《I SHALL WEAR MIDNIGHT》vernon

9、THE DUCHESS AND THE COOK TIFFA

　　TIFFANY LIKED FLYING. What she objected to was being in the air, at least at a height greater than her own head. She did it anyway, because it was ridiculous and unbecoming to witchcraft in general to be seen flying so low that her boots scraped the tops off ant hills. People laughed, and sometimes pointed. But now, navigating the stick through the ruined houses

　　and gloomy, bubbling pools, she ached for the open sky. It was a relief when she slid out from behind a stack of broken mirrors to see good clean daylight, despite the fact that she had emerged next to a sign which said: IF YOU ARE CLOSE ENOUGH TO READ THIS SIGN, YOU REALLY, REALLY, SHOULDN’T BE.
　　That was the last straw. She tipped the stick until it was leaving a groove in the mud behind it, and ascended like a rocket, clinging desperately to the strap, which was creaking, to avoid slipping off. She heard a small voice say, ‘We are experiencing some turbulence,ye ken. If ye look to the right and tae the left ye will see that there are no emergency exits—’
　　The speaker was interrupted by another voice, which said, ‘In point o’ fact, Rob, the stick has got emergency exits all round,ye ken.’
　　‘Oh aye,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘but there is such a thing as style, OK? Just waiting until ye have nearly hit the ground and stepping off makes us look like silly billys.’
　　Tiffany hung on, trying not to listen, and also trying not to kick Feegles, who had no sense of danger, feeling as they always did that they were more dangerous than anything else.
　　Finally she had the broomstick flying level and risked a look down. There seemed to be a fight going on outside whatever it was they were going to decide was the new name of the
　　King’s Head, but you couldn’t see any sign of Mrs Proust. The witch of the city was a woman of resource, wasn’t she? Mrs Proust could look after herself.
　　Mrs Proust was looking after herself, by running very fast. She hadn’t waited a second once she sensed the danger, but headed for the nearest alley as the smog rose around her. The city was always full of smokes and smogs and fumes, easy work for a witch who had the knack. They were the breath of the city, and its halitosis, and she could play them like a foggy piano. And now she leaned against a wall and got some breath of her own.
　　She had felt it building up like a thunderstorm in a city that was normally remarkably easy-going. Any woman who even looked like a witch was becoming a target. She had to hope that old and ugly women everywhere were going to be as safe as she was.
　　A moment later, a couple of men burst out of the smog, one of them holding a large stick;
　　the other one didn’t need a stick, because he was huge and therefore was his own stick.
　　As the man with the stick ran towards her, Mrs Proust tapped her foot on the pavement and the stone under the man’s feet tilted up, tripping him so that he landed safely on his chin with a crack, the stick rolling away.
　　Mrs Proust folded her arms and glared at the heavy man. He wasn’t as stupid as his friend, but his fists were opening and closing and she knew it would only be a matter of time. She tapped her foot on the stones again before he plucked up courage.
　　The big man was trying to work out what might happen next, but didn’t expect the equestrian statue23 of Lord Alfred Rust – famed for bravely and valiantly losing every military engagement in which he had ever taken part – to gallop out of the fog on bronze hooves and kick him so hard between the legs that he flew backwards and knocked his head on a lamppost before sliding to the ground.
　　Mrs Proust then recognized him as a customer who sometimes bought itching powder
　　and exploding cigars from Derek; it didn’t do to kill customers. She picked him up, groaning, by his hair, and whispered into his ear, ‘You weren’t here. Nor was I. Nothing happened, and you did not see it.’ She thought for a moment and, because business is business added, ‘And when you next go past Boffo’s Joke Emporium,you will be taken with its range of extremely droll, practical jokes for all the family, and this week’s new “Pearls of the Pavement” naughty Fido jokes for the connoisseur who takes his laughter seriously. I look forward to the pleasure of your

　　custom. P.S. our new range of “thunderbolt” exploding cigars are a laugh a minute, and please do try our hilariously funny rubber chocolate. Take a moment also to browse in our new
　　gentlemen’s necessaries department for all that is best in moustache waxes, moustache cups,
　　cut-throat razors, a range of first-class snuffs, ebony-backed nose-hair clippers and our ever-popular glandular trousers, supplied in a plain wrapper and limited to one pair per customer.’
　　Satisfied, Mrs Proust let the head fall backwards and was forced to accept that unconscious people don’t buy anything, so she turned her attention to the previous owner of the stick, who was groaning. Well,yes, it was the fault of the man with no eyes, she thought, and perhaps that might be an excuse, but Mrs Proust wasn’t known for her forgiving nature. ‘Poison goes where poison’s welcome,’ she said to herself. She snapped her fingers, then climbed onto the bronze horse, taking a cold but comfortable seat in the late Lord Rust’s metal lap. Clanking and groaning, the bronze horse walked away into the bank of smog that followed Mrs Proust all the way back to her shop.
　　Back in the alleyway, though, it seemed to be snowing, until you realized that what was falling from the sky onto the unconscious bodies had previously been in the stomachs of the pigeons who were now flocking in from every quarter of the city at Mrs Proust’s command. She heard them and smiled grimly. ‘In this neighbourhood we don’t just watch!’ she said with satisfaction.
　　Tiffany felt better when the reek and smoke of the city was behind them again. How do they live with the smell? she wondered. It’s worse than a Feegle’s spog. 24
　　But now there were fields below her, and although the smoke from the burning stubbles reached this high, it was a fragrance compared to the world within the city walls.
　　And Eskarina Smith lived there … well, sometimes lived there! Eskarina Smith! She really was real! Tiffany’s mind raced almost as fast as the broomstick itself. Eskarina Smith! Every witch had heard something about her, but no two witches agreed.
　　Miss Tick had said that Eskarina was the girl that got a wizard’s staff by mistake!
　　The first witch ever trained by Granny Weatherwax! Who got her into Unseen University by giving the wizards there a piece of her – that is to say, Granny Weatherwax’s – mind. Quite a large piece, if you listened to some of the stories, which included tales of magical battles.
　　Miss Level had assured Tiffany that she was some kind of fairy story. Miss Treason had changed the subject.
　　Nanny Ogg had tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially and whispered, ‘Least said,
　　soonest mended.’
　　And Annagramma had loftily assured all the young witches that Eskarina had existed, but was dead.
　　But there was one story that just would not go away and curled around truth and lies like honeysuckle. It told the world that the young Eskarina had met at the University a young man called Simon who, it seemed, had been cursed by the gods with almost every possible ailment that mankind was prone to. But, because the gods have a sense of humour, even though it’s a rather strange one, they had granted him the power to understand – well – everything. He could barely walk without assistance, but was so brilliant that he managed to keep the whole universe in his head.
　　Wizards with beards that went down to the floor would flock to hear him talk about space and time and magic as if they were all part of the same thing. And young Eskarina had fed him and cleaned him and helped him get about and learned from him – well – everything.

