nae care for anyone – it disnae even care for other elves!’ ‘You think then there is no such animal as a good elf?’ ‘Ye think there is such a thing as a guid elf?’ ‘No, but I am suggesting that there is a possibility that there might be one. ’ Tiffany turned to the cowering elf. ‘You are no queen now. Do you have a name?’ ‘Nightshade, my lady. ’ ‘Aye,’ said the kelda. ‘A poison. ’ ‘A word,’ said Tiffany sharply. ‘Well, yon word has been kicked out as if life was nae more than a game o’ chess; and now it turns to the lassie she tried to destroy years ago,’ the kelda said. ‘She ha’ been beaten verra severely, but here she comes, to your steading, asking ye for sanctuary. ’ There was a gleam in her eye as she said, ‘What now, Tiffan? It’s up to ye. Only ye can decide. This elf nearly killed ye afore, and yet ye want to help her. . . ’ The kelda’s face looked grave. ‘Fairies are nae to be trusted, we Nac Mac Feegle ken that! But ye are the girl who made the Wintersmith mind his manners. Don’t fret for the Quin, but through her footsteps there may be a war. . . ’ Tiffany bent down to the shrunken, quivering elf. Face to face with her she quietly said, ‘Last time we met, Nightshade, I was a small girl, hardly capable of any magic whatsoever. ’ She pushed her face closer. ‘How much better at magic am I now! I am the successor of Granny Weatherwax, aye, and you elves were right to fear her name. And now you might say that the life of elves is hanging on you. And if you let me down, I’ll send you back to the Feegles. They have no love for elves. ’ The kelda caught her eye and Tiffany said, ‘Does that sit well with you, Kelda?’ ‘Och, weel,’ said the kelda, ‘somebody had to taste the first snail. ’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘And goblins were treated as nobodies until somebody gave a thought to them. Give the Lady Nightshade no reason to hate you, but if she breaks the rules then I promise you – and, ye ken well, a promise from the hag o’ the hills is a serious business indeed – that will be the end of it. ’ Feegle eyes were still watching Nightshade with unabashed loathing. It seemed to Tiffany that the air between them and the elf was humming with hatred, in both directions. Rob Anybody said, ‘You, elf, ye know that your kind will nae trick us agin. And so it is for the sake o’ Mistress Aching that we are lettin’ ye live. But be told. The hag o’ the hills gets a bit restive when she sees us killin’ people, and if she wasnae here, ye would be bleeding again. ’ There was a chorus of threats from the Feegles – it was clear that if they had their preference, Nightshade would be a damp little piece of flesh on the floor by now. Rob Anybody smashed his claymore against the ground. ‘Listen to the big wee hag, ye scunners. Aye, ye, Wee Clonker and Wee Slogum, Wee Fungus and Wee Gimmie Jimmie. She’s made a truce with the auld Quin, believin’ yon schemie might have a wee passel o’ goodness in her. ’ Big Yan coughed and said, ‘I dinnae want to gainsay the hag but the only guid elf is a deid elf. ’ ‘I suggest ye dinnae tak that road, brother. As a gonnagle, I say to leave a space for goodness tae get in, as it was in the Lay of Barking Johnnie,’ said the gonnagle, Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin, an educated Feegle. ‘Is that the mannie who balanced a thimble on his neb for a week and afterwards had a wonderful singing voice?’ asked Daft Wullie. ‘Nae, ye daftie. ’ ‘Why are you getting all het up about this? Dinnae fash yersel’. The first time yon elf touches a body, it will be a deid elf, an’ that’s the way to find out,’ said Wee Dangerous Spike. ‘Weel now,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘this is what the hag wants and I tell ye, that’s the end of it. ’ ‘And I tell you one more thing, Rob Anybody,’ Tiffany said. ‘I will take this elf away with me. I know that you will come with me, but I will need a Feegle or two to bide by her side and watch her for me. Wee Mad Arthur? You were in the Watch – I pick you for one. ’ She looked around. ‘And ye, Big Yan. Don’t let this little elf get the better of ye. I want to say to you both, this elf is a captive. And captives have to be looked after. As a constable, you – Wee Mad Arthur – know that people don’t fall down wells unless they’ve been pushed. I suggest you think about this. And generally speaking, they don’t often fall downstairs either unless they’ve been pushed. There are to be no little things like, “Ach, weel, we let her out for a walk and she ran away and was knocked over by a rampaging stoat,” or, “She died resisting arrest by fifteen Feegles. ” No great swarm of bees to sting her a lot. No great big bird dropping her in a pond. No great big wind which comes out of nowhere and blows everything away.

No “She fell down a rabbit hole and no one ever saw her again. ”’ She looked around sternly. ‘I am the hag o’ the hills and I will know how it happened. And then there would be a. . . reckoning. Do you understand me? ’ ‘Oh, waily, waily, there’s to be a reckoning,’ Daft Wullie moaned, and there was an embarrassed shuffling of feet as the Feegles reconsidered their plans. Big Yan absentmindedly poked his finger up his nose and closely examined what he found there before stuffing it into his spog for later inspection. ‘Right, well, that’s settled then,’ said Tiffany. ‘But I will not abide troublesome elves coming onto my turf, gentlemen. ’ fn1 The Baron had given the Feegles their own land and the promise that no sharp metal beyond a knife would go near them, but the Feegles lied all the time themselves, so liked to be ready with boot and heid and fist should any other liar come calling. fn2 Hamish’s trained buzzard Morag did the actual flying, of course. Mastering the art of flying wasn’t a problem for Hamish. Landings were another matter. CHAPTER 13 Mischief. . . and Worse THE ELVES LIKED being troublesome. When elves come, they hunt with stealth. There are little changes in the world, at first just mischief. As in the cellar in the Baron’s Arms, where something had happened to the beer. No matter how often or how thoroughly John Parsley cleaned and changed spigots and barrels, the beer was suddenly full of floaties, barrel gushies, skunkies and the like, and the publican was tearing out his hair – of which he had little enough to start with. And then, in the bar, someone said, ‘It’s the elves again. It’s their sort of joke. ’ ‘Well, it doesn’t make me laugh,’ said Thomas Greengrass, while John Parsley was almost crying. And as happens in a pub, everyone else joined in, and there was talk of elves, but no one believed it – though later, at home, more than one new horseshoe was suddenly nailed up on the doorframe. People laughed and said, ‘Anyway, we’ve got our own witch here. ’ ‘Well,’ said Jack Tumble, ‘no offence, but she’s never here these days. It seems she’s spending more of her time over in Lancre. ’ ‘Oh, come on,’ said Joe. ‘My Tiffany is doing a man’s work every day. ’ He thought for a moment (especially since he knew that what he said might easily get back to his wife via Mrs Parsley). ‘Better than that, she’s doing a woman’s work,’ he added. ‘Well, how do you explain the beer?’ ‘Bad management?’ said Jack Tumble. ‘No offence meant, John. It’s difficult stuff, beer. ’ ‘What? My pipes are as clean as the rain and I wash my hands when I change a barrel. ’ ‘What is it, then?’ Someone had to say it again, voice their conclusion, and it was said: ‘Then it can only be the fairies. ’ ‘Oh, come on,’ said Joe. ‘My Tiffany would have dealt with them in a brace of shakes. ’ But the beer was still sour. . . While over in Lancre, high up in the forests of the Ramtop mountains, Martin Snack and Frank Sawyer were anxious. They had trudged for days from the last town, Hot Dang, to get this far and had left the main cart track hours before. Their empty stomachs and the late afternoon shadows were hurrying them up but it was hard going along the faint tracks on the steep hillside. If they didn’t find the logging camp soon, this was likely to be their second night without shelter. They had heard wolves howling in the distance the night before. And now, as the temperature dropped, it began to snow. ‘I reckon as we are lost, Frank,’ said Martin anxiously. But Frank was listening carefully, and now he heard a roaring sound in the distance. ‘This way,’ he said confidently. And indeed, within no more than another five minutes they were close enough to hear the sound of people talking, and soon after, the aroma of something cooking, which seemed a good sign. Then, in a break between trees, they could see the camp. There were a number of large hairy men moving about, while others sat on tree stumps and one was stirring something bubbling over on an almost red-hot portable stove. As the boys emerged from the trees, the men looked up. One or two laid a hand on their large and serviceable axes which were never far from their sides, and then relaxed when they saw how young the boys were. An elderly lumberjack in a big checked jacket with a fur-lined hood – the kind of man that you wouldn’t talk to unless you heard him talk first – walked over to meet them. ‘What are you lads doing here? What do you want?’ He eyed them up – Frank, small and wiry but strong-looking, and Martin, more muscular but shuffling his feet awkwardly behind his friend, as is often the way of a lad with muscles but not much else who might feel uncomfortable when asked something more demanding than his name. Frank said, ‘We need a job, sir. I’m Frank, and this is Martin, and we want to work on the flumes. ’ The old boy gave them an assessing look, then held out an enormous calloused hand. ‘My name’s Slack – Mr Slack to you two. So, the flumes, is it? What do you know about flume-herding then?’ ‘Not a lot,’ said Frank, ‘but my grandfather was on the flumes and he said it was a good life. ’ He paused. ‘We hear there’s good money to be had,’ he added optimistically. The problem for lumberjacks working this high up in the mountains was the distance from the remote camps to the main cart track. It was just not practical to have the huge, heavy logs dragged out of the forest by horse, and the solution was to send the logs down the mountain on a fast-running flume of water to the depot on the downs below. From there the logs could be transported to the towns and cities by mule cart. It was a wonderful idea, and once the first flume got going, the idea spread. The men who became flume-herders lived in little sheds perched precariously on ledges dangerously close to turning points in the flumes, and they needed strength to be able to deal with blockages as several tons of wood came hurtling down the surging water towards them. There was no shortage of young men who would head to the mountains, determined to ride the flumes, if only to say they had done it! Some, of course, never got the chance to say anything to anyone ever again after an early mistake on the logs, but every camp had an Igor, so some parts of them might very well get a second chance. And occasionally you might meet a really old flume-herder who had been doing it for a long time, and might indeed be sporting a young man’s arms on his wiry old body. ‘The flumes don’t like babies,’ Mr Slack said. ‘It’s a man’s job and no mistake. I see you’ve got muscles, both of you, but I don’t care about that. There are lots of boys like you with muscles. What we need is boys with muscles in their heads. You never know what the flumes will do to you on a renegade turn. ’ He frowned at them. ‘Do you know young Jack Abbott? Young lumberjack who lives down the mountain with his good mother and young sister? Near as anything chopped his own foot off just a week or so ago. Only just getting better, and that thanks to some lass with a squint who the witches sent on up to help. Think on that , lads, if you think you can take risks up here. Flume-herding is a lot more dangerous than lumberjacking. ’ The boys looked downcast. ‘And it’s magic wood, some of this up here,’ Slack continued. ‘For the wizards. That’s why they need us, lads – can’t take it on trains, even once it’s down in the depot. You all right with that? Magic can do funny stuff to some of the men up here. ’ He pointed at the snowy trees surrounding them and said, ‘These aren’t your ordinary pines, these are Predictive Pines. They know the future. Although dang me if I know why or how. What good is knowing the future for a pine tree? It can predict when it is going to be cut down – but you still do cut them down. Not like it can get away now, ha! But if you touch one, and it likes you, you’ll see what is about to happen. So, lads, you still interested?’ Martin wasn’t the kind to talk too much, but he said very simply, ‘I just need the money, boss. And the grub, of course. ’ ‘Oh, it’s good money.

