Wintersmith

"…exciting his romantic propensities," said Miss Tick quickly. "I wasn't going to describe it quite like that," said Nanny Ogg. "Yes, I suspects you weren't!" said Granny. "I suspects you was going to use Language!" Tiffany definitely heard the capital "L," which entirely suggested that the language she was thinking of was not to be uttered in polite company. Nanny stood up and tried to look haughty, which is hard to do when you have a face like a happy apple. "I was actually going to draw Tiff's attention to this," she said, taking an ornament off the crowded mantelpiece. It was a little house. Tiffany had glanced at it before; it had two little doorways at the front and, at the moment, a tiny little wooden man with a top hat. "It's called a weather house," Nanny said, handing it to Tiffany. "I don't know how it works—there's a bit of special string or something—but there's a little wooden man who comes out if it's going to rain and a little wooden woman who comes out when it's going to be sunny. But they're on a little pivoty thing, see? They can never be out at the same time, see? Never. An' I can't help wonderin', when the weather's changin', if the little man sees the little woman out of the corner of his eye and wonders—"



"Is this about sex?" asked Tiffany. Miss Tick looked at the ceiling. Granny Weatherwax cleared her throat. Nanny gave a huge laugh that would have embarrassed even the little wooden man. "Sex?" she said. "Between Summer and Winter? Now there's a thought."



"Don't…think…it," said Granny Weatherwax sternly. She turned to Tiffany. "He's fascinated by you, that's what it is. And we don't know how much of the Summer Lady's power is in you. She might be quite weak. You'll have to be a summer in winter until winter ends," she added flatly. "That's justice. No excuses. You made a choice. You get what you chose."



"Couldn't I just go and find her and say I'm sorry—?" Tiffany began. "No. The old gods ain't big on 'sorry,'" said Granny, pacing up and down again. "They know it's just a word."



"You know what I think?" said Nanny. "I think she's watchin' you, Tiff. She's sayin' to herself, 'Who's this hoity-toity young madam steppin' into my shoes? Well, let's make her walk a mile in 'em and see how she likes it!'"



"Mrs. Ogg may have something there," said Miss Tick, who was leafing through Chaffinch's Mythology. "The gods expect you to pay for your mistakes." Nanny Ogg patted Tiffany's hand. "If she wants to see what you can do, show her what you can do, Tiff, eh? That's the way! Surprise her!"



"You mean the Summer Lady?" said Tiffany. Nanny winked. "Oh, and the Summer Lady, too!" There was what sounded very much like the start of a laugh from Miss Tick before Granny Weatherwax glared at her. Tiffany sighed. It was all very well to talk about choices, but she had no choice here. "All right. What else can I expect apart from…well, the feet?"



"I'm, er, checking," said Miss Tick, still thumbing through the book. "Ah…it says here that she was, I mean is, fairer than all the stars in heaven…." They all looked at Tiffany. "You could try doing something with your hair," said Nanny Ogg after a while. "Like what?" said Tiffany. "Like anything, really."



"Apart from the feet and doing something with my hair," said Tiffany sharply, "is there anything else?"



"Says here, quoting a very old manuscript: 'She waketh the grasses in Aprill and filleth the beehives with honey swete,'" Miss Tick reported. "How do I do that?"



"I don't know, but I suspect that happens anyway," said Miss Tick. "And the Summer Lady gets the credit?"



"I think she just has to exist for it to happen, really," said Miss Tick. "Anything else?"



"Er, yes. You have to make sure the winter ends," said Miss Tick. "And, of course, deal with the Wintersmith."



"And how do I do that?"



"We think that you just have to…be there," said Granny Weatherwax. "Or perhaps you'll know what to do when the time comes." Meep. "Be where?" said Tiffany. "Everywhere. Anywhere."



"Granny, your hat squeaked," said Tiffany. "It went meep!"



"No it didn't," Granny said sharply. "It did, you know," said Nanny Ogg. "I heard it too." Granny Weatherwax grunted and pulled off her hat. The white kitten, curled around her tight bun of hair, blinked in the light. "I can't help it," Granny muttered. "If I leave the dratted thing alone, it goes under the dresser and cries and cries." She looked around at the others as if daring them to say anything. "Anyway," she added, "it keeps m' head warm." On his chair, the yellow slit of Greebo's left eye opened lazily. "Get down, You," said Granny, lifting the kitten off her head and putting it on the floor. "I daresay Mrs. Ogg has got some milk in the kitchen."



"Not much," said Nanny. "I'll swear something's been drinking it!" Greebo's eye opened all the way, and he began to growl softly. "You sure you know what you're doing, Esme?" said Nanny Ogg, reaching for a cushion to throw. "He's very protective of his territory." You the kitten sat on the floor and washed her ears. Then, as Greebo got to his feet, she fixed him with an innocent little stare and took a flying leap onto his nose, landing on it with all her claws out. "So is she," said Granny Weatherwax, as Greebo erupted from the chair and hurtled around the room before disappearing into the kitchen. There was a crash of saucepans followed by the groioioioing of a saucepan lid spinning into silence on the floor. The kitten padded back into the room, hopped into the empty chair, and curled up. "He brought in half a wolf last week," said Nanny Ogg. "You haven't been hexperimenting* on that poor kitten, have you?"