　　And, the rumours went, that she had learned secrets that made the mightiest of magics look like nothing more than conjuring tricks. And the story was true! Tiffany had talked to it and had cupcakes with it, and there really was a woman, then, who could walk through time and make it take orders from her. Wow!
　　Yes, and there was something very strange about Eskarina – a sense not that she wasn’t all there, but that somehow she was everywhere else at the same time; and at this point Tiffany saw the Chalk on the skyline, shadowy and mysterious, like a beached whale. It was still a long way off, but her heart leaped. That was her ground; she knew every inch of it, and part of her was always there. She could face anything there. How could the Cunning Man, some old ghost, beat her on her own ground? She had family there, more than she could count, and friends, more than … well, not so many now that she was a witch, but that was the way of the world.
　　Tiffany was aware of somebody climbing up her dress. This was not the problem it might have been; a witch would not, of course, dream of not wearing a dress, but if you were going to ride on a broomstick you definitely invested in some really tough pants, if possible with some padding. It made your bum look bigger but it also made it warmer, and at a hundred feet above the ground, fashion rather took second place to comfort. She glanced down. There was a Feegle there, wearing a watchman’s helmet, which appeared to have been hammered out of the top of an old salt cellar, an equally small breastplate and, amazingly, trousers and boots. You never normally saw boots on a Feegle.
　　‘You’re Wee Mad Arthur, aren’t you? I saw you at the King’s Head! You’re a policeman!’
　　‘Oh aye.’ Wee Mad Arthur grinned a grin that was pure Feegle. ‘It’s a grand life in the
　　Watch, and the money is good. A penny goes a lot further when it buys you food for a week!’
　　‘So are you coming over here to keep our lads in order? Are you planning to stay?’
　　‘Oh no, I dinnae believe so. I like the city,ye ken. I like coffee that is nae made from them wee acorns and I goes to the theatre and the opera and the ballet.’ The broomstick wobbled a little. Tiffany had heard of ballet, and had even seen pictures in a book, but it was a word that somehow did not fit in any sentence which included the word ‘Feegle’.
　　‘Ballet?’ she managed.
　　‘Oh aye, it’s grand! Last week I saw Swan on a Hot Tin Lake, a reworking of a traditional theme by one of our up-and-coming young performance artists; and the day after that, of course, there was a reinterpretation of Die Flabbergast at the Opera House; and ye ken, they had a whole week of porcelain at the Royal Art Museum, with a free thimble of sherry. Oh aye, it’s the city of culture, right enough.’
　　‘Are you sure that you are a Feegle?’ said Tiffany in a fascinated voice.
　　‘That’s what they tell me, miss. There is nae law says I cannot be interested in culture, is there? I told the lads that when I go back I will take them along to see the ballet for themselves.’
　　The stick seemed to fly itself for a while as Tiffany stared at nothing, or rather at a mental picture of Feegles in a theatre. She had never been inside one herself, but she had seen pictures and the thought of Feegles among ballerinas was so unthinkable that it was better to just let her mind boggle and then forget about it. She remembered in time that she had a broomstick to land, and brought it down very neatly near the mound.
　　To her shock there were guards outside it. Human guards.
　　She stared in disbelief. The Baron’s guards never came up onto the downland. Never! It was unheard of! And … she felt the anger rising – one of them was holding a shovel.
　　She jumped off the stick so fast that it was left to skim over the turf, scattering Feegles

　　until it fetched up against an obstruction, shaking off the last few Feegles that had managed to hang on.
　　‘You hold onto that shovel, Brian Roberts!’ she screamed at the sergeant of the guard. ‘If
　　you let it cut the turf there will be a reckoning! How dare you! Why are you here? And nobody is to cut anybody into pieces, do you all understand?’
　　This last order was to the Feegles, who had surrounded the men with a ring of small, but ever so sharp, swords. A Feegle claymore was so sharp that a human might not know his legs
　　had been cut off until he tried to walk. The guards themselves suddenly had the look of men who knew they were supposed to be big and strong but were now faced with the realization that ‘big’ or ‘strong’ wouldn’t be nearly enough. They’d heard the stories, of course – oh yes, everyone on the Chalk had heard the stories about Tiffany Aching and her little … helpers. But they had only been stories, hadn’t they? Until now. And they were threatening to run up their trousers.
　　In a shocked silence, Tiffany looked around, panting for breath. Everyone was watching her now, which was better than everyone fighting, wasn’t it?
　　‘Very well,’ she said like a schoolteacher who is only just satisfied with the naughty
　　class. She added a sniff, which would usually be translated to mean: I’m only just satisfied, mark you. She sniffed again. ‘Very well, then. Is anybody going to tell me what’s going on here?’
　　The sergeant actually raised his hand. ‘Can I have a word in private, miss?’ Tiffany was
　　impressed that he had even been able to speak, given that his mind was trying to suddenly make sense of what his eyes were telling him.
　　‘Very well, follow me.’ She spun round suddenly, causing both guards and Feegles to jump. ‘And nobody, and I mean nobody, is to dig up anybody’s home or cut off anybody’s legs while we are gone, is that understood? I said, is that understood?’ There was a mumbled chorus of yeses and oh ayes, but it didn’t include one from the face she was looking down at. Rob Anybody was trembling with rage and crouching ready to spring. ‘Did you hear me, Rob Anybody?’
　　He glared at her, eyes ablaze. ‘I will give ye nae promise on that score, miss, hag though you may be! Where is my Jeannie? Where are the others? These scunners hae swords! What were they going to do with them? I will have an answer!’
　　‘Listen to me, Rob,’ Tiffany began, but stopped. Rob Anybody’s face was dripping tears, and he was pulling desperately at his beard as he fought the horrors of his own imagination. They were an inch from a war, Tiffany reckoned.
　　‘Rob Anybody! I am the hag o’ these hills and I put an oath on you not to kill these men
　　until I tell you to! Understand?’
　　There was a crash as one of the guards fell over backwards in a faint. Now the girl was talking to the creatures! And about killing them! They weren’t used to this sort of thing. Usually the most exciting thing that happened was that the pigs got into the vegetable garden.
　　The Big Man of the Feegles hesitated as his spinning brain digested Tiffany’s order. True, it wasn’t an order to kill anybody right now, but at least it held out the possibility that he might be able to do so very soon, so he could free his head from the terrible pictures in his mind. It was like holding a hungry dog on a leash of cobweb, but at least it bought her time.
　　‘You will see that the mound has not been touched,’ said Tiffany, ‘so whatever may have been intended has not yet been achieved.’ She turned back to the sergeant, who had gone white, and said, ‘Brian, if you want your men to live with all their arms and legs,you will tell them
　　right now, and very carefully, to put down their weapons. Your lives depend on the honour of one Feegle and he is driving himself mad with horror. Do it now!’