And you can buy all sorts and get it sent up here,’ said Mr Slack. He dug into a pocket of his checked jacket and pulled out a well-thumbed book. ‘Biggerwoods catalogue. We all swear by it. You can get anything you want. ’ Frank peered at the catalogue, at its cover. ‘Says ’ere you can get a bride ,’ he said in wonder. ‘Comes by train. ’ ‘Well, there ain’t no train gets up here – no iron near this wood. Nearest railhead’s down at Hot Dang. Near enough. And that there brides is a new offer. Just in time for you lads. It says that you can get a young lady – lots of fancy girls looking for men. Find yourself one, and on what you can make up here she can have a proper indoor privy and no messing and all the clothes she wants. That’s how good the money is. ’ He paused and stuffed the catalogue back into his pocket, then added, ‘Women’s clothes are wonderful, don’t you think? Only the other day I met a man who said he travelled in ladies’ lingerie. . . ’ ‘Are you sure he was all right?’ Martin asked Mr Slack a bit dubiously. He had heard talk of one very remote camp where the tough, strong lumberjacks apparently chose to dress in women’s clothing as they sang songs about their big choppers, but he hadn’t believed it. Until now, anyway. The lumberjack ignored his question. ‘Well, Martin, you are a fine boy, aren’t you?’ he said, then turned to Frank. ‘You, lad, why do you want to take your chances up here?’ ‘Well, Mr Slack, I was going out with this girl, but there was this other lad, you know. . . ’ He hesitated. Mr Slack held a hand in front of his face. ‘Don’t tell me anything more, kid. These hills are full of people who really wanted to be somewhere else, and it sounds like you might fancy taking a look at Biggerwoods then, once you’ve got some money in your pocket. Well, you two seem strong enough. Just sign up and we’ll say no more. You can start in the morning, and then we’ll see. If you ain’t stupid, you’ll come away with good wages. And if you go messing about around the flumes, I’ll give your dear old mothers your wages, so she’ll have enough to bury you with. ’ He spat on his thumb, and man and boys made the thumb bargain so common amongst men of the world. ‘And I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you in the next thirty minutes,’ Mr Slack said with a wide grin. ‘You’ll be over where the logs go into the flumes, watching and learning. And I don’t need no Predictive Pine to tell me that!’ He laughed, and patted the nearest pine. But as his fingers touched the bark, his jaw dropped open and his hood fell back from a face frozen with fear. ‘Lads,’ he stammered – and that in itself was terrifying, that a man so grizzled should have such a thing as a stammer in his voice – ‘get out of here. Now! Get down the mountain. We’ve got a fight coming our way – in about five minutes! – and I need only men who know what to do with an axe up here. ’ And he turned and ran into the camp, shouting to the lumberjacks. Martin and Frank looked at each other, shocked, and then Frank reached out tentatively and poked a finger onto the tree. A sudden flash of images shot into his mind – gloriously colourful creatures in velvet and feathers, their bodies painted with woad, came tumbling down out of the trees. But there was nothing glorious about the pain and death they were bringing with them. Then he saw a fur-lined hood bobbing in the waters of a flume, a hood that framed the head of Mr Slack. A Mr Slack who seemed to have somehow been slack enough to lose his body. . . The two boys stumbled through the lumberjacks, heading for the trees, for the snowy ground that offered a chance of escape. Not quickly enough. For with a sudden whistle, a storm of elves came dancing from the trees – large, nasty elves, the feathers and velvets of their tunics making them seem like predatory birds swooping from the shadowy heights. The two boys shrank back, frozen to the spot. And for a few minutes it was lumberjack versus elf, helped by the camp Igor, who said, ‘Keep touching the pineth, it troubleth them and they won’t know what day it is. And while they are finding out, you can give them a real rollocking. ’ The lumberjacks were not men who would run away from a fight, and the terrible metal of their axes destroyed more than one elf. But more and more elves were pouring into the camp, tipping over the little sheds, kicking at the logs so that they tumbled into the flumes any which way, the elves swinging into the heights of the trees and laughing down at the camp. And there was something enchanting about them. . . something that crept behind the hard exteriors of the lumberjacks and made them fall to their knees, sobbing for their mothers, dropping their axes, easy prey for the victorious fairy folk. . . ‘I told you. Get yourselves away , get to the flumes, boys,’ Mr Slack shouted, chopping with his axe at an elf creeping up behind him. ‘Them flumes are faster than elves. I’ll be OK. ’ Martin took him at his word – though Frank had seen the future and knew that ‘OK’ wasn’t really going to happen for Mr Slack – and leaped into the first bucket, Frank close on his heels, and Mr Slack pushed a lever – and the bucket was off! Down the flume snaking its way down the steep mountainside, round corners so terrible that they had to lean from one side to the other to avoid falling. Soaked to the skin, a jumble of logs in front of them, behind them, alongside them, they tore along deep gorges, dodging arrows from arriving elves who were heading up the mountain like a deadly swarm of insects. It was wild, it was exhilarating, it was almost getting killed – and the almost bit is what made it something they would feel able to talk about later, though clearly getting killed would shut up most people. It was also terrifying – the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to either boy. Even over the roar of the water, they could hear the screams of the lumberjacks from behind them. And there were. . . things coming down with them in the water that no one would want to look at too closely. The journey ended in a pile of logs. And the depot had many men, big strong men with metal in their hands, angry at the damage to the timber, and as they gathered to march up the mountain, there were laughs and shrieks from above – and then silence. The elves had gone. The miller of Stank fn1 was a pious man, and the mill itself was complicated, with wheels turning all the time in various directions; his nightmare, which he hoped never to see, would be a day when the mill broke down and all those complicated wheels spun off everywhere. But while they kept on turning, well, the miller was a happy man, for after all everybody needed bread. Then one night the elves came, and oh, they started to interfere with his flour, making holes in the sacks and dropping an anthill into the grain, laughing at him. But they had made a big mistake. The miller prayed to Om, but as he got no answer – or, rather, he got the answer in his head that he wanted Om to give him – he let the elves have it, and as the complicated wheels roared into action, they were surrounded by metal – wonderful metal, cold metal, all turning like clockwork. And the miller locked all the doors so they couldn’t get out. He could hear the screams all night, and when his friends then asked him how he could have done that, he just said, ‘Well, the mills of Stank grind slow, yet they grind ’em exceeding small. ’ Down in the village of Slippery Hollow, Old Mother Griggs woke up with her hair in a terrible tangle – and a bed full of thistles, tearing into her aged skin. . . while an elf laughed in glee as its mount – a young heifer – collapsed to her knees, exhausted from the night-time revels. . . And an old, crabbed trader in Slice pushed his cart – his only means of survival – into the market square, singing, ‘A cabbage a day keeps the goblins away.

