Wintersmith

"She'll be a difficult…act to follow, indeed," said Granny Weatherwax. "Act?" said Miss Tick. "I meant life, of course," said Granny Weatherwax. "Whom will you put in there?" asked Miss Tick, because she liked to be first with the news. She also made a point of saying "whom" whenever she could. She felt it was more literate. "Miss Tick, that is not up to me," said Granny sharply. "We have no leaders in witchcraft, you know that."



"Oh indeed," said Miss Tick, who also knew that the leader the witches did not have was Granny Weatherwax. "But I know that Mrs. Earwig will be proposing young Annagramma, and Mrs. Earwig has quite a few followers these days. It's probably those books she writes. She makes witchcraft sound exciting."



"You know I don't like witches who try to impose their will on others," said Granny Weatherwax. "Quite," said Miss Tick, trying not to laugh. "I shall, however, drop a name into the conversation," said Granny Weatherwax. With a clang, I expect, thought Miss Tick. "Petulia Gristle has shaped up very well," she said. "A good all-around witch."



"Yes, but mostly all around pigs," said Granny Weatherwax. "I was thinking about Tiffany Aching."



"What?" said Miss Tick. "Don't you think that child has enough to cope with?" Granny Weatherwax smiled briefly. "Well, Miss Tick, you know what they say: If you want something done, give it to someone who's busy! And young Tiffany might be very busy soon," she added. "Why do you say that?" said Miss Tick. "Hmm. Well, I can't be sure, but I will be very interested to see what happens to her feet…." Tiffany didn't sleep much on the night before the funeral. Miss Treason's loom had clicked and clacked all through the night, because she had an order for bedsheets she wanted to complete. It was just getting light when Tiffany gave up and got up, in that order. At least she could get the goats mucked out and milked before she tackled the other chores. There was snow, and a bitter wind was blowing it across the ground. It wasn't until she was carting a barrowload of muck to the compost heap, which was steaming gently in the gray light, that she heard the tinkling. It sounded a bit like the wind chimes Miss Pullunder had around her cottage, only they were tuned to a note that was uncomfortable for demons. It was coming from the place where the rose bed was in summer. It grew fine, old roses, full of scent and so red they were nearly, yes, black. The roses were blooming again. But they— "How do you like them, sheep girl?" said a voice. It didn't arrive in her head, it wasn't her thoughts, any of them, and Dr. Bustle didn't wake up until at least ten. It was her own voice, from her own lips. But she hadn't thought it, and she hadn't meant to say it. Now she was running back to the cottage. She hadn't decided to do that either, but her legs had taken over. It wasn't fear, not exactly; it was just that she very much wanted to be somewhere other than in the garden with the sun not up and the snow blowing and filling the air with ice crystals as fine as fog. She ran through the scullery door and collided with a dark figure, which said, "Um, sorry," and therefore was Petulia. She was the kind of person who apologized if you trod on her foot. Right now there was no sight more welcome. "Sorry, I was called out to deal with a difficult cow and, um, it wasn't worth going back to bed," Petulia said, and then added: "Are you all right? You don't look it!"



"I heard a voice in my mouth!" said Tiffany. Petulia gave her an odd look and might just have stepped an inch or so backward. "You mean in your head?" she asked. "No! I can deal with those! My mouth said words all by itself! And come and see what's grown in the rose garden! You won't believe it!" There were roses. They were made of ice so thin that, if you breathed on them, they melted away and left nothing but the dead stalks they'd grown on. And there were dozens of them, waving in the wind. "Even the heat of my hand near them makes them drip," said Petulia. "Do you think it's your Wintersmith?"



"He's not mine! And I can't think of any other way they'd turn up!"



"And you think he, um, spoke to you?" said Petulia, plucking another rose. Ice particles slid off her hat every time she moved. "No! It was me! I mean, my voice! But it didn't sound like him. I mean, like I think he'd sound! It was a bit snide, like Annagramma when she's in a mood! But it was my voice!"



"How do you think he'd sound?" said Petulia. The wind gusted across the clearing, making the pine trees shake and roar. "…Tiffany…be mine…" After a little while Petulia coughed and said: "Um, was it just me, or did that sound like—?"



"Not just you," whispered Tiffany, standing very still. "Ah," said Petulia, in a voice as bright and brittle as a rose of ice. "Well, I think we should get indoors now, yes? Um, and get all the fires lit and some tea made, yes? And then start getting things ready, because quite soon a lot of people will be turning up." A minute later they were in the cottage, with the doors bolted and every candle spluttering into life. They didn't talk about the wind or the roses. What would be the point? Besides, there was a job to be done. Work, that's what helps. Work, and think and talk later, don't gabble now like frightened ducks. They even managed to get another layer of grime off the windows. All through the morning people arrived from the village with the things Miss Treason had ordered. People were walking across the clearing. The sun was out, even if it was as pale as a poached egg. The world was belonging to…normality. Tiffany caught herself wondering if she was wrong about things. Were there roses? There were none now; the fragile petals had not survived even the dawn's weak light. Had the wind spoken? Then she met Petulia's gaze. Yes, it had happened. But for now there was a funeral to feed. The girls had already got to work on the ham rolls, with three sorts of mustard, but however far wrong you couldn't go with a ham roll, if that was all you were giving seventy or eighty hungry witches, you were going all the way past Wrong and were heading into Absolute Party Disaster. So barrows were arriving with loaves and roasts of beef, and jars of pickled cucumbers so big that they looked like drowned whales. Witches are very keen on pickles, as a rule, but the food they like best is free food. Yes, that's the diet for your working witch: lots of food that someone else is paying for, and so much of it that there is enough to shove in your pockets for later. As it turned out, Miss Treason wasn't paying for it either. No one would take any money. They wouldn't leave, either, but hung about by the back door looking worried until they could have a word with Tiffany. The conversation, when she could spare the time from slicing and spreading, would go something like this: "She's not really dying, is she?"