　　To Tiffany’s relief he gave the command, and the guards – glad to have their sergeant ordering them to do something that every atom in their bodies was telling them was exactly what they should be doing – dropped their weapons from their shaking hands. One even raised his arms in the universal sign of surrender. Tiffany pulled the sergeant a little way away from the glowering Feegles and whispered, ‘What do you think you are doing,you stupid idiot?’
　　‘Orders from the Baron, Tiff.’
　　‘The Baron? But the Baron is—’
　　‘Alive, miss. He’s been back for three hours. Drove through the night, they say. And people have been talking.’ He looked down at his boots. ‘We were … we were, well, we were sent up here to find the girl that you gave to the fairies. Sorry, Tiff.’
　　‘Gave? Gave?’
　　‘I didn’t say it, Tiff,’ said the sergeant, backing away, ‘but, well,you hear stories. I mean, no smoke without fire, right?’
　　Stories, thought Tiffany. Oh yes, once upon a time there was a wicked old witch … ‘And you think they apply to me, do you? Am I on fire or just smoking?’
　　The sergeant shifted uneasily and sat down. ‘Look, I’m just a sergeant, OK? The young
　　Baron’s given me orders,yes? And his word is law, right?’
　　‘He may be the law down there. Up here, it’s me. Look over there. Yes, there! What do you see?’
　　The man looked where she pointed and his face paled. The old cast-iron wheels and stove with its short chimney were clearly visible, even though a flock of sheep was happily grazing around them as usual. He leaped to his feet as if he had been sitting on an ant’s nest.
　　‘Yes,’ said Tiffany with some satisfaction. ‘Granny Aching’s grave. Remember her? People said she was a wise woman, but at least they had the decency to make up better stories about her! Proposing to cut the turf? I’m amazed that Granny doesn’t rise up through the turf and bite your bum! Now take your men down the hill a little way and I will sort this out,you understand? We don’t want anyone to get jumpy.’
　　The sergeant nodded. It was not as if he had any other option.
　　As the guards moved away, dragging their unconscious colleague with them and trying not to look like, well, guards who were turning a walk away as closely into a running away as was possible, Tiffany knelt down by Rob Anybody and lowered her voice.
　　‘Look, Rob, I know about the secret tunnels.’
　　‘What scunner told ye about the secret tunnels?’
　　‘I am the hag o’ the hills, Rob,’ said Tiffany soothingly. ‘Shouldn’t I know about the tunnels? You are Feegles, and no Feegle will sleep in a house with only one entrance, right?’
　　The Feegle was calming down a bit now. ‘Oh aye,ye have a point there.’
　　‘Then can I please suggest you go and fetch young Amber? Nobody is going to touch the mound.’
　　After a little hesitation, Rob Anybody sprang into the entrance hole and was gone. It took some time for him to return – time Tiffany thankfully used by getting the sergeant to come back and help her gather up the guards’ dropped weapons – and when Rob did resurface he was accompanied by a great many more Feegles and the kelda. And also by a rather reluctant Amber, who blinked nervously in the daylight and said, ‘Oh, crivens!’
　　Tiffany knew that her own smile was false when she said, ‘I’ve come to take you home, Amber.’ Well, at least I’m not stupid enough to say something like ‘Won’t that be nice?’ she added to herself.

　　Amber glared at her. ‘Ye willnae get me back in that place,’ she announced, ‘and ye can stick it where the monkey put his jumper!’
　　And I don’t blame you, thought Tiffany, but now I can pass for being a grown-up and I
　　have to say some stupid grown-up things …
　　‘But you do have a mother and father, Amber. I’m sure they miss you.’ She winced at the look of scorn the girl gave her.
　　‘Oh aye, and if the old scunner misses me he’ll aim another blow!’
　　‘Maybe we can go together, and help him change his ways?’ Tiffany volunteered, despising herself, but the image of those thick fingers heavy with nettle stings from that awful bouquet wouldn’t go away.
　　This time Amber actually laughed. ‘Sorry, mistress, but Jeannie told me you were clever.’
　　What was it that Granny Weatherwax had said once? ‘Evil begins when you begin to treat people as things.’ And right now it would happen if you thought there was a thing called a father, and a thing called a mother, and a thing called a daughter, and a thing called a cottage, and told yourself that if you put them all together you had a thing called a happy family.
　　Aloud, she said, ‘Amber, I want you to come with me to see the Baron, so that he knows you are safe. After that,you can do as you please. That’s a promise.’
　　Tiffany felt a knocking on her boot, and looked down at the kelda’s worried face. ‘Can I have a wee word with ye?’ said Jeannie. Beside her, Amber was crouching down so that she could hold the kelda’s other hand.
　　Then Jeannie spoke again, if it was speech, and not song. But what could you sing that stayed in the air, so that the next note twisted around it? What could be sung that seemed to be a living sound that sung itself right back to you?
　　And then the song was gone, leaving only a hole and a loss.
　　‘That’s a kelda song,’ said Jeannie. ‘Amber heard me singing it to the little ones. It’s part of the soothings, and she understood it, Tiffany! I gave her nae help but she understood it! I know the Toad has tol’ ye this. But do ye ken what I am telling ye now? She recognizes
　　meaning, and learns it. She is as close to being a kelda as any human could be. She is a treasure not to be thrown away! ‘
　　The words came out with unusual force for the kelda, who was usually so softly spoken. And Tiffany recognized it as helpful information that, ever so nicely, was a kind of threat.
　　Even the journey off the downland and into the village had to be negotiated. Tiffany,
　　holding Amber by the hand, walked past the waiting guards and continued on, much to the embarrassment of the sergeant. After all, if you have been sent to bring somebody in, then you
　　are going to look pretty silly if they go and bring themselves in by, as it were, themselves. But on the other hand, if Tiffany and Amber walked behind the guards, it looked as though they were being driven; this was sheep country, after all, and everybody knew, didn’t they, that the sheep walked in front and a shepherd walked behind.
　　Finally they compromised on a rather awkward method where they all moved forward with a certain amount of revolving and shuffling that made it look as if they were travelling by square dance. Tiffany had to spend a lot of the time stopping Amber from giggling.
　　That was the funny part. It would have been nice if the funny part could have lasted

　　longer.