And an onion a day makes the elv— Aargh!’ And at the foot of the Ramtops, a young maiden by the name of Elsie was tickled under the chin by a flower, and suddenly loosed the hand of her little sister, letting the little girl wander into the river, while Elsie gazed lovingly into the eyes of her father’s donkey. . . as an unwary traveller skipped deeper and deeper into the woods, dancing to elven music that would never stop, the elves gambolling along beside him, laughing at his distress. . . And Herne the Hunted – god of the small and furry, those destined to be eaten – crawled under a bush and hid as three elves discovered the gory fun they could have with a family of young rabbits. . . fn1 You might think that a name like Stank would put people off. But in fact the mountain village of Stank had once been a very popular place for tourists. They liked to send messages home saying, ‘We’re stinking in Stank. ’ And go home with presents for their loved ones like tunics with ‘I’ve been to Stank and all I’ve brought home is this stinking tunic’ written on them. Alas for them, with the coming of the railways – or in the case of Stank, the not coming of the railways – tourists began to go elsewhere, and Stank was now gradually disappearing into the mud, surviving mostly by taking in washing. CHAPTER 14 A Tale of Two Queens TIFFANY TOOK NIGHTSHADE – a very small, pathetic creature right now – back to her father’s farm with her, tucking her under her cloak for the journey, and then settling her and the Feegles into one of the old-fashioned hay barns. ‘It’s clean and warm here,’ she said, ‘with no metal. And I will bring you some food. ’ She looked sternly at the Feegles. They had a hungry look to them. There was an elf, all by itself. What could they do with it? ‘Rob, Wee Mad Arthur, Big Yan,’ she said, ‘I’m just going to get a lotion for Nightshade, to help heal her wounds, and I do not want you to touch her while I am gone. Is that clear? ’ ‘Oh aye, mistress,’ said Rob cheerfully. ‘Get yeself offski and leave yon scunner wi’ us. ’ He glared at Nightshade. ‘If yon elf gi’ us any trouble, ye ken, we have oor weapons. ’ He shook his claymore in a fashion that clearly showed that he was itching to take it out to play. Tiffany turned back to Nightshade. ‘I am the hag o’ the hills,’ she said, ‘and these Feegles will do my bidding. But they do not like you and your kind, so I suggest you mend your manners, madam, and play the game. Or there will be a reckoning. ’ And then, indeed, she was offski. But it was a very rapid offski, as she trusted the elf very little and the Feegles even less. When Tiffany got back, Nightshade took the healing ointment, and it seemed as if with each smooth stroke the little elf blossomed, becoming more and more beautiful. There was a sparkle about her and it was like a syrup that covered everything. It shouted, ‘Am I not beautiful? Am I not clever? I am the Queen of Queens!’ Then it seemed to Tiffany that her sense of self was being changed; but she had been waiting for it, and she thought, I’m not having that, my friend. She said, ‘You will not try your elvish wiles on me , madam!’ But still she felt the elf’s magic reaching out for her, like the creep of a sunrise. . . She screamed, ‘You will not put your glamour on me , elf!’ And the words of the shepherd’s count that Granny Aching had used were in her mind. ‘ Yan tan tethera ,’ she chanted, over and over, the singing of the words helping her mind become her own again. It worked. Nightshade began to tone herself down, and now she looked like a farm girl, a dairymaid. She had conjured up a dairymaid’s dress for herself, though one that no real dairymaid would ever wear, given that it was adorned with little ribbons and bows, a dainty little slipper-clad foot peeking out from beneath the hem. As a pretty straw bonnet took shape, Tiffany recoiled – the elf had summoned up an echo of the costume she knew very well, one worn by a china shepherdess she had once given to her granny. And as she remembered Granny Aching she became incredibly angry. How dare this elf try this on her, here, on her very turf! ‘I demand—’ Nightshade tried, and then she saw Tiffany’s expression. ‘I would hope. . . ’ A country girl! The elvish has begun to leave the building, Tiffany thought with delight. But she still folded her arms and glared at the elf. ‘I’ve helped you,’ she said, ‘but I am also busy helping other people – people who would have a better life if you weren’t here. ’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Especially if your people cause mischief, do things like spoiling our beer. Yes, I know about that, and I know you, elf, and I know what you want. You want your kingdom back, don’t you, Nightshade?’ There was a growl from the assembled Feegles, and Big Yan said hopefully, ‘Can we nae throw it back there, mistress?’ ‘Aye,’ said Rob. ‘Be rid o’ yon pest. ’ ‘Well, Rob,’ said Tiffany, ‘I am sorry to tell ye, there are some folks who think Feegles are a pest. ’ Big Yan went silent, then said slowly, ‘Weel, we may be pests, ye ken, but a puir bairn has nae reason tae dread Feegles. ’ He rose to his full height of seven inches – Big Yan was very tall for a Feegle, with the scars on his forehead typical of the taller-than-average, who can find doorways somewhat challenging – and loomed over the elf from the rafters. Tiffany ignored him, turning back to Nightshade. ‘Am I right?’ she demanded. ‘You want to return to Fairyland? What do you say?’ Cunning flickered across Nightshade’s sharp little face. ‘We are like bees,’ she said at last. ‘The Queen has all the power. . . until she gets older, and then a new queen kills her to take the hive. ’ A wave of anger was suddenly visible. ‘Peaseblossom,’ she hissed. ‘He does not believe that the world has changed. It was he who threw me from my people. ’ A contemptuous sneer crossed her lips. ‘He, who is so powerful he can spoil beer. When we could once destroy worlds. . . ’ ‘I could give you some help with your little friend Peaseblossom,’ Tiffany said slowly. ‘I would settle for you as Queen of the Elves again if you could make all the elves go back once more to their own land and stay there. But if you and your race should come here for the purpose of making humans your slaves, well, you may think you have seen me angry, but then you will know the real meaning of the word rage. ’ As she said that everything about her flickered in fire. And she remembered facing the Queen before. Land under wave. Knowing where she had come from, where she was going. And that she could no longer be fooled. Knowing that no matter how many people dreamed, invited the elves to come into the world, she would be there, awake, holding firm. ‘If you break your vow, the last things you will see are Thunder and Lightning,’ she threatened. ‘Thunder and Lightning in your head and you will die of the thunder. That is a promise , elf. ’ From the look of terror that flickered across Nightshade’s face, Tiffany knew that the elf understood. She brought Nightshade some porridge in the morning. The elf looked up at Tiffany as she took the bowl, and said, ‘You could have killed me yesterday. . . I’d have killed me. Why didn’t you? You know I am an elf, and we are merciless. ’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, ‘but we are human, and we do know mercy. I also know I’m a witch, and I’m doing my job. ’ ‘You are clever, Tiffany Aching, the little girl I almost killed on the hill when the thunder and lightning became solid and hurtful, all teeth and bite. ’ Nightshade was puzzled. ‘What am I now but a ragged pauper? Friendless, but you, one girl, you took me in when you had no reason to. ’ ‘I did have a reason,’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m a witch, and I thought it possible. ’ She sat down on a milk churn, and said, ‘You must understand that elves are seen as vindictive, callous, spiteful, untrustworthy, self-centred, undeserving, unwelcome nuisances – and that’s being nice. I’ve heard much worse language used about them, especially from people whose children have been taken away, I can tell you.

