《I SHALL WEAR MIDNIGHT》vernon

14、BURNING THE KING TIFFA

　　TIFFANY 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 byyou.’
　　‘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 byyou, 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 marryyou, 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 sayyou, 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 repayyou 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?’