　　‘Look, I was only told to fetch the girl,’ said the sergeant desperately as they walked

　　through the castle gates. ‘You don’t have to come.’ He said this in a way which meant: Please,

　　please, don’t barge in and show me up in front of my new boss. But it didn’t work.
　　The castle was what was once called a-bustle, which meant extremely busy, with cross people running around at cross purposes in every direction except straight up. There was going to be a funeral and then there was going to be a wedding, and two big occasions so close together could test the resources of a small castle to the utmost, especially since people who would come
　　a long way for one would probably stay for the other, saving time but causing extra work for everybody. But Tiffany was glad for the absence, now, of Miss Spruce, who had been altogether too unpleasant by half and had never been one to get her hands dirty.
　　And then there would always be the problem of seating. Most of the guests would be aristocrats, and it was vitally important that no one had to sit next to somebody who was related
　　to someone who had killed one of their ancestors at some time in the past. Given that the past is a very big place, and taking into account the fact that everybody’s ancestors were generally trying to kill everybody else’s ancestors, for land, money or something to do, it needed very careful trigonometry to avoid another massacre taking place before people had finished their soup.
　　None of the servants seemed to pay any particular attention to Tiffany, Amber or the guards, though at one point Tiffany thought she saw someone making one of those tiny little
　　signs people make when they think they need protection from evil – here, in her place!– and she had the strong feeling that somehow the people were not paying attention in a very definite way of not paying attention, as if looking at Tiffany might be dangerous to the health. When Tiffany and Amber were ushered into the Baron’s study, it seemed that he was not going to take much notice of them either. He was bent over a sheet of paper that covered the whole of his desk, and was holding in his hand a bundle of different coloured pencils.
　　The sergeant coughed, but even choking to death would not have shaken the Baron’s concentration. Finally, Tiffany shouted ‘Roland!’ quite loudly. He spun round, his face red with embarrassment and a side order of anger.
　　‘I would prefer “my lord”, Miss Aching,’ he said sharply.
　　‘And I would prefer “Tiffany”, Roland,’ said Tiffany, with a calmness that she knew annoyed him.
　　He laid down his pencils with a click. ‘The past is past, Miss Aching, and we are different people. It would be just as well if we remembered that, don’t you think?’
　　‘The past was onlyyesterday,’ said Tiffany, ‘and it would be just as well if you remembered that there was a time when I called you Roland and you called me Tiffany, don’t you think?’ She reached up to her neck and pulled off the necklace with the silver horse that he had given her. It felt like a hundred years ago now, but this necklace had been important. She had even stood up to Granny Weatherwax for this necklace! And now she held the necklace like an accusation. ‘The past needs to be remembered. If you do not know where you come from, then you don’t know where you are, and if you don’t know where you are, then you don’t know where you’re going.’
　　The sergeant looked from one to the other, and with that instinct for survival that any soldier develops by the time he’s become a sergeant, decided to leave the room before things started getting thrown.
　　‘I’ll just go and see to the, er … the … things that need seeing to, if that’s OK?’ he said, opening and closing the door so quickly that it slammed back tightly on the last syllable. Roland stared at it for a moment, and then turned.
　　‘I know where I am, Miss Aching. I am standing in my father’s shoes, and he is dead. I
　　have been running this estate for years, but everything I did, I did in his name. Why did he die,

　　Miss Aching? He wasn’t all that old. I thought you could do magic!’
　　Tiffany looked down at Amber, who was listening with interest. ‘Is this best discussed later?’ she said. ‘You wanted your men to bring you this girl, and here she is, healthy in mind and body. And I did not, as you say, give her to the fairies: she was a guest of the Nac Mac Feegle, whose help you have had on more than one occasion. And she went back there of her own free will.’ She looked carefully at Roland’s face, and said, ‘You don’t remember them, do you?’
　　She could see that he didn’t, but his mind was struggling with the fact that there was definitely something that he should have remembered. He was a prisoner of the Fairy Queen, Tiffany reminded herself. Forgetfulness can be a blessing, but I wonder what horrors were in his mind when the Pettys told him that she had taken their girl to the Feegles. To fairies. How could I imagine what he felt?
　　She softened her voice a little. ‘You remember something vague about fairies,yes? Nothing bad, I hope, but nothing very clear, as if perhaps it was something you read in a book, or a story that somebody told you when you were little. Am I right?’
　　He glowered at her, but the spill word that he had strangled on his lips told her that she
　　was right.
　　‘They call it the last gift,’ she said. ‘It’s part of the soothings. It is for when it is best for everybody that you forget things that were too awful, and also the things that were too wonderful. I’m telling you this, my lord, because Roland is still in there somewhere. By tomorrow you will forget even what I have told you. I don’t know how it works, but it works for nearly everybody.’
　　‘You took the child from her parents! They came to see me as soon as I arrived this morning! Everyone came to see me this morning! Did you kill my father? Did you steal money from him? Did you try to throttle old Petty? Did you beat him with nettles? Did you fill his cottage with demons? I can’t believe I just asked you that question, but Mrs Petty appears to think so! Personally, I don’t know what to think, especially since some fairy woman might be messing around with my thoughts! Do you understand me?’
　　While Tiffany was trying to put together some kind of coherent answer, he flopped down in the ancient chair behind the desk and sighed.
　　‘I have been told you were standing over my father with a poker in your hand, and that you demanded money from him,’ he said sadly.
　　‘That’s not true!’
　　‘And would you tell me if it was?’
　　‘No! Because there never would be a was! I would never do such a thing! Well, perhaps I
　　was standing over him …’
　　‘Ah-ha!’
　　‘Don’t you dare ah-ha me, Roland, don’t you dare! Look, I know people have been telling you things, but they are not true.’
　　‘But you just admitted that you were standing over him,yes?’
　　‘It’s simply that he wanted me to show him how I keep my hands clean!’ She regretted this as soon as she said it. It was true, but what did that matter? It didn’t sound true. ‘Look, I can see that it—’
　　‘And you didn’t steal a bag of money?’
　　‘No!’
　　‘And you don’t know anything about a bag of money?’