But nothing stays the same – our world, our iron , your court, your glamour. Did you know, Nightshade, that in Ankh-Morpork goblins have jobs, and are considered to be useful members of the community?’ ‘What?’ said the Queen. ‘Goblins? But you humans hate goblins – and their stink! I thought the one we captured was lying!’ ‘Well, maybe they do stink a bit, but so do their masters, because for some of them a stink is money,’ said Tiffany, ‘and a goblin who can repair a locomotive can stink as much as he likes. What do you elves have to offer us? You are just. . . folklore now. You’ve missed the train, in fact, and you have only mischief left, and silly tricks. ’ ‘I could kill you with a thought,’ said Nightshade with a sly look. ‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany, holding up a hand to halt the Feegles, each of whom wanted to be the one to get the first fist in. ‘I hope you don’t do so. It would be your last. ’ She looked at the elf, whose sharp little face was quivering with upset as she found herself surrounded by those she did not understand. ‘Oh, please don’t cry. An elf who has been a queen – an elf who wants to be a queen again – surely shouldn’t cry. ’ ‘A queen shouldn’t, but I am a remnant of a queen, lost in the wilderness. ’ ‘No, you are in a hay barn. Do you understand the meaning of manual labour, lady?’ Nightshade looked puzzled. ‘No. What does it mean?’ ‘It means earning a living by working. How are you with a shovel?’ ‘I don’t know. What is a shovel?’ ‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany again. ‘Look, you can stay here until you are better, but you must work hard at something. You could try. ’ A boot bounced off the ground beside her, one of her father’s, a hole at the toe, and another trying out of sympathy to join in at the heel. ‘I cannae abide boots on my feet, ye ken,’ said Wee Mad Arthur, ‘but if ye recall I wuz raised by shoemakers, and they tol’ me a tale o’ the elves. Yon scunner ye ha’ there might ha’ a talent for it, ye ken. ’ Nightshade turned the boot gingerly over in her hands. ‘What is this?’ she said. ‘A boot,’ said Tiffany. ‘An’ ye’ll get one reet noo up yer backside if I ha’ anythin’ tae dae wi’ it,’ Big Yan growled. Tiffany took the boot from the elf and put it down. ‘We’ll talk later, Nightshade,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your suggestion, Wee Mad Arthur, and yes, I do know the story fn1 but I think it is just that, a story. ’ ‘Weel, I tol’ ye, Wee Mad Arthur, you shouldnae have listened to that load o’ old cobblers,’ said Rob. It was a day of old sheets and old boots and ‘make do and mend’. And oh dear, Tiffany thought, she had to check on baby Tiffany, and drop in on Becky Pardon and Nancy Upright – Miss Tick felt that both girls might be of use if she wanted to take on a trainee in the Chalk. But she couldn’t ask the girls to move in while she had Nightshade at the farm, not unless she gave them each a horseshoe necklace so they would be protected by the iron. It would have to wait. . . She was back and forth to the farm all day, in between visits. Her last call of the afternoon was to Mr Holland the miller. There were only a few purple blotches on his skin now, and she left Mistress Holland with a second pot of the Merryday Root lotion, biting her tongue at the good lady’s clear message of ‘If only you had been here, I wouldn’t have used the wrong herb. ’ When she got back, she found Nightshade perched in the corner of the barn, her merciless eyes pinned on You, who had stalked in and was arching her back and hissing at the elf. The Feegles were egging You on, with cries of ‘Ach, see you, pussycat, gi’ the scunner a wee giftie for the Nac Mac Feegle’, interrupted by a sudden, ‘Crivens, lads, the big wee hag is back!’ Tiffany stood in the doorway tapping her foot, and Rob shrank back. ‘Ach no,’ he wailed. ‘Nae the Tappin’ of the Feets, mistress. ’ Tiffany folded her arms. ‘Ach, mistress, ’tis a heavy thing to be under a geas,’ Rob moaned. And Tiffany laughed. But Nightshade had questions for her. She had seen people coming to the farm during the day, coming for medicines, for advice, for an ear to listen and, sadly, sometimes for an eye to see the bruises. ‘Why do you help these strangers?’ she asked Tiffany now. ‘They are not of your clan. You owe them nothing. ’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘although they are strangers, I simply think of them as people. All of them. And you help other people – that’s how we do it. ’ ‘Does every person do it?’ said Nightshade. ‘No,’ said Tiffany. ‘Sadly, that is true. But many people will help other people, just because, well, because they are other people. That’s how it goes. Do you elves not understand this?’ ‘Shall we say that I am trying to learn?’ said Nightshade. ‘And what do you find?’ said Tiffany, smiling. ‘You become a kind of servant. ’ Nightshade sniffed, her delicate nose wrinkling. ‘Well, yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘But it doesn’t matter, because one day I might need that person, and then they will very probably help me. It works for us; it always has. ’ ‘But you have battles,’ said Nightshade. ‘I know that. ’ ‘Yes, but not always. And we are getting better at the not. ’ ‘You are powerful, though. You could rule the world,’ said Nightshade. ‘Really?’ said Tiffany. ‘Why should I want to do that? I am a witch, I like being a witch, and I like people too. For every nasty person, there’s a nice one, mostly. There is a saying, “What goes around comes around,” and it means that sooner or later you will find yourself on top, at least for a while. And another time, the wheel turns and you will not be on top but you have to put up with it. ’ She tried to look into Nightshade’s eyes, see what the elf was thinking, but she might as well have looked at a wall. The elf’s eyes were emotionless. ‘And I remember the darkness and the rain and the thunder and lightning,’ she added, ‘and what good has it done you? You, elf, found in a ditch?’ For once Nightshade seemed at a loss and looked carefully at Tiffany before saying, ‘Your way. . . would not work for elves. Every other elf is a challenge. We kill our queens – every other queen is a rival, and we fight over the hive. ’ She paused as a new thought struck her. ‘Yet you have your queens of wisdom – and thus there was Granny Aching, and Granny Weatherwax, and yes indeed, Tiffany Aching. You grow older, wisdom flourishes and is passed on. ’ ‘And you never prosper, you live in a cycle of decay,’ Tiffany said softly. ‘And you are not bees. They are productive but they die young and never, ever have a thought. . . ’ There was a strange look on the elf’s face. She was having to think. Really think. Tiffany could see it. Nightshade had the face of someone who had already begun to think about a world that had changed, a world with iron that was less welcoming for the fairy folk, a world that liked them well enough in stories but had no real belief in them, gave them no way in; now she was looking closer and she was finding a new world she had never thought about before, and she was trying to reconcile it with everything else she knew. And Tiffany could see the battle in her face. Over in Lancre, Queen Magrat had heard about the trouble up in the Ramtops – the attack on the lumberjacks, the deaths and the lost timber. Elves, she thought. They’d seen them off last time, but it hadn’t been easy, and it had been a long time since she’d posted guards – well, Shawn Ogg, anyway – up by the circle of stones known as the Dancers, or made sure the castle had plenty of horseshoes to hand. She knew how the memory plays tricks, and the old stories had power, and everyone forgot how ‘terrific’ really meant ‘brings terror’. Her people would only remember that the elves sang beautifully. They would have forgotten what their song was about. Magrat was not only a queen, but also a witch, of course.

And although she was mostly a queen these days, the witch part of her knew that the balance was off, that Granny Weatherwax had left a void behind her, and no matter how hard Tiffany Aching was working to fill it – and that nice backhouse boy she now had – Granny Weatherwax was a hard act to follow; she had held the barrier, held it firm. And if the barrier was no longer strong. . . Magrat shivered. Anyone who had ever met elvenkind knew that ‘terror’ was absolutely the right response – the only response. For the elves were a plague that could spread rapidly, destroying and harming and hurting and poisoning all they touched. She wanted no elves in Lancre. That evening, Queen Magrat went to her garderobe and took out her beloved broomstick, sat on it and very carefully tried a lift and, slightly against her expectations, it took off gently, rising slowly over the castle. She flew around happily for some minutes and told herself, It’s true – once a witch, always a witch. Being a dutiful wife, when she wanted to be, she mentioned her intentions to her husband late that evening, and to her surprise King Verence said, ‘Back on the old broomstick, my love? Very glad to hear it. I’ve seen your face when a witch flies by, and no man can keep a bird in chains. ’ Magrat smiled and said, ‘I don’t feel like a bird in a cage, my dear, but now we don’t have Granny, I feel I must help. ’ ‘Well done,’ said Verence. ‘We are all coming to terms with what’s happened, but I am sure Mistress Aching will follow in Granny’s footsteps. ’ ‘It isn’t like that,’ said Queen Magrat. ‘I think she is walking in her own footsteps. ’ She sighed. ‘But there are elves afoot,’ she said. ‘And I believe Tiffany will be at Granny’s cottage – no, her cottage – later today, so I must go and see her, offer my support. ’ Her husband shivered at the mention of elves. ‘Of course,’ Magrat continued firmly, ‘I also intend to be a good role model for our children. Young Esme is growing up fast and I want her to see that there’s more to being a queen than waving hellos – we don’t want her to start kissing frogs, now, do we? We all know how that can turn out!’ fn2 She turned at the door, and tossed her husband a baby sling. ‘I am quite sure,’ she said sweetly, ‘that you can look after our children very well indeed on your own for a little while. ’ Verence smiled weakly. Magrat made a face that only a witch would see. He holds them upside down sometimes, she thought to herself. He is a very clever man, but give him a baby and he doesn’t really know what to do. She smiled. He could learn. And when she asked him to change a nappy, when Millie was off helping in the kitchen, he pulled a face but he did try anyway. ‘I want to help,’ Magrat said firmly to Tiffany, landing her broomstick outside what they both still thought of as Granny’s cottage, less than an hour after Tiffany had arrived herself, the news quickly flashing up to the castle since Magrat had made it known she wanted to be informed. ‘I am the Queen, but I am also a pretty good witch. ’ Tiffany looked into Magrat’s eyes and saw her longing to be a witch once more, just for a little while, and then Magrat said, ‘We have had elves here, Tiffany. Elves! ’ And Tiffany remembered Granny Weatherwax telling her how Magrat had fought the elves before – shot one right through the eye with a crossbow indeed! ‘I have experience , Tiffany,’ Magrat continued. ‘And you are going to need everyone you can get if the elves start coming through. ’ She paused to think. ‘Even novices. Have you spoken to Miss Tick?’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘She says she has found one or two likely girls, but not everyone can be a witch, even if they want to be. And at the moment it’s not. . . possible to take a girl on in my steading on the Chalk. ’ ‘Why not? And what about your friend Petulia, her with the piggery?’ ‘Well, she has the skills,’ said Tiffany, ignoring the first of Magrat’s questions. ‘But Petulia helps her husband to run the farm – says she spends all her time among creatures who go “grunt”, and that sometimes includes the old pig farmers! And you have to admit that pig-boring is good for everybody, even the pigs. It’s terrible to hear the squealing if she’s not there. ’ ‘Well, we may still need her up here, pigs or not. And heavy waterproof boots can take an arrow,’ said Magrat. ‘So, any sign of elves down on the Chalk?’ Tiffany coloured, uncertain how Magrat would take her news about Nightshade, but thinking a little guiltily that at least it would save her having to tell Nanny Ogg herself. She told her about the beer first, then about Nightshade. How the elf was staying at her parents’ farm, watched over by Feegles. Making it impossible to take on any other help. Magrat knew the Feegles would keep the elf from causing any trouble, but she was surprised by what Tiffany told her. ‘Are you telling me you think you can trust an elf?’ she said. Her face had paled. ‘No elf is trustworthy,’ she added. ‘They wouldn’t even know the meaning of the word. Yet you trust this elf? Why?’ ‘No,’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t trust her. But I think this elf wants to live. Nightshade has already seen for herself that our world is changing. The iron, you know. And now she has encountered ideas unknown to her. We might just be making some progress, and I think it’s worth a try. Perhaps she might then go back to Fairyland and. . . persuade other elves to think like her? To leave us alone. ’ She paused. ‘The kelda of the Feegles warned me, Magrat. She said that Granny’s going would leave a. . . hole. That we needed to take great care. It’s the elves! It has to be. So if this elf can help, well, I must try. . . ’ ‘Hmm, but if those others do start coming, you’re going to need help, Tiffany,’ said Magrat. She thought for a moment. ‘I understand the Baron on the Chalk has a wife who is a witch. . . ?’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘Letitia Keepsake. But she’s not trained and her husband is a bit – how should I say it? – snobby. ’ Magrat said, ‘Well, my dear, if you want, I’ll fly down there and drop in for tea one day. And hint, in a subtle way, that the idea of being a witch for the people at large might be a good idea. My Verence, you know, likes to be thought of as a king of the people, and in fact, I feel sure he thinks I am being a good example to the population by working as a witch now. He talks like that, sometimes, but I love him nevertheless. The idea of this Letitia being friends with a queen might stop her husband interfering. ’ Tiffany said, ‘I am amazed. Just like that?’ ‘Trust me,’ said Queen Magrat. ‘Crowns are important, you know. ’ Tiffany flew back to the Chalk feeling a bit happier. Magrat would be a useful ally, and perhaps Letitia would be able to help too. But we are still short of witches, so we must take pains to get more, she thought. Furious pains. That means pulling in every witch and likely witch to learn at least some of the craft and how to deal with the glamour of elves. Elves! Nastiness for the sake of being nasty. As Granny Aching had told her, they would take away the stick of a man with no legs. Nasty, unpleasant, stupid, annoying – trouble and discord just for the pleasure of it. Worse. They brought actual horror, and terror, and pain. . . And they laughed, which was bad enough because their laughter was actually musical and you could wonder why such wonderful music could come from such unpleasant creatures. They cared for nobody except themselves and possibly not even that. But Nightshade. . . Perhaps there was one elf for whom the wheel was turning. Especially the iron wheels. . . fn1 It had been in The Goode Childe’s Booke of Faerie Tales and told how two little elves secretly helped a poor shoemaker, but sadly experience had taught Tiffany that a lot of what was in that book bore no relation whatsoever to the real Fairyland. fn2 Most princesses never tried to kiss toads, however, which had been a source of sadness to the Feegles’ toad lawyer for many years.