"I wouldn't dream of such a thing," said Granny. "She just knows her own mind, that's all." She turned to Tiffany. "I don't reckon the Wintersmith will be worrying about you too much for a while," she said. "The big winter weather will be on us soon. That'll keep him busy. In the meantime, Mrs. Ogg will teach you…things she knows." And Tiffany thought: I wonder how embarrassing this is going to be. Deep in the snow, in the middle of a windswept moorland, a small band of traveling librarians sat around their cooling stove and wondered what to burn next. Tiffany had never been able to find out much about the librarians. They were a bit like the wandering priests and teachers who went even into the smallest, loneliest villages to deliver those things—prayers, medicine, facts—that people could do without for weeks at a time but sometimes needed a lot of all at once. The librarians would loan you a book for a penny, although they often would take food or good secondhand clothes. If you gave them a book, you got ten free loans. Sometimes you'd see two or three of their wagons parked in some clearing and could smell the glues they boiled up to repair the oldest books. Some of the books they loaned were so old that the printing had been worn gray by the pressure of people's eyeballs reading it. The librarians were mysterious. It was said they could tell what book you needed just by looking at you, and they could take your voice away with a word. But here they were searching the shelves for T. H. Mouse-holder's famous book Survival in the Snow. Things were getting desperate. The oxen that pulled the wagon had broken their tethers and run off in the blizzard, the stove was nearly out, and worst of all, they were down to their last candles, which meant that soon they would not be able to read books. "It says here in K. Pierpoint Poundsworth's Among the Snow Weasels that the members of the ill-fated expedition to Whale Bay survived by making soup of their own toes," said Deputy Librarian Grizzler. "That's interesting," said Senior Librarian Swinsley, who was rummaging on the shelf below. "Is there a recipe?"



"No, but there may be something in Superflua Raven's book Cooking in Dire Straits. That's where we got yesterday's recipe for Nourishing Boiled Socks Surprise—" There was a thunderous knocking at the door. It was a two-part door that allowed only the top half to be opened, so that a ledge on the bottom half could be a sort of small desk for stamping books. Snow came through the crack as the knocking continued. "I hope that's not the wolves again," said Mr. Grizzler. "I got no sleep at all last night!"



"Do they knock? We could check in The Habits of Wolves by Captain W. E. Lightly," said Senior Librarian Swinsley, "or perhaps you could just open the door? Quickly! The candles are going out!" Grizzler opened the top half of the door. There was a tall figure on the steps, hard to see in the fitful, cloud-strained moonlight. "Ah'm lookin' for Romance," it rumbled. The Deputy Librarian thought for a moment, and then said, "Isn't it a bit chilly out there?"



"Aren't ye the people wi' all dem books?" the figure demanded. "Yes, indeed…oh, Romance! Yes, certainly!" said Mr. Swinsley, looking relieved. "In that case, I think you'll want Miss Jenkins. Forward please, Miss Jenkins."



"It looks like youse is freezin' in there," said the figure. "Dem's icicles hanging from der ceilin'."



"Yes. However, we have managed to keep them off the books," said Mr. Swinsley. "Ah, Miss Jenkins. The, er, gentleman is looking for Romance. Your department, I think."



"Yes, sir," said Miss Jenkins. "What kind of romance were you looking for?"



"Oh, one wi' a cover on, ye ken, and wi' pages wi' all wurdies on 'em," said the figure. Miss Jenkins, who was used to this sort of thing, disappeared into the gloom at the other end of the wagon. "Dese scunners are total loonies!" said a new voice. It appeared to come from somewhere on the person of the dark book borrower, but much lower than the head. "Pardon?" said Mr. Swinsley. "Ach, nae problemo," said the figure quickly. "Ah'm sufferin' from a grumblin' knee, 'tis an old trouble —"



"Why don't they be burnin' all dem books, eh?" the unseen knee grumbled. "Sorry aboot this, ye know how knees can let a man doon in public, I'm a martyr to dis one," said the stranger. "I know how it is. My elbow acts up in wet weather," said Mr. Swinsley. There was some sort of fight going on in the nether regions of the stranger, who was shaking like a puppet. "That will be one penny," Miss Jenkins said. "And I will need your name and address." The dark figure shuddered. "Oh, I—we ne'er give out oor name an' address!" it said quickly. "It is against oor religion, ye ken. Er…I dinna wanta be a knee aboot this, but why is ye all here freezin' tae death?"



"Our oxen wandered off, and alas, the snow's too deep to walk through," said Mr. Swinsley. "Aye. But youse got a stove an' all them dry ol' books," said the dark figure. "Yes, we know," said the librarian, looking puzzled. There was the kind of wretched pause you get when two people aren't going to understand each other's point of view at all. Then: "Tell ye what, me an'—ma knee—will go an' fetch yer cows for ye, eh?" said the mysterious figure. "Got tae be worth a penny, eh? Big Yan, you'll feel the rough side o' my hand in a minit!" The figure dropped out of sight. Snow flew up in the moonlight. For a moment it sounded as if a scuffle were going on, and then a sound like "Crivens!" disappearing into the distance. The librarians were about to shut the door when they heard the terrified bellows of the oxen, getting louder very quickly. Two curling waves of snow came across the glittering moors. The creatures rode them like surfers, yelling at the moon. The snow settled down a few feet away from the wagon. There was a blue-and-red blur in the air, and the romantic book was whisked away. But what was really odd, the librarians agreed, was that when the oxen had come speeding toward them, they had appeared to be traveling backward. It was hard to be embarrassed by Nanny Ogg, because her laugh drove embarrassment away. She wasn't embarrassed about anything. Today Tiffany, with extra pairs of socks on to avoid unfortunate floral incidents, went with her "around the houses," as it was known to witches. "You did this for Miss Treason?" asked Nanny as they stepped out. There were big fat clouds massing around the mountains; there would be a lot more snow tonight. "Oh yes. And for Miss Level and Miss Pullunder."