　　‘Yes,your father asked me to take one out of the metal chest. He wanted to—’ Roland interrupted her. ‘Where is that money now?’ His voice was flat and without
　　expression.
　　‘I have no idea,’ said Tiffany. And as his mouth opened again, she shouted, ‘No! You
　　will listen, understand? Sit there and listen! I attended your father for the better part of two years. I liked the old man and I would do nothing to hurt him or you. He died when it was his time to die. When that time comes, there is nothing anyone can do.’
　　‘Then what is magic for?’
　　Tiffany shook her head. ‘Magic, as you call it, kept the pain away, and don’t you dare think that it came without a price! I have seen people die, and I promise you your father died well, and thinking of happy days.’
　　Tears were streaming down Roland’s face, and she sensed his anger at being seen like that, stupid anger, as if tears made him less of a man and less of a baron.
　　She heard him mutter, ‘Can you take away this grief?’
　　‘I’m sorry,’ she replied quietly. ‘Everyone asks me. And I would not do so even if I knew how. It belongs to you. Only time and tears take away grief; that is what they are for.’
　　She stood up and took Amber’s hand; the girl was watching the Baron intently.
　　‘I’m going to take Amber home with me,’ Tiffany announced, ‘and you look as if you need a decent sleep.’
　　This didn’t get a response. He sat there, staring at the paperwork as if hypnotized by it. That wretched nurse, she thought. I might have known she would make trouble. Poison goes where poison’s welcome, and in Miss Spruce’s case, it would have been welcomed with cheering crowds and possibly a small brass band. Yes, the nurse would have invited the Cunning Man in. She was exactly the sort of person who would let him in, give him power, envious power, jealous power, prideful power. But I know I haven’t done anything wrong, she told herself. Or have I? I can only see my life from the inside, and I suppose that on the inside nobody does anything wrong. Oh, blast it! Everybody brings their troubles to the witch! But I can’t blame the Cunning Man for everything people have said. I just wish there was somebody– other than Jeannie – to talk to who would take no notice of the pointy hat. So what do I do now? Yes, what do I do now, Miss Aching? What would you advise, Miss Aching, who is so good at making decisions for
　　other people? Well, I would advise that you get some sleep as well. You didn’t sleep too well last night, what with Mrs Proust being a champion snorer, and an awful lot has happened since then. Also, I cannot remember when you last ate regular meals, and may I also point out that you are talking to yourself?
　　She looked down at Roland slumped in the chair, his gaze far away. ‘I said I am taking
　　Amber home with me for now.’
　　Roland shrugged. ‘Well, I can hardly stop you, can I?’ he said sarcastically. ‘You are the

　　witch.’

　　***
　　Tiffany’s mother uncomplainingly made up a bed for Amber, and Tiffany dropped off to

　　sleep in her own bed at the other end of the big bedroom.
　　She woke up on fire. Flames filled the entire room, flickering orange and red but burning as gently as the kitchen stove. There was no smoke, and although the room felt warm, nothing was actually burning. It was as if fire had just dropped in for a friendly visit, not for business. Its flames rustled.
　　Enthralled, Tiffany held a finger to the flame and raised it as if the little flame was as

　　harmless as a baby bird. It seemed to get colder but she blew on it anyway, and it plopped back into life.
　　Tiffany got carefully out of the burning bed, and if this was a dream it was making a very
　　good job of the tinkles and pings that the ancient bed traditionally made. Amber was lying peacefully on the other bed under a blanket of flame; as Tiffany watched, the girl turned over and the flames moved with her.
　　Being a witch meant that you didn’t simply run around shouting just because your bed was on fire. After all, it was no ordinary fire, a fire that did not harm. So it’s in my head, she thought. Fire that does no harm. The hare runs into the fire … Somebody is trying to tell me something.
　　Silently, the flames went out. There was an almost imperceptible blur of movement in the window and she sighed. The Feegles never gave up. Ever since she was nine years old, she had known that they watched over her at night. They still did, which was why she bathed in a
　　hip-bath behind a sheet. In all probability she hadn’t got anything that the Nac Mac Feegles would be interested in looking at, but it made her feel better.
　　The hare runs into the fire … It certainly sounded like a message that she had to work
　　out, but who from? From the mysterious witch who had been watching her, maybe? Omens were all very well, but sometimes it would help if people just wrote things down! It never paid,
　　though, to ignore those little thoughts and coincidences: those sudden memories, little whims. Quite often they were another part of your mind, trying hard to get a message through to you – one that you were too busy to notice. But it was bright daylight outside and puzzles could wait. Other things couldn’t. She’d start at the castle.
　　‘My dad beat me up, didn’t he?’ said Amber in a matter-of-fact voice as they walked towards the grey towers. ‘Did my baby die?’
　　‘Yes.’
　　‘Oh,’ said Amber in the same flat voice.
　　‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m sorry.’
　　‘I can sort of remember, but not exactly,’ said Amber. ‘It’s all a bit … fuzzy.’
　　‘That’s the soothings working. Jeannie has been helping you.’
　　‘I understand,’ said the girl.
　　‘You do?’ said Tiffany.
　　‘Yes,’ said Amber. ‘But my dad, is he going to get into trouble?’
　　He would if I told how I found you, Tiffany thought. The wives would see to it. The village people had a robust attitude to the punishing of boys, who almost by definition were imps of mischief and needed to be tamed, but hitting a girl that hard? Not good. ‘Tell me about your young man,’ she said aloud instead. ‘He is a tailor, isn’t he?’
　　Amber beamed, and Amber could light up the world with a smile.
　　‘Oh yes! His grandad learned him a lot before he died. He can make just about anything out of cloth, can my William. Everyone around here says he should be put to an apprenticeship and he’d be a master himself in a few years.’ Then she shrugged. ‘But masters want paying for the learning of the knowing, and his mum is never going to find the money to buy him an indenture. Oh, but my William has wonderful fine fingers, and he helps his mum with the sewing of her corsets and making beautiful wedding dresses. That means working with satins and suchlike,’ said the girl proudly. ‘And William’s mum is much complimented on the fineness of the stitching!’ Amber beamed with second-hand pride. Tiffany looked at the glowing face, where the bruises, despite the kelda’s soothing touch, were still quite plain.

　　So the boyfriend is a tailor, she thought. To big beefy men like Mr Petty, a tailor was hardly a man at all, with his soft hands and indoor work. And if he stitched clothes for ladies too, well, that was even more shame that the daughter would be bringing to the unhappy little family.
　　‘What do you want to do now, Amber?’ she said.
　　‘I’d like to see my mum,’ said the girl promptly.
　　‘But supposing you meet your dad?’
　　Amber turned to her. ‘Then I’ll understand … please don’t do anything nasty to him, like turn him into a pig or something?’
　　A day as a pig might help him mend his ways, thought Tiffany. But there was something of the kelda in the way that Amber had said, ‘I’ll understand.’ A shining light in a dark world.
　　Tiffany had never seen the gates of the castle closed shut except at night. By day it was a mixture of the village hall, a place for the carpenter and the blacksmith to set up shop, a space for the children to play in when it rained and, for that matter, for temporarily storing the harvests of hay and wheat, at those times when the barns alone could not cope. There wasn’t much room in even the biggest cottage; if you wanted a bit of peace and quiet, or somewhere to think, or somebody to talk to,you wandered over to the castle. It always worked.
　　At least by now the shock of the new Baron’s return had worn off, but the place was still humming with activity when Tiffany entered, but it was rather subdued and people were not talking very much. Possibly the reason for this was the Duchess, Roland’s mother-in-law-to-be, who was striding around in the great hall and occasionally prodding people with a stick. Tiffany didn’t believe it the first time that she saw it, but there it was again – a shiny black stick with a silver knob on the end with which she prodded a maid carrying a basket of laundry. It was only
　　at this point that Tiffany noticed, too, the future bride trailing behind her mother as if she was too embarrassed to go much closer to somebody who prodded people with sticks.
　　Tiffany was going to protest, and then felt curious as she glanced around. She stepped back a few paces and let herself disappear. It was a knack and a knack that she was good at. It wasn’t invisibility, just that people didn’t notice you. All unseen, she drifted close enough to hear what the pair of them were saying, or at least what the mother was saying and the daughter was listening to.
　　The Duchess was complaining. ‘Been allowed to go to rack and ruin. Really, it needs a thorough overhaul! You cannot afford to be lax in a place like this! Firmness is everything! Heaven knows what this family thought it was doing!’
　　Her speech was punctuated by the whack of the stick on the back of another maid who
　　was hurrying, but clearly not hurrying fast enough, under the weight of a basket full of laundry.
　　‘You must be rigorous in your duty to see that they are equally rigorous in theirs,’ the Duchess went on, scanning the hall for another target. ‘The laxity will stop. You see? You see? They do learn. You must never relax your guard in your pursuit of slovenliness, both in deed and manner. Do not suffer any undue familiarity! And that, of course, includes smiles. Oh,you may think, what could be so bad about a happy smile? But the innocent smile can so easily become a knowing smirk, and suggests perhaps the sharing of a joke. Are you listening to what I’m telling you?’
　　Tiffany was astonished. Single-handedly the Duchess had made her do something that she never thought she would do, which was to feel sorry for the bride-to-be, who at this point was standing in front of her mother like a naughty child.
　　Her hobby, and quite possibly one activity in life, was painting in watercolours, and although Tiffany was trying, against the worst of her instincts, to be generous to the girl, there