CHAPTER 15 The God in the Barrow IN THE DARK of the night, down in the Chalk, the wheel was definitely stuck in the old ways – just the way three elves dancing through the gloom of the woods liked it. This world was here for their pleasure, to entertain them, delight them. And the creatures within it were no more than toys; toys that sometimes squealed and ran and shrieked as the elves laughed and sang. Now they spotted a small home, a poor-looking dwelling with a window slightly ajar. From within came the sound of babies, gurgling happily in their sleep, their bellies full of their mother’s milk, their limbs curled beneath the covers of their cots. The elves grinned at each other and licked their lips in anticipation. Babies! Faces now at the window. Predatory faces, with the eyes of hunters. Then a hand reached in and tickled the nearest infant under the chin, the little girl waking and gazing in delight at the glorious creature leaning over her, his glamour shining radiantly in the dark room. Her little fingers stretched to touch a beautiful feather. . . Tiffany’s happiness lasted until just after she had gone to bed, when there was a sudden tickling in her head, and in her inner eye she saw young Tiffany Robinson – the baby she had not had time to see yet this week, the little girl on whom she had placed a tracking spell. But this was not just neglect by baby Tiffany’s mum and dad. The elves had taken her! Tiffany’s broomstick could not go fast enough. In a piece of woodland she found a group of three elves toying with the little girl, and what was inside her was not anger. It was something more forensic than that, and as the stick went onwards, Tiffany let her feelings flame up. . . and release. The elves were laughing, but as Tiffany swooped down, she sent fire blazing from her fingertips and into them and watched them burn. She was shuddering with her fury, a fury so intense it was threatening to overcome her. If she met any more elves that night, they too would be dead. And she had to stop herself there, suddenly appalled at what she had done. Only a witch gone to the dark would kill , she screamed at herself inside her head. And another voice said, But they were just elves. And they were hurting the baby. The first voice came sneakily back with, But Nightshade is also just an elf. . . And Tiffany knew that if a witch started thinking of anyone as ‘ just ’ anything, that would be the first step on a well-worn path that could lead to, oh, to poisoned apples, spinning wheels and a too-small stove. . . and to pain, and terror, and horror and the darkness. But it was done. And a witch had to be practical, so Tiffany wrapped her shawl around the baby and slowly flew to the Robinsons’ house – ‘shack’ being, in fact, a better word for the little dwelling. Young Mister Robinson opened the door to her knocking. He looked surprised, especially when Tiffany showed him his baby daughter, swaddled in her witch’s shawl. She walked past him and confronted his wife, thinking, They are young, yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to be stupid. Leaving the windows open at this time of year? Surely everybody knows about elves. . . My mother said I never should. . . Play with the fairies in the wood. . . ‘Well,’ said Milly, ‘I checked the boys. They seemed to be all right. ’ She blushed as Tiffany handed her the baby, and Tiffany caught it. ‘Let me tell you something, Milly. Your girl has a great future before her. I’m a witch, so I know it. Because you’ve let me name her, I will see to it that my namesake has what she needs – and mind, it is your girl I am talking about. In some way, she’s partly mine. Those great big boys of yours will look after themselves. Now don’t leave your windows open on nights like this! There are always watchers. You know it! Let no harm attend her. ’ Tiffany almost shouted the last bit. This family needed a little prod every so often, and she would see to it. Oh yes, she would. And if they neglected their duty, well, there would be a reckoning. Maybe just a little reckoning, to make them understand. But right now, as she headed home, she knew she needed to talk to another witch. She grabbed a warm cloak from her bedroom, then saw the gleam of the shepherd’s crown on the shelf and, on a sudden impulse, tucked it into her pocket. Her fingers curled around the odd-shaped little stone, tracing its five ridges, and somehow she felt a strength flow into her, the hardness of the flint at its heart reminding her who she was. I need to keep a piece of the Chalk with me, she realized. My land gives me strength, supports me. It reminds me who I am. I am not a killer. I am Tiffany Aching, witch of the Chalk. And I need my land with me. She sped through the night sky, back to Lancre, the cool of the air rushing past, the eyes of the owls watching her in the moonlight. It was almost dawn when she arrived at Nanny Ogg’s home. Nanny was already up, or rather she hadn’t yet got down, since she had spent the night at a deathbed. She opened her door and blanched a little when she saw Tiffany’s face. ‘Elves?’ she asked grimly. ‘Magrat told me, you know. You got trouble over in the Chalk?’ Tiffany nodded, any calm deserting her as tears suddenly choked her voice. And over the requisite cup of tea in Nanny’s warm kitchen, she told her what had happened. Then she came to the bit of the story which she struggled to get out. All she could say was, ‘The elves. With little Tiffany. They were going to. . . ’ She choked a little, then, ‘I killed all three of them,’ she wailed. She looked despairingly at Nanny. ‘Good,’ said Nanny. ‘Well done. Don’t trouble yourself, Tiff. If they was hurtin’ that baby, well, what else could you do? You didn’t. . . enjoy it?’ she asked carefully, eyes shrewd in her wrinkled face. ‘Of course not!’ Tiffany cried. ‘But, Nanny, I just. . . I did it almost without thinking. ’ ‘Well, you might have to do it again soon if the elves keeps on comin’,’ Nanny said briskly. ‘We’re witches, Tiffany. We has the power for a reason. We just ’as to make sure as it’s the right reason, and if there’s an elf comin’ through and hurtin’ a baby, take it from me, that is the right reason. ’ She paused. ‘If’n people do wrong things, well, why would they be surprised if bad things then happen to them. Most of ’em knows this, you know. I remember Esme tellin’ me once, she was in some hamlet or other – Spickle, Spackle, somewhere like that – and people was tryin’ to string up this man for killin’ two children and she said as he knew he deserved it; ’pparently ’e said, “I did it in liquor and it ended in ’emp”. ’ She sat wearily down, allowing Greebo to clamber onto her ample lap. ‘Reality, Tiff,’ she added. ‘Life an ’ death. You knows it. ’ She scratched the tomcat behind what might be described as an ear by someone with very poor eyesight. ‘Is the child all right?’ ‘Yes, I took her back to her parents but they. . . can’t. . . won’t. . . look after her properly. ’ ‘Some folk just don’t want to see the truth, even when you points it out to ’em. That’s the trouble with elves, they will keep comin’ back. ’ Nanny sighed heavily. ‘People tell stories about ’em, Tiff,’ she said. ‘They make ’em sound fun – it’s as if their glamour hangs around after they’ve gone and stays in people’s heads, tellin’ ’em that elves is no problem. Just a bit of mischief. ’ Nanny sank further into her chair, knocking a small family knick-knack off the table beside her. ‘Feegles,’ she said. ‘They’re mischief. But elves? Elves is different. You remember how the Cunning Man crept into people’s heads, Tiff? How he made people do things – awful things?’ Tiffany nodded, her mind replaying horrible images while her eyes still focused on the knick-knack on the floor. A present from Quirm from one of her daughters-in-law, and Nanny hadn’t even noticed she had knocked it over. Nanny. Who treasured every small object her family gave her. Who would never ever fail to notice if something was damaged. ‘Well, that’s nothin ’ to what them elves might do, Tiff,’ Nanny continued.