"Yes. At around half past six tomorrow morning."



"But she's very old!"



"Yes. I think that's sort of why, you see."



"But what will we do without her?"



"I don't know. What did you do before she was here?"



"She was always here! She knew everything! Who's going to tell us what to do now?" And then they'd say: "It's not going to be you, is it?" and give her a Look that said: We hope not. You don't even wear a black dress. After a while Tiffany got fed up with this and in a very sharp voice asked the next person, a woman delivering six cooked chickens: "What about all those stories about her slitting open bad people's bellies with her thumbnail, then?"



"Er, well, yes, but it was never anyone we knew," said the woman virtuously. "And the demon in the cellar?"



"So they say. O' course, I never saw it pers'nally." The woman gave Tiffany a worried look. "It is down there, isn't it?" You want it to be, Tiffany thought. You actually want there to be a monster in the cellar! But as far as Tiffany knew, what was in the cellar this morning was a lot of snoring Feegles who had been boozin'. If you put a lot of Feegles in a desert, within twenty minutes they'd find a bottle of something dreadful to drink. "Believe me, madam, you wouldn't want to wake what's down there now," she said, giving the woman a worried smile. The woman seemed satisfied with that but suddenly looked concerned again. "And the spiders? She really eats spiders?" she asked. "Well, there's lots of webs," said Tiffany, "but you never see a spider!"



"Ah, right," said the woman, as if she'd been let into a big secret. "Say what you like, Miss Treason's been a real witch. With skulls! I expect you have to polish 'em, eh? Ha! She could spit your eye out as soon as look at you!"



"She never did, though," said a man delivering a huge tray of sausages. "Not to anyone local, anyway."



"That's true," the woman admitted reluctantly. "She was very gracious in that respect."



"Ah, she was a proper old-time witch, Miss Treason," said the sausage man. "Many a man has widdled in his boots when she's turned the sharp side of her tongue on him. You know that weaving she's always doing? She weaves your name into the loom, that's what she does! And if you tell her a lie, your thread breaks and you drop down dead on the spot!"



"Yes, that happens all the time," said Tiffany, thinking: This is amazing! Boffo has a life of its own! "Well, we don't get witches like her these days," said a man delivering four dozen eggs. "These days it's all airy-fairy and dancin' around without your drawers on." They all looked inquiringly at Tiffany. "It's wintertime," she said coldly. "And I've got to get on with my work. The witches will be here soon. Thank you very much." While they were putting the eggs on to boil, she told Petulia about it. It didn't come as a surprise. "Um, they're proud of her," Petulia said. "I've heard them boasting about her up at the pig market in Lancre."



"They boast?"



"Oh, yes. Like: You think old Mistress Weatherwax is tough? Ours has got skulls! And a demon! She's gonna live forever 'cuz she's got a clockwork heart she winds up every day! And she eats spiders, sure of it! How d'you like them poisoned apples, huh?" Boffo works all by itself, Tiffany thought, once you get it started. Our Baron is bigger than your Baron, our witch is witchier than your witch….



CHAPTER FIVE



Miss Treason's Big Day T he witches started arriving around four o'clock, and Tiffany went out into the clearing to do air traffic control. Annagramma arrived by herself, looking very pale and wearing more occult jewelry than you could imagine. And there was a difficult moment when Mrs. Earwig and Granny Weatherwax arrived at the same time, and circled in a ballet of careful politeness as each waited for the other to land. In the end, Tiffany directed them into different corners of the clearing and hurried away. There was no sign of the Wintersmith, and she was sure she'd know if he was near. He'd gone far away, she hoped, arranging a gale or conducting a blizzard. The memory of that voice in her mouth remained, awkward and worrying. Like an oyster dealing with a piece of grit, Tiffany coated it with people and hard work. Now the day was just another pale, dry, early winter's day. Apart from the food, nothing else at the funeral had been arranged. Witches arrange themselves. Miss Treason sat in her big chair, greeting old friends and old enemies alike.* The cottage was far too small for them all, so they spilled out into the garden in gossiping groups, like a flock of old crows or, possibly, chickens. Tiffany didn't have much time to talk, because she was kept too busy carrying trays. But something was going on, she could tell. Witches would pause and turn to watch her as she staggered past, and then turn back to their group and the level of hubbub in the group would rise a bit. Groups would come together and separate again. Tiffany recognized this. The witches were making a Decision. Lucy Warbeck sidled up to her while she was bringing out a tray of tea, and whispered, as if it were a guilty secret: "Mistress Weatherwax has suggested you, Tiff."