《I SHALL WEAR MIDNIGHT》vernon

12、THE SIN O’ SINS THE S

　　THE 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 arose26. 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 marryyou.’
　　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 envyyou 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 twentyyears 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, butthis 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 sayye 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 sayyou 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.