‘There is nothin’ they likes more than watchin’ pain and terror, nothin’ that makes ’em laugh more. And they loves stealin’ babbies. You did well to stop them this time. They will come again, though. ’ ‘Well, then they will have to die again,’ said Tiffany flatly. ‘If you are there. . . ’ Nanny said carefully. Tiffany slumped. ‘But what else can we do? We can’t be everywhere. ’ ‘Well,’ said Nanny, ‘we’ve seen ’em off before. It was hard, for sure, but we can do it again. Can’t that elf of yorn help?’ ‘Nightshade?’ Tiffany said. ‘They won’t listen to her the way things are right now! They threw her out. ’ Nanny pondered a bit, then appeared to come to a decision. ‘There is someone they might listen to. . . or at least they used to listen to ’im. If he can be persuaded to take an interest. ’ She looked at Tiffany appraisingly. ‘He don’t like to be disturbed. Though I have visited him before, once, with a friend’ – her eyes grew misty at the memory fn1 – ‘and I think Granny and he may have had words in the past. He likes ladies, though. A pretty young thing like you might be just his cup of tea. ’ Tiffany bristled. ‘Nanny, you can’t be suggesting—’ ‘Lordy, no! Nothin’ like that. Just a bit of. . . persuadin’. You are good at persuadin’ folks, ain’t you, Tiff?’ ‘I can do persuading,’ Tiffany said, relaxing a bit. ‘Who do you mean and where do I go?’ The Long Man. Tiffany had heard a lot about the Long Man, the barrow that led to the home of the King of the Elves – mostly from Nanny Ogg, who had gone into the barrow and met the King once before, when the elves had been getting unruly. The professors would have said that the King lived in a long barrow from ancient times, when people didn’t wear clothing and there weren’t so many gods, and in a way the King himself was a kind of god – a god of life and death and, it seemed to Tiffany, of dirt and ragged clothing. And men still sometimes came to dance around by the barrow, horns on their heads and – usually – a strong drink in their hands. Unsurprisingly, they found it hard to persuade young women to go up there with them. There were three mounds to the barrow, three very suggestive mounds that no country lass who had watched sheep and cows in action could fail to recognize – there was always a lot of giggling from the girls training to be witches when they first flew over it and saw it from the air. Tiffany headed up the overgrown path, pushing her way through thorns and trees, untangling her witch’s hat from a particularly insistent bush at one point, and stopped by the cave-like entrance. She was strangely reluctant to duck under the lintel, past the scratched drawing of the man with horns and down the steps she knew she would find once she had pushed aside the stone at the entrance. I cannot face him just by myself, she thought with terror. I need someone who can at least tell people how I died. And a wee voice said, ‘Crivens!’ ‘Rob Anybody?’ ‘Oh aye. We follow ye all the time, ye ken. Ye are the hag o’ the hills and the Long Man is a big hill. ’ But, ‘Wait by the gate please, Rob, I must do this by myself,’ she said, suddenly filled with sureness that this was the right choice. She had killed the three elves; now she would face their king. ‘This is hag business, ye ken. ’ ‘But we knows the King,’ said Rob. ‘If’n we gae along wi’ ye, we can fight yon scunner in his ain world. ’ ‘Oh aye,’ added Wee Dangerous Spike. ‘A big laddie, ye ken, but I’ll gi’ the bogle a face full of Feegle he’ll nae forget. ’ He experimentally nutted one of the entrance stones, bouncing his head off the rock with a satisfying clunk. Tiffany sighed. ‘That’s what I’m afeared – I mean, afraid of,’ she said. ‘I want to ask the King for his help. Not anger him. And I know the Feegles have history with him. . . ’ ‘Aye, that’s us,’ said Rob proudly. ‘We is history. ’ ‘Nae king, nae quin, nae laird!’ roared the assembled Feegles. ‘Nae Feegles ,’ said Tiffany firmly. A sudden burst of inspiration hit her. ‘I need you just here , Rob Anybody,’ she told him. ‘I have to do my hag business with the King without anyone disturbing me. ’ She paused. ‘And there are elves afoot. So if any should come seekin’ their king, I want you – Rob Anybody, Wee Dangerous Spike, all of ye – to stop them coming down after me. I need you to do this for me. It’s important. Is that understood ?’ There was a bit of grumbling, but Rob had brightened up. ‘So we can gi’ them scunners a guid kickin’ if they shows up here?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ Tiffany said wearily. This was met by a cheer. ‘Nac Mac Feegle, wha hae!’ She left them there, squabbling over who should guard which part of the Long Man, Wee Dangerous Spike bashing his head enthusiastically against the entrance stones again as a sort of warmup for what he hoped was coming, and she walked into the stinky darkness, clutching the small crowbar she had brought with her, along with a horseshoe. She put one hand into her pocket and held tight on to the shepherd’s crown – her ground, her turf. Let’s see if I am truly the hag of the hills, she thought, and she gripped the big stone blocking the entrance. It rose up gently, no crowbar necessary, the stone crackling as she raised it higher and higher, revealing the steps beyond. The path inside led her deeper and darker, spiralling round and round, taking her into the heart of the barrow. Into a pathway between the worlds. Into the world of the elven King, where he floated between time and space in his land of pleasure. It was stifling, though there was no fire – the heat seemed to be coming out of the earth. And it stank. It reeked of masculinity and unwashed clothing, of feet and sweat. There were bottles everywhere, and at the end of the hall, naked men were wrestling, grunting and groaning as they twined and twisted with their opponents, their bodies greased as if from a bucket of lard. There were no women to be seen – this was a land where men indulged themselves with no thought for the other sex. But when they saw Tiffany, they stopped and put their hands over their essentials – as Nanny Ogg would have said – and Tiffany thought: Ha, you big strong men, your meat and two veg hanging out, you are frightened, aren’t you? I am the maiden – and I am also the hag. She could see the King of the Elven Races. He was just as Nanny Ogg had described, still stinking of course, but somehow hugely attractive. She kept her eyes on the horns on his head, trying not to look at his meat and veg, which were huge. The King sighed, stretching out his legs and tapping his hooves against the wall, an animal scent like that of a badger in heat rising from him and curling towards her. ‘You, young woman,’ he said lazily, his voice an invitation to romance, to wickedness, to pleasures you had not known you wanted until that moment. ‘You come into my world. Into my entertainments. You are a witch, are you not?’ ‘Indeed I am,’ said Tiffany, ‘and I am here to ask the King of the Elves to be a proper king. ’ He moved closer and Tiffany tried not to blanch as the stench of him thickened. He smiled lasciviously, causing her to think, I know who you are and what you are, and I think Nanny Ogg must have liked you. . . ‘Who are you?’ he queried. ‘By your garb, you seem indeed to be a witch, but witches are old and somewhat wrinkled. You, girl. . . ’ Sometimes, Tiffany thought, I am so fed up with being young. fn2 My youth has got his attention, but what I need is his respect. ‘I may be young, my lord,’ she said firmly, ‘but as you see, I am a ha— a witch. And I come to tell you that I have killed three of your people. ’ That should do it, she thought, but the King merely laughed. ‘You interest me, my girl,’ he said, stretching languorously. ‘I do no harm,’ he added lazily. ‘I simply dream, but my people, oh dear, what can I do? I must allow them their delights, as I do myself. ’ ‘But their delights are not to our taste,’ said Tiffany. ‘Not in my world. ’ ‘ My world?’ chuckled the King. ‘Oh, you have pride, little girl. Perhaps you would like to be one of my ladies. A queen needs pride. . .

