"What?" said Tiffany, glaring at the wall. "Oh…no. I didn't!" People were moving around downstairs. After a little while there was a creaking on the stairs and the low door was pushed open. A middle-aged man, looking sheepishly at the floor, uttered, "Mam says would you ladies like some breakfast?"

"Oh, no, we couldn't possibly take what little you have—" Annagramma began. "Yes, please, we will be grateful," said Tiffany, louder and quicker. The man nodded, and shut the door. "Oh, how could you say that?" said Annagramma, as his footsteps creaked down. "These are poor people! I thought you would—"

"Shut up, will you?" snapped Tiffany. "Just shut up and wake up! These are real people! They're not some kind of, of, of idea! We will go down there and we will eat breakfast and we'll say how good it is and then we will thank them and they will thank us and we will go! And that will mean everyone has done the right thing by custom, and that will be what's important to them. Besides, they don't think they're poor, because everyone around here is poor! But they're not so poor they can't afford to do the right things! That would be poor!" Annagramma was staring at her with her mouth open. "Be careful what you say next," said Tiffany, breathing heavily. "In fact, don't say anything." Breakfast was ham and eggs. It was eaten in polite silence. After that, in the same silence except that it was outdoors, they flew back to what people would probably always think of as Miss Treason's cottage. There was a small boy loitering outside. As soon as they landed, he blurted out, "Mrs. Obble says the baby's on the way an' she said you'd give me a penny for goin'."

"You have got a bag, haven't you?" said Tiffany, turning to Annagramma. "Yes, er, lots."

"I mean a call-out bag. You know, you keep it by the door with everything in it that you'll need if…" Tiffany saw the terrified look on the girl's face. "Okay, so you haven't got a bag. We'll just have to do the best we can. Give him a penny and let's go."

"Can we get anyone to help if it goes wrong?" Annagramma asked as they left the ground. "We are the help," said Tiffany simply. "And since this is your steading, I'm giving you the really tough job—" —which was keeping Mrs. Obble occupied. Mrs. Obble wasn't a witch, although most people thought she was. She looked like one—that is, she looked like someone who'd bought everything in the Boffo catalogue on the day of the Special Offer on Hairy Warts—and she was mildly crazy and should not have been allowed within a mile of any mother who was going to have her first baby, since she would very conscientiously tell them (or cackle at them, anyway) about all the things that could go wrong in a way that made it sound as if they would all go wrong. She wasn't a bad nurse, though, once you stopped her from putting a leaf-mold poultice on everything. Things went noisily and with a certain amount of fuss, but nothing like Mrs. Obble had predicted, and the result was a baby boy, who was not a bouncing baby but only because Tiffany caught him; Annagramma didn't know how to hold babies. She did look good in a pointy hat, though, and since she was clearly older than Tiffany and did hardly any of the work, the other women assumed she was in charge. Tiffany left her holding the baby (the right way up, this time) and looking proud, and began the long flight back through the woods to Tir Nani Ogg. It was a crisp evening, but there was a bit of wind that blew stinging snow crystals off the trees. It was an exhausting journey and very, very cold. He can't know where I am, she repeated to herself as she flew back in the dusk. And he's not very clever. Winter has to end sometime, right? Er…how? said her Second Thoughts. Miss Tick said you just have to be there, but surely you have to do something else? I suppose I'll have to walk around with my shoes off, Tiffany thought. Everywhere? her Second Thoughts wondered, as she swerved between the trees. It's probably like being a queen, her Third Thoughts said. She just has to sit in a palace and maybe do a bit of driving around in a big coach and waving, and all over a huge kingdom monarching is going on. But as she avoided more trees, she also tried to avoid the little scurrying thought that was trying to creep into her mind: Sooner or later, one way or the other, he will find you…and how can he make himself a man? Assistant Postmaster Groat did not believe in doctors. They made you ill, he thought. So he put sulfur in his socks every morning and he was proud to say that he had never had a day's illness in his life. This may have been because not many people cared to come very close to him, because of the smell. Something did, though. A gale roared into his post office when he was opening the door one morning and blew his socks clean off.* And no one heard the Wintersmith say: "Sulfur enough to make a man!" Nanny Ogg was sitting by the fire when Tiffany came in, stamping snow off her boots. "You look frozen all through," Nanny said. "You need a glass of hot milk with a drop of brandy in it, that's what you need."

"Ooh, yyess…" Tiffany managed through chattering teeth. "Get me one too, then, will you?" said Nanny. "Only joking. You get warmed up; I'll see to the drink." Tiffany's feet felt like blocks of ice. She knelt by the fire and stretched out her hand to the stockpot on its big black hook. It bubbled all the time. Get your mind right, and balance. Reach out and cup your hands around it, and concentrate, concentrate, on your freezing boots. After a while her toes felt warm and then— "Ow!" Tiffany pulled her hands away and sucked at her fingers. "Didn't have your mind right," said Nanny Ogg from the doorway. "Well, you know, that's just a bit difficult when you've had a long day and you didn't sleep much and the Wintersmith is looking for you," snapped Tiffany. "The fire doesn't care," said Nanny, shrugging. "Hot milk coming up." Things were a little better when Tiffany had warmed up. She wondered how much brandy Nanny had added to the milk. Nanny had done one for herself, with probably some milk added to the brandy. "Isn't this nice and cozy," said Nanny after a while. "Is this going to be the talk about sex?" said Tiffany. "Did anyone say there was going to be one?" said Nanny innocently. "I kind of got the feeling," said Tiffany. "And I know where babies come from, Mrs. Ogg."