　　was no denying that she looked like a watercolour – and not just a watercolour, but a watercolour painted by someone who had not much colour but large supplies of water, giving her the impression of not only being colourless but also rather damp. You could add, too, that there was so little of her that in a storm it might be quite possible that she would snap. Unseen as she was, Tiffany felt just the tiniest pang of guilt and stopped inventing other nasty things to think. Besides, compassion was setting in, blast it!
　　‘Now, Letitia, recite again the little poem that I taught you,’ said the Duchess.
　　The bride-to-be, not just blushing but melting in embarrassment and shame, looked around like a stranded mouse on a great wide floor, uncertain of which way to run.
　　‘If you,’ her mother prompted irritably, and gave her a prod with the stick.
　　‘If you …’ the girl managed. ‘ If you … if you grasp the nettle lightly, it will sting you for your pain, but if you grasp the nettle boldly, soft as silk it will remain. So it is with human nature, treat them kindly, they rebel, but if you firmly grasp the nettle, then your bidding they do well.’
　　Tiffany realized, as the damp little voice faded away, that there was otherwise absolute silence in the hall and everybody was staring. She rather hoped that somebody might forget themselves sufficiently to start clapping, although that would probably mean the end of the world. Instead, the bride took one look at the open mouths and fled, sobbing, as fast as her very
　　expensive but seriously impractical shoes would carry her; Tiffany heard them clicking madly all
　　the way up the stairs, followed very shortly afterwards by the slamming of a door.
　　Tiffany walked away slowly, just a shadow in the air to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. She shook her head. Why had he done it? Why in the world had Roland done it? Roland could have married anyone! Not Tiffany herself, of course, but why had he chosen that, well – not to be unpleasant – skinny girl?
　　And her father had been a duke, her mother was a duchess and she was a duckling – well, one might try to be charitable, but she did tend to walk like one. Well, she did. If you looked carefullyyou could see her feet stuck out.
　　And if you cared about these things, the dreadful mother and the soppy daughter
　　outranked Roland! They could officially bully him!
　　The old Baron, now, had been a different sort of person. Oh yes, he liked it if the children gave a little bow or curtsied if he passed them in the lane, but he knew everybody’s name, and generally their birthdays as well, and he was always polite. Tiffany remembered him stopping
　　her one day and saying, ‘Would you be so kind as to ask your father to come and see me, please?’ It was such a gentle phrase for a man with such power.
　　Her mother and father used to argue about him, when they thought she was safely tucked up in bed. In between the symphony of the bedsprings she often heard them almost, but not exactly, having a row. Her father would say things like: ‘It’s all very well you saying he is generous and all that, but don’t you tell me that his ancestors didn’t get their money by grinding the faces of the poor!’ And her mother would retort: ‘I have never seen him grind anything! Anyway, that was the olden days. You’ve got to have someone to protect us. That stands to reason!’ And her father would come back with something along the lines of: ‘Protect us from who? Another man with a sword? I reckon we could do that by ourselves!’ And around this time the conversation would peter out, since her parents were still in love, in a comfortable type of way, and neither of them really wanted anything to change at all.
　　It seemed to her, looking down the length of the hall, that you didn’t need to grind the faces of the poor if you taught them to do their own grinding.
　　The shock of the thought made her giddy, but it stayed in her mind. The guards were all

　　local boys, or married to local girls, and what would happen if everybody in the village got together and said to the new Baron: ‘Look, we will let you stay here, and you can even sleep in the big bedroom, and of course we’ll give you all your meals and flick a duster around from time to time, but apart from that this land is ours now, do you understand?’ Would it work?
　　Probably not. But she remembered asking her father to get the old stone barn cleaned up. That would be a start. She had plans for the old barn.
　　‘You there! Yes! You there in the shadows! Are you lollygagging?’
　　This time she paid attention. All that thinking had meant that she hadn’t paid enough attention to her little don’t-see-me trick. She stepped out of the shadows, which meant that the pointy black hat was not just a shadow. The Duchess glared at it.
　　It was time for Tiffany to break the ice, even though it was so thick as to require an axe. She said politely, ‘I don’t know how to lollygag, madam, but I will do my best.’
　　‘What? What! What did you call me?’
　　The people in the hall were learning fast and they were scuttling as quickly as they could to get out of the place, because the Duchess’s tone of voice was a storm warning, and nobody likes to be out in a storm.
　　The sudden rage overtook Tiffany. It wasn’t as if she had done anything to deserve being shouted at like that. She said, ‘I’m sorry, madam; I did not call you anything, to the best of my belief.’
　　This did not do anything to help; the Duchess’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, I know you. The witch – the witch girl who followed us to the city on who knows what dark errand? Oh, we know about witches where I’m from! Meddlers, sowers of doubt, breeders of discontent, lacking all morality, and charlatans into the bargain!’
　　The Duchess pulled herself right up and glowered at Tiffany as if she had just won a decisive victory. She tapped her cane on the ground.
　　Tiffany said nothing, but nothing was hard to say. She could sense the watching servants behind curtains and pillars, or peering around doors. The woman was smirking, and really
　　needed that smirk removed, because Tiffany owed it to all witches to show the world that a witch could not be treated like this. On the other hand, if Tiffany spoke her mind it would certainly be taken out on the servants. This needed some delicate wording. It did not get it, because the old
　　bat gave a nasty little snigger and said, ‘Well, child? Aren’t you going to try to turn me into some kind of unspeakable creature?’
　　Tiffany tried. She really tried. But there are times when things are just too much. She
　　took a deep breath.
　　‘I don’t think I shall bother, madam, seeing as you are making such a good job of it yourself!’
　　The sudden silence was nevertheless peppered with little sounds like a guard behind a pillar sticking his hand over his mouth so that his shocked laughter would not be heard, and a splutter as – on the other side of a curtain – a maid almost achieved the same thing. But it was the tiny little click of a door high above that stayed in Tiffany’s memory. Was that Letitia? Had
　　she overheard? Well, it didn’t matter, because the Duchess was gloating now, with Tiffany safely in the palm of her hand.
　　She shouldn’t have risen to the stupid insults, whoever was listening. And now the woman was going to take terrible delight in making trouble for Tiffany, anyone near to her and quite probably everyone she’d ever known.
　　Tiffany felt chilly sweat running down her back. It had never been like this before – not