’ ‘The Lady Nightshade is your queen,’ said Tiffany firmly, her legs shaking at the invitation in the King’s words. To stay here? With him? her mind shrieked. She gripped the shepherd’s crown more firmly. I am Tiffany Aching, of the Chalk , she said to herself, and I have flint in my soul. ‘Nightshade is my. . . guest,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you did not know, my lord, that your queen has been thrown from Fairyland by the Lord Peaseblossom?’ A lazy smile spread across the King’s face. ‘Nightshade. . . ’ he mused. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy her company. ’ He spread his legs, making Tiffany gulp, and leaned forward. ‘You begin to tire me now, girl. What do you want from me?’ ‘Get your elves to see sense,’ said Tiffany. ‘Or there will be a reckoning. ’ Her voice almost wobbled on the last bit of this, but it had to be said, oh yes. There was a huge sigh, and the King yawned as he lay back again. ‘You come to my abode and you threaten me?’ his voice caressed. ‘Tell me, mistress, what care should I have for those elves who play in your lands? Even the Lady Nightshade? There are other worlds. There are always other worlds. ’ ‘Well, mine never was a place for elves,’ Tiffany said. ‘It was never yours. You just latched on to it – a parasite – and took what you could. But once again I have to tell you these are the days of iron – not just horseshoes, but iron and steel forged together in great lines across the land. It’s called a railway , my lord, and it is spreading across the Disc. People are interested in mechanical things, because mechanical things work , while old wives’ tales mostly just don’t kill them. And so people laugh at the fairies, and as they laugh, so you will dwindle. You see, nobody cares about you any more. They have the clacks, the railways, and it’s a new world. You – and your kind – have no future here now other than in stories. ’ She said the last word contemptuously. ‘Stories?’ the King mused. ‘A way into the minds of your peoples, mistress. And I can wait. . . the stories will survive when this “railway” you speak of is long gone. ’ ‘But we will not stand by to see small children taken as playthings for elves any more,’ Tiffany said. ‘I and others will burn those who take them. This is a warning – I would like it to be friendly but, alas, it seems this is not possible. You are living in railway time and you should leave us be. ’ The King sighed again. ‘Perhaps. . . perhaps,’ he said. ‘New lands to discover could be entertaining. But I have told you, I have no desire to visit your land in this time of iron. After all, I have all the time I wish for. . . ’ ‘What about the elves who have already come through?’ ‘Oh, just kill them if you wish. ’ The King smiled again. ‘I may remain here until the end of time, and I don’t think that you would want to be there. But I have always liked the ladies, and so I will say that if elves are stupid, they deserve my censure and your wrath. My dear Mistress Aching – and yes, I do know who you are – you clasp good intentions to you like a mother clutches her young. Now, should I even let you leave? When I am looking for. . . entertainment. ’ He sighed. ‘I do so desire new amusements sometimes – perhaps to tinker with something, to discover new interests. And one new interest could be you. Do you think that I will let you leave my home?’ His heavy-lidded eyes caressed her. Tiffany swallowed. ‘Yes, your majesty. You will let me leave. ’ ‘You are so sure?’ ‘Yes. ’ Tiffany wrapped her hand around the shepherd’s crown once again, and felt the flint at its centre give her strength, draw her back to her own land, to her land above the wave. She stepped backwards slowly. And nearly tripped over something on the floor behind her. The King was staring too. It was a white cat and she heard the King’s voice, surprised for the first time: ‘You!’ And then there was an end to it, and Tiffany and You spiralled back the way they had come, and the Feegles were outside, patrolling up and down and enjoying the happy opportunity of fighting a tree or two, since no elves had turned up, but these trees were still right scunners, stickin’ their barbs as they did into Feegle heads and beards. They deserved a guid kickin’. ‘Well, I’m not sure that did any good,’ Tiffany said to Rob as she emerged from the tunnel. ‘Weel,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘let them come. Ye will always have your Feegles. We Feegles are everlasting. ’ ‘Everlasting if there is enough to drink!’ Wee Dangerous Spike added. ‘Rob,’ said Tiffany firmly. ‘Right now, not one of you needs a drink. We need a plan. ’ She thought for a moment. ‘The King will not help – yet. But he is looking for new entertainments. Perhaps if we offer him something of that ilk, then he will think more kindly upon us and at least leave us alone?’ Leave us to kill his elves, she thought to herself. He did say he wouldn’t mind. Would he change his mind? ‘Ach, nae problem,’ said Rob proudly, confident of his ability to find a PLN. ‘That King of the Elves, he needs some-thin’ tae do, ye say. ’ ‘Like the men of Lancre!’ Tiffany said suddenly. ‘Rob, you know how Geoffrey has them all building sheds. . . Well, you built a pub once. How difficult would a shed be?’ ‘Nae trouble at all, right, lads?’ said Rob, happy now. For he had his PLN. ‘Let’s offski. ’ He looked down at You. ‘How come your pussycat follows you around, mistress?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Tiffany. ‘She’s a cat. They can go anywhere. And after all, she was Granny Weatherwax’s cat and that means quite a lot. ’ But Rob wasn’t listening. Not now. He was thinking of his PLN. And the following day, at the mouth of the Long Man there was a shed replete with everything a gentleman could require, including fishing line and every tool you can think of, all made of wood or stone. Tiffany thought that might make the King of the Elves happy. But she did not feel it would get his help. . . Lord Peaseblossom lounged on a velvet-covered couch in Fairyland, idly fingering the ruff of feathers around his neck, swigging from a goblet of rich wine. Lord Lankin had just entered the chamber. He bowed before his new king, a glorious red broom of a tail slung casually round his neck, a memento of a recent raid. ‘I believe, my lord,’ he said lazily, silkily, ‘that our warriors will soon wish for. . . greater enjoyments in the human world. The barriers seem weak, and those of us who slip through to hunt are finding no real opposition. ’ Peaseblossom smiled. He knew that his elves had been testing the gates, some skipping through the red stones of Lancre whilst others had gambolled near the villages of the Chalk, wary only of the little red-haired men who liked nothing more than a fight with an elf. The elves were like the Feegles in one respect – if there was nobody to fight, they would fight amongst themselves. And squabbling was de rigueur in Fairyland – not even cats were as bad. fn3 And elves could take umbrage. They loved umbrage, and as for sulking, that was a top entertainment. But everywhere they had been, they had stirred up little pockets of trouble, being nuisances, causing damage for damage’s sake. Stealing sheep, cows, even the occasional dog. Only yesterday Mustardseed had gleefully snatched a ram from its flock on the hills and then loosed it in a small china shop, laughing as it had lowered its horns and – yes – rammed the shelves. But there was no rhyme nor reason to it. They needed to show what they could really do. Perhaps, Peaseblossom mused, the time was afoot to lead his elves on a raid that all elves would sing about for a long time to come. A smile flickered across his thin, sharp face, and he waved a hand in the air, changing his tunic instantly to one of leather and fur, a crossbow tucked into his belt. ‘We will put a girdle of glamour around their world,’ he laughed. ‘Go, my elves, go make your mischief. But when this still-bent moon swells to her full glory, we will go together in force. That land will be ours once more!’ In her father’s barn, Tiffany was watching Nightshade wake up.

She had mixed up a new tonic for her yesterday: a good strong dose of reciprocal greens fn4 which had made the elf sleep deeply for a whole day, giving her body a chance to regain its strength. And, incidentally, giving Tiffany a chance to go round the houses without worrying about what the Feegles might do in her absence. I might even have time to fly to Lancre and check on Geoffrey if I do it once more, she thought. She knew the Feegles would never hurt a sleeping elf, but one awake? Well, their instincts might just take over if Nightshade should put a single dainty finger wrong. And, of course, she didn’t trust the elf either. . . ‘Time for a walk,’ she said as Nightshade stretched her limbs and looked around her as she woke. ‘I think it is time you saw a few more humans. ’ For how else could she teach Nightshade about how this world worked if Nightshade mostly only saw the inside of the barn and a few ready-to-boil-over Feegles? So she took Nightshade down into the village, past the pub where the men were sitting looking glumly at their beer, fishing the occasional barrel gushie out of it, past the small shops, picking her way carefully over the debris outside Mrs Tumble’s Plates for All Seasons, down the road and back up into the downs. Tiffany had asked her dad to let people know she was trying out a girl to help mix her medicines, so nobody really looked directly at her, but Tiffany had no doubt that they would all have taken in every single detail as she passed. It was why she had insisted on Nightshade’s dairymaid’s dress being toned down, so there were now no bows, no ribbons, no buckles, and a decent pair of boots rather than dainty slippers. ‘I have been watching humans,’ said Nightshade as they were clumping back up the road. ‘And I can’t understand them. I saw a woman giving an old tramp a couple of pennies. He was nothing to do with her, so why would she do that? How does it help her? I don’t understand. ’ ‘It’s what we do,’ said Tiffany. ‘The wizards call it empathy. That means putting yourself in the place of the other person and seeing the world from their point of view. I suppose it’s because in the very olden days, when humans had to fight for themselves every day, they needed to find people who would fight with them too, and together we lived – yes, and prospered. Humans need other humans – it’s as simple as that. ’ ‘Yes, but what good would the old lady get from giving away her money?’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘she will probably feel what we call a little glow , because she has helped someone who needed help. It will mean that she is glad that she is not in his circumstances. You could say that she can see what his world is like, and – what can I say? – she comes away feeling hopeful. ’ ‘But the tramp looked as if he could do a job of some sort, to earn his own pennies, but nevertheless she gave him hers. ’ Nightshade was still struggling to understand the human concept of money – the elves, of course, could simply make it appear whenever they willed. fn5 ‘Well, yes,’ said Tiffany, ‘that sort of thing does happen, but not always, and the old lady will still feel she has done the right thing. He may be a bit of a scamp but she tells herself that she is a good person. ’ ‘I saw a king in your land before – Verence – and I watched him and he didn’t tell people what they should do,’ Nightshade continued. ‘Well, he has a wife to tell him what to do,’ laughed Tiffany. ‘That’s what humans are. Right up to our kings and queens, our barons and lords. Our rulers rule by consent, which means that we like having them as rulers, if they do what we want them to do. There were a lot of battles long ago, but there again everyone finally realized that it was better to work peacefully with everyone else. For one person alone cannot survive. We humans definitely need other people to keep us human. ’ ‘I notice that you don’t use magic very much either,’ Nightshade added. ‘Yet you are a witch. You are powerful. ’ ‘Well, what we witches have found is that power is best left at home. Magic is tricky anyway, and it can turn and twist and get things wrong. But if you surround yourself with other humans you will have what we call friends – people who like you, and people you like. ’ ‘Friends. ’ Nightshade rolled the word, and the idea, around in her head and then asked, ‘Am I your friend?’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘You could be. ’ She looked at the people passing by and said to Nightshade, ‘Look, try this. There’s an old woman trying to carry a very heavy basket up the hill. Go and help her, will you, and see what happens. ’ The elf looked horrified. ‘What do I say to her?’ ‘You say, “Can I help you, mistress?”’ Nightshade gulped, but she crossed the road and spoke to the old woman, and Tiffany listened and heard the old woman saying, ‘What a kind girl you are, thank you very much. Bless you for helping an old lady. ’ To Tiffany’s surprise, Nightshade carried the basket not only over the hill but also along the next stretch of the road, and she heard her ask, ‘How do you live, lady?’ The old lady sighed. ‘Little by little. My husband died years ago, but I am good with the needle and so I make things. I don’t need charity. I get along and I have still got my home. As we say, worse things happen at sea. . . ’ As Nightshade watched the woman go away, she said to Tiffany, ‘Can you give me some money, please?’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘witches seldom have money about their person – we don’t live in that kind of world. ’ Nightshade brightened up. ‘I can help then,’ she said. ‘I’m an elf and I am sure I could get into a place where the money is. ’ ‘Please do not try that,’ said Tiffany. ‘There would be a lot of trouble. ’ She ignored a grumble from the side of the road, ‘Nae if you don’t get caught. ’ ‘We is guid at gettin’ intae places, ye ken,’ another Feegle muttered. fn6 Nightshade paid the Feegles no heed. She was still puzzling. ‘That old woman had absolutely nothing, but she was still cheerful. What did she have to be cheerful about?’ ‘Being alive,’ said Tiffany. ‘What you are seeing, Nightshade, is someone making the best of things, which is something else humans do. And sometimes the best of it is good. ’ She paused. ‘How did it make you feel?’ she asked. ‘Carrying that basket. ’ Nightshade looked puzzled. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly. ‘But I’m not sure I felt like an elf should. . . is that a good thing?’ ‘Look,’ Tiffany said, ‘the wizards tell us that in the very, very olden days, humans were more like monkeys, and being a monkey was a very clever thing to be as monkeys like to see into everything. And then the monkeys realized that if one monkey tried to kill a large wolf, he would soon be a dead monkey, but if two monkeys could get together they would be very happy monkeys, and happy monkeys create more happy monkeys so they would have lots of monkeys, which chatter and gibber and talk all the time until, in the end, they became us. So too could an elf change. ’ ‘When I get my kingdom back. . . ’ Nightshade began. ‘Stop there,’ said Tiffany. ‘Why do you want your kingdom back? What good has it done you? Think about it, for I am the human who has looked after you, the only person you might call a friend. ’ She looked seriously at the elf. ‘I have told you that I – we – would be happy if you were to be Queen of the Elves again, but only if you can truly learn from your time here. Be prepared to live in peace, teach your elves that the world has changed and that there is no space for them here. ’ There was hope in her voice now, a hope that human and elf might be able to change the stories of humans and elves. A princess doesn’t have to be blonde and blue-eyed and have a shoe size smaller than her age, she thought. People can trust witches, and not fear the old woman in the woods, the poor old woman whose only crime was to have no teeth and to talk to herself. And perhaps an elf could learn to know mercy, to discover humanity. . . ‘If you learn things,’ she finished softly, ‘you might find yourself building a different kind of kingdom.