"I should hope so."

"I know how they get there, too. I live on a farm and I've got a lot of older sisters."

"Ah, right," said Nanny. "Well, I see you're pretty well prepared for life, then. Not much left for me to tell you, I expect. And I've never had a god pay any attention to me, as far as I can recall. Flattered, are you?"

"No!" Tiffany looked into Nanny's smile. "Well, a bit," she admitted. "And frightened of him?"

"Yes."

"Well, the poor thing hasn't quite got it right yet. He started off so well, with the ice roses and everything, and then he wanted to show you his muscles. Typical. But you shouldn't be frightened of him. He should be frightened of you."

"Why? Because I'm pretending to be the flower woman?"

"Because you're a girl! It's a poor lookout if a bright girl can't wind a boy around her little finger. He's smitten with you. You could make his life a misery with a word. Why, when I was a girl, a young man nearly threw himself off the Lancre Bridge because I spurned his advances!"

"He did? What happened?"

"I unspurned 'em. Well, he looked so pretty standing there, and I thought, that's a good-looking bum on him if ever I saw one." Nanny sat back. "And think about poor ol' Greebo. He'll fight anything. But Esme's little white kitten leaped straight at him, and now the poor dear won't come into this room without peering around the door to check that she's not here. You should see his poor little face when he does, too. It's all wrinkled up. O' course, he could tear her into bits with one claw, but he can't now 'cuz she's fixed his head."

"You're not saying I should try to tear the Wintersmith's face off, are you?"

"No, no, you don't have to be as blunt as that. Give him a little hope. Be kind but firm—"

"He wants to marry me!"

"Good."

"Good?"

"That means he wants to stay friendly. Don't say no, don't say yes. Act like a queen. He's got to learn to show you some respect. What are you doing?"

"Writing this down," said Tiffany, scribbling in her diary. "You don't need to write it down, love," said Nanny. "It's written down in you somewhere. On a page you haven't read yet, I reckon. Which reminds me, these came when you were out." Nanny fished down among the seat cushions and pulled out a couple of envelopes. "My boy Shawn is the postman, so he knew you'd moved." Tiffany nearly snatched them out of her hand. Two letters! "Like him, do you? Your young man in the castle?" said Nanny. "He's a friend who writes to me," said Tiffany haughtily. "That's right, that's just the look and voice you need for dealing with the Wintersmith!" said Nanny, looking delighted. "Who does he think he is, daring to talk to you? That's the way!"

"I shall read them in my room," said Tiffany. Nanny nodded. "One of the girls did us a lovely casserole," she said (famously, Nanny never remembered the names of her daughters-in-law). "Yours is in the oven. I'm off to the pub. Early start tomorrow!" Alone in her room, Tiffany read the first letter. To the unaided eye, not much happened on the Chalk. It had avoided History. It was a place of small things. Tiffany enjoyed reading about them. The second letter seemed to be much the same as the first one—until the bit about the ball. He'd gone to a ball! It was at the house of Lord Diver, who was a neighbor! He'd danced with his daughter, who was called Iodine because Lord Diver thought that was a nice name for a girl! They'd had three dances!! And ice cream!! Iodine had shown him her watercolors!!! How could he sit there and write such things?!!! Tiffany's eyes moved on, over the everyday news like the bad weather and what had happened to old Aggie's leg, but the words didn't enter her head because it was on fire. Who did he think he was, dancing with another girl? You danced with the Wintersmith, her Third Thoughts said. All right, but what about the watercolors? The Wintersmith showed you the snowflakes, said her Third Thoughts. But I was just being polite! Perhaps he was just being polite, too. All right, but I know those aunts, Tiffany thought furiously. They've never liked me, because I'm only a farm girl! And Lord Diver's very rich and his daughter is his only child! They're scheming! How could he sit there and write as if eating ice cream with another girl was a perfectly normal thing to do! That was as bad as—well, something pretty bad, at least! As for looking at her watercolors… He's just a boy you happen to write to, said her Third Thoughts. Yes, well… Yes, well…what? her Third Thoughts persisted. They were getting on Tiffany's nerves. Your own brains ought to have the decency to be on your side! Just "Yes, well…" okay? she thought angrily. You're not being very sensible about this. Oh, really? Well, I've been sensible all day! I've been sensible for years! I think I'm owed five minutes of being really unreasonably angry, don't you? There's some casserole downstairs, and you haven't eaten since breakfast, said her Third Thoughts. You'll feel better after you've eaten something. How can I eat stew when people are looking at watercolors? How dare he look at watercolors! But her Third Thoughts were right—not that this made things any better. If you're going to be angry and miserable, you might as well be so on a full stomach. She went downstairs and found the casserole in the oven. It smelled good. Nothing but the best for dear ol' Mum. She opened the cutlery drawer for a spoon. The drawer stuck. She rattled it, pulled at it, and swore a few times, but it stayed stuck. "Oh, yes, go ahead," said a voice behind her. "See how much help that is. Don't be sensible and stick your hand under the top and carefully free up the stuck item. Oh no. Rattle and curse, that's the way!" Tiffany turned. There was a skinny, tired-looking woman standing by the kitchen table. She seemed to be wearing a sheet draped around her and was smoking a cigarette. Tiffany had never seen a woman smoke a cigarette before, but especially never a cigarette that burned with a fat red flame and gave off sparks. "Who are you, and what are you doing in Mrs. Ogg's kitchen?" Tiffany said sharply. This time it was the woman who looked surprised. "You can hear me?" she said. "And see me?"