　　even with the wintersmith; not even Annagramma being unpleasant on a bad day; not even the Fairy Queen, who was good at spite. The Duchess beat them all: she was a bully, the kind of bully who forces her victim into retaliation, which therefore becomes the justification for further and nastier bullying, with collateral damage to any innocent bystanders who would be invited by the bully to put the blame for their discomfiture onto the victim.
　　The Duchess looked around the shadowy hall. ‘Is there a guard here?’ She waited in delighted malice. ‘I know there is a guard here somewhere!’
　　There was the sound of hesitant footsteps and Preston, the trainee guard, appeared from out of the shadows and walked a nervous walk towards Tiffany and the Duchess. Of course, it would have to be Preston, Tiffany thought; the other guards would be too experienced to risk a generous helping of the Duchess’s wrath. And he was smiling nervously too, not a good thing to do when dealing with people like the Duchess. At least he had the sense to salute when he reached her, and by the standards of people who had never been told how to salute properly, and in any case had to do so very rarely, it was a good salute.
　　The Duchess winced. ‘Why are you grinning,young man?’
　　Preston gave the question some serious thought, and said, ‘The sun is shining, madam, and I am happy being a guard.’
　　‘You will not grin at me,young man. Smiling leads to familiarity, which I will not
　　tolerate at any price. Where is the Baron?’
　　Preston shifted from one foot to the other. ‘He is in the crypt, madam, paying his respects to his father.’
　　‘You will not call me madam! “Madam” is a title for the wives of grocers! Nor can you call me “my lady”, which is a title for the wives of knights and other riffraff! I am a duchess and am therefore to be addressed as “your grace”. Do you understand?’
　　‘Yes … m … your grace!’ Preston threw in another salute in self-defence.
　　For a moment, at least, the Duchess seemed satisfied, but it was definitely among the shorter kinds of moments.
　　‘Very well. And now you will take this creature’ – she waved a hand towards Tiffany–
　　‘and lock her in your dungeon. Do you understand me?’
　　Shocked, Preston looked to Tiffany for guidance. She gave him a wink, just to keep his spirits up. He turned back to the Duchess.
　　‘Lock her in the dungeon?’
　　The Duchess glared at him. ‘That is what I said!’
　　Preston frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘It means taking the goats out.’
　　‘Young man, it is not my concern what you do with the goats! I order you to incarcerate this witch immediately! Now, get on with it, or I will see to it that you lose your position.’
　　Tiffany was already impressed with Preston, but now he won a medal. ‘Can’t do that,’ he said, ‘ ‘cause of happy ass. The sergeant told me all about it. Happy ass. Happy ass corp ass. Means you can’t just lock somebody away if they haven’t broken the law. Happy ass corp ass. It’s all written down. Happy ass corp ass,’ he repeated helpfully.
　　This defiance seemed to push the Duchess beyond rage and into some sort of fascinated horror. This spotty-faced youth in ill-fitting armour was defying her over some stupid words. Such a thing had never happened to her before. It was like finding out that frogs talked. That would be very fascinating and everything, but sooner or later a talking frog has to be squashed.
　　‘You will hand in your armour and leave this castle forthwith, do you understand? You
　　are sacked. You have lost your position and I will make it my business to see that you never get a

　　job as a guard ever again,young man.’
　　Preston shook his head. ‘Can’t happen like that,your lady grace.
　　’Cause of happy ass corp ass. The sergeant said to me, “Preston,you stick to happy ass corp ass. It is your friend. You can stand on happy ass corp ass.”’
　　The Duchess glared at Tiffany, and since Tiffany’s silence appeared to annoy her even more than anything she would have to say, she smiled and said nothing, in the hope that the Duchess might possibly explode. Instead, and as expected, she turned on Preston.
　　‘How dare you talk back to me like that,you scoundrel!’ She raised the shiny stick with the knob on it. But suddenly, it seemed immovable.
　　‘You will not hit him, madam,’ said Tiffany in a calm voice. ‘I will see your arm breaks before you strike him. We do not strike people in this castle.’
　　The Duchess snarled and tugged at the stick, but neither stick nor arm seemed to want to

　　move.

　　‘In a moment, the stick will come free,’ said Tiffany. ‘If you attempt to strike anyone

　　with it again, I will break it in half. Please understand that this is not a warning – it is a forecast.’ The Duchess glared at her, but must have seen something in Tiffany’s face that her own
　　resolute stupidity could worry about. She let go of the stick and it fell to the floor. ‘You have not heard the last of this, witch girl!’
　　‘Just witch, madam. Just witch,’ said Tiffany as the woman strutted at speed out of the

　　hall.

　　‘Are we going to get into trouble?’ said Preston quietly.
　　Tiffany gave a little shrug. ‘I will see to it that you don’t,’ she said. And she thought, And

　　so will the sergeant. I’ll make sure of it. She looked around the hall and saw the faces of the watching servants hurriedly turn away, as if they were afraid. There wasn’t any real magic, she thought. I just stood my ground. You have to stand your ground, because it’s your ground.
　　‘I was wondering,’ said Preston, ‘if you were going to turn her into a cockroach and stamp on her. I’ve heard that witches can do that,’ he added hopefully.
　　‘Well, I won’t say that it is impossible,’ said Tiffany, ‘but you won’t see a witch doing it. Besides, there are practical problems.’
　　Preston nodded sagely. ‘Well,yes,’ he said. ‘The different body mass for one thing, which would mean you would end up with either one enormous human-sized cockroach, which I think would probably collapse under its own weight, or dozens or even hundreds of
　　people-shaped cockroaches. But the snag there, I think, might be that their brain might work very
　　badly– though, of course, if you had the right spells, I suppose you could magic all the bits of the human that wouldn’t fit into the cockroach into some kind of big bucket so they could use it to get themselves bigger again when they were tired of being small. But the problem there would
　　be what happened if some hungry dog came along when the lid was off. That would be quite bad. Sorry, have I said something wrong?’
　　‘Er, no,’ said Tiffany. ‘Er, don’t you think that you’re a bit too smart to be a guard, Preston?’
　　Preston shrugged. ‘Well, the lads all think that I am useless,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They think that there’s got to be something wrong with someone who can pronounce the word “marvellous”.’
　　‘But, Preston … I know you are very clever and sufficiently erudite to know the meaning of the word “erudite”. Why do you sometimes pretend to be stupid – you know, like “doctrine” and “happy ass corp ass”?’