’ fn1 Nanny’s friend on that occasion had been Count Casanunda the lowwayman – a highwayman who carried a stepladder on his horse, on account of his being a dwarf, and was most gallant towards the ladies he encountered. fn2 A thought that she would most certainly grow out of, assuming she survived long enough. fn3 It has in fact been said that elves are like cats; but cats will work together – for instance, when sharing a kill – while elves squabble and fight so that a third party may go home with the food. fn4 It looked a rather poisonous green before it was heated up, but in most cases the end certainly justified the greens. fn5 It disappeared pretty quickly too, as anyone given fairy gold soon discovered. Usually by the morning, which often meant a lively evening in the pub. And an even livelier evening the following night if visiting the same establishment. fn6 Very true, though getting out again was sometimes trickier, especially if there was strong drink about. CHAPTER 16 Mr Sideways THE OLD BOYS in the villages around Granny Weatherwax’s cottage had swiftly taken a liking to Geoffrey. They respected Nanny Ogg and Tiffany, of course, but they really liked Geoffrey. They would taunt him sometimes; after all, he was in a woman’s business, but when he got on his broomstick – sometimes even with his goat perched behind him rather than harnessed to its little cart – and whizzed away to the horizon, they were speechless. Even when he was really busy, he always had time to stop and chat and there was always a brew on in any shed when he came by, and a broken biscuit for Mephistopheles. The old boys were fascinated by the goat, but wary nonetheless after the day when someone gave it a drink of ale just to see what would happen and, to their astonishment, Mephistopheles danced like a ballerina and then kicked a young tree so hard that its trunk split in two. ‘It’s like those folk who do mushi,’ said Stinky Jim. ‘I don’t think that’s the right word,’ said Smack Tremble. ‘Ain’t mushi something you eat? Out in. . . foreign parts. ’ ‘ You mean One-man-he-go-up, he-go-down,’ Captain Makepeace said. ‘A way of fighting. ’ ‘That’s it!’ said Stinky Jim. ‘There was a fellow at the market in Slice who could do that. ’ ‘There’s a lot of people in Slice who can do that kind of thing,’ Smack Tremble added with a shiver. ‘Odd place, Slice. ’ fn1 They sat and thought about Slice for a moment. You could find anything at Slice market if you looked hard enough. Famously a man once sold his wife there, where the phrase ‘bring and buy’ was taken literally, and he went home with a second-hand wheelbarrow and felt he had the best of the bargain. Then they looked at the remains of the sapling and agreed that Mephistopheles was indeed a remarkable goat, but perhaps it would be best to leave his diet alone. The remarkable goat himself stoically chewed his way through the long grass by the pub fence as though nothing untoward had happened and then trotted off to find Geoffrey. On this particular fine morning, Geoffrey was at Laughing Boy Sideways’s house. Tiffany had been treating a particularly troublesome bunion of his which had resisted her ministrations for weeks. She had been considering breaking her rule and using magic on the thing, just to be done with it, when Geoffrey decided to pop in to see Mr Sideways on a day when Tiffany was away at the Chalk. He found the old man by the back door of his cottage, just about to hobble down the path to the old barn. Instead of heading back into the cottage as he would have done if Tiffany had called, Mr Sideways beckoned to Geoffrey to follow him down the path towards the rickety barn. And it was as Geoffrey watched the old boy struggling painfully along in his old army boots that he noticed something very wrong. ‘Well, dang me!’ Mr Sideways said when Geoffrey prised the offending hobnail from his left boot. ‘If I’d known that was what the trouble was, I’d have dealt with the bugger meself!’ He looked at Geoffrey with bright eyes. ‘Thank ’ee, lad. ’ Old Mr Sideways lived on his own and had done so for as long as anyone could remember. He was meticulously dressed and in the city might have been described as ‘dapper’. Apart from his work overalls, which were washed regularly but were streaked with paint and oil, he was always spick and span. So was his little cottage. The living room, which he kept immaculately tidy, had paintings of people in old-fashioned dress on the wall – Geoffrey assumed these were portraits of Mr Sideways’s parents, although he never spoke of them. Everything the man did he did carefully. Geoffrey liked him, and even though he was a very private man, he had taken to Geoffrey. The shed Mr Sideways had constructed adjacent to the old barn was also immaculate. Every shelf was neatly stacked with carefully labelled old tobacco tins and jars. His tools were hung against the walls, neatly ranked by size. They were clean and sharp too. Tiffany had never been allowed beyond Mr Sideways’s living room, but Geoffrey had soon been welcomed to share a mug of tea and a biscuit in the shed by the barn. Each one of the sheds Geoffrey visited on his rounds of the old boys was different, expressing the personality of the occupant, unfettered by female intervention. Some were chaotic, with piles of scrap and half-made objects scattered about; others were tidier – like Captain Makepeace’s shed, which was full of paints, brushes and canvases, but still had a clear sense of order. But no one was as tidy as Mr Sideways. And then Geoffrey noticed something missing. All the other sheds had at least one work in progress visible, whether it was a half-made bird table, or a stripped-down wheelbarrow with a new shaft, but there was nothing like that to be seen in Mr Sideways’s shed. And he evaded the question when Geoffrey asked what he was working on. ‘What are you up to, Mr Sideways?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘You look like a man who has been thinking, and I know you are a canny man at that. ’ Mr Sideways cleared his throat. ‘Well, you see, lad, I am building a machine. I’ve no interest in bird tables or mug trees and the like. But machines now. . . ’ He paused, then looked carefully at Geoffrey. ‘I’ve been thinking that it might be useful, what with the troubles folks are having. ’ Geoffrey sat calmly, waiting for the old boy to finish his tea and reach a conclusion. Eventually Mr Sideways put down his mug and stood up, brushing the crumbs off his lap. He swept them up with a small pan and brush he clearly kept just for that purpose, washed out the mugs, dried and stacked them neatly on a shelf, then opened the door. ‘Would you like to see, lad?’ While Geoffrey drank his mug of tea with Mr Sideways in Lancre, over in the Chalk Letitia, the Baroness, was sipping tea daintily with Magrat, the Queen of Lancre, who had arrived unexpectedly on her broomstick – a broomstick flying the pennant of Lancre, the two bears on black and gold, just to make sure that nobody could be in any doubt that this was a royal visit. She had arrived bearing a bunch of roses from the castle, throwing Letitia and her staff all in a tiswas and Letitia flapping about the cobwebs, some of which she had even managed to get tangled in her hair. Magrat had smiled at the rather shaky-looking Letitia, and said, ‘I’m not here as a queen, love. I am here as a witch. I always have been one and always will be. So don’t worry about all the pomp – you know how it is, it’s just expected. A bit of dust here and there is nothing. Some parts of my castle are full of dust, I am sorry to say. You know how that is too. ’ Letitia had nodded. She did indeed know what it was like. And as for the plumbing. . . well, she did not want to even think about how old-fashioned the castle was. The ancient privies had a habit of gurgling at the wrong time, and Roland said that if he had the time, he could create an orchestra from the bangs, gurgles and clankings that sometimes followed his morning visits.