　　Preston grinned. ‘I was unfortunately born clever, miss, and I’ve learned that sometimes it’s not such a good idea to be all that clever. Saves trouble.’
　　Right now, it seemed to Tiffany that the clever thing would be not to be in the hall any
　　longer. Surely the horrible woman couldn’t do too much damage, could she? But Roland had been so strange, acting as if they had never been friends, sounding as though he believed every complaint against her … He had never been like that before. Oh,yes … he was mourning his father, but he just didn’t seem … himself. And that dreadful old baggage had just bundled off to harry him while he was saying goodbye to his father in the coolness of the crypt, trying to find a way of saying the words that there had never been time for, trying to make up for too much silence, trying to bring back yesterday and nail it firmly to now.
　　Everyone did that. Tiffany had come back from quite a few deathbeds, and some were very nearly merry, where some decent old soul was peacefully putting down the weight of their years. Or they could be tragic, when Death had needed to bend down to harvest his due; or, well, ordinary– sad but expected, one light blinking off in a sky full of stars. And she had wondered, as she made tea, and comforted people, and listened to the tearful stories about the good old days
　　from people who always had words left over that they thought should have been spoken. And she had decided that they weren’t there to be said in the past, but remembered in the here and now.
　　‘What do you think about the word “conundrum”?’
　　Tiffany stared at Preston, her mind still full of words people never said. ‘What was that you asked?’ she said, frowning.
　　‘The word “conundrum”,’ Preston repeated helpfully. ‘When you say the word, doesn’t it look in your head like a copper-coloured snake, curled up asleep?’
　　Now, Tiffany thought, during a day like this, anyone who wasn’t a witch would dismiss that as a bit of silliness, so that means I shouldn’t.
　　Preston was the worst-dressed guard in the castle; the newest guard always was. To him were given chain-mail trousers that were mostly full of holes 25 and suggested, against everything we know about moths, that moths could eat through steel. To him was given the helmet that, no matter what size your head was, would slide down and make your ears look big;
　　and this was not forgetting that he had also inherited a breastplate with so many holes in it that it might be more useful for straining soup.
　　But his gaze was always alert, to the point where it made people uneasy. Preston looked at things. Really looked at things, so intensely that afterwards they must have felt really looked at. She had no idea what went on in his head, but it was surely pretty crowded.
　　‘Well, I must say I’ve never thought about that word “conundrum”,’ she said slowly, ‘but it is certainly metallic and slithery.’
　　‘I like words,’ said Preston. ‘“Forgiveness”: doesn’t it sound like what it is? Doesn’t it sound like a silk handkerchief gently falling down? And what about “susurration”? Doesn’t it sound to you like whispered plots and dark mysteries? … Sorry, is something wrong?’
　　‘Yes, I think something may be wrong,’ said Tiffany, looking at Preston’s worried face.
　　‘Susurration’ was her favourite word; she had never met anyone else who even knew it. ‘Why are you a guard, Preston?’
　　‘Don’t like sheep very much, not very strong so I can’t be a ploughman, too ham-fisted to be a tailor, too scared of drowning to run away to sea. My mother taught me to read and write, much against my dad’s wishes, and since that meant I was no good for a proper job, I got packed off to be an apprentice priest in the Church of Om. I quite liked that; I learned a lot of interesting words, but they threw me out for asking too many questions, such as, “Is this really true or

　　what?”’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, I quite like the guarding.’ He reached down and pulled a book out of his breastplate, which in fact could have accommodated a small library, and went on,‘There’s plenty of time for reading if you keep out of sight, and the metaphysics is quite interesting as well.’
　　Tiffany blinked. ‘I think you just lost me there, Preston.’
　　‘Really?’ said the boy. ‘Well, for example, when I’m on night duty and somebody comes to the gate, I have to say “Who goes there, friend or foe?” To which, of course, the correct answer is “Yes”.’
　　It took Tiffany a moment to work this one out, and she began to have some insight into how Preston might have a problem holding down a job. He continued, ‘The conundrum begins if the person at the gate says “Friend”, since they may well be lying; but the lads who have to go out at night have very cleverly devised their own shibboleth with which to answer my question, and that is: “Get your nose out of that book, Preston, and let us in right now!”‘
　　‘“Shibboleth” being …?’ The boy was fascinating. It was not often you found somebody who could make nonsense sound wonderfully sensible.
　　‘A kind of code word,’ said Preston. ‘Strictly speaking, it means a word that your enemy would be unable to say. For example, in the case of the Duchess, it might be a good idea to choose a word like “please”.’
　　Tiffany tried not to laugh. ‘That brain of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, Preston.’
　　‘Well, so long as it’s good for something.’
　　There was a scream from the distant kitchen, and one thing that makes humans different from animals is that they run towards a distress call, rather than away from it. Tiffany arrived only seconds behind Preston, and even they weren’t the first. A couple of girls were comforting Mrs Coble the cook, who was sobbing on a chair while one of the girls was wrapping a kitchen towel around her arm. The floor was steaming and a black cauldron was lying on its side.
　　‘I tell you, they were there!’ the cook managed between sobs. ‘All wriggling. I shall always remember it. And kicking and crying out “Mother!” I shall remember their little faces for as long as I live!’ She began sobbing again, great big sobs that threatened to choke her. Tiffany beckoned to the nearest kitchen maid, who reacted as though she’d been struck and tried to
　　cower back.
　　‘Look,’ said Tiffany, ‘can someone please tell me what— What are you doing with that bucket?’ This was to another maid, who was dragging a bucket up from the cellar and who, at the sound of a command on top of the turmoil, dropped it. Shards of ice flew across the floor.
　　Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘Ladies,you don’t put ice on a scald, however sensible it seems. Cool some tea – but don’t make it cold – and soak her arm in it for at least a quarter of an hour. Everybody understand? Good. Now, what happened ?’
　　‘It was full of frogs!’ the cook screamed. ‘They was puddings and I set them to boiling, but when I opened it up, they was little frogs, all shouting for their mother! I told everyone, I told them! A wedding and a funeral from the same house, that’s bad luck, that is. It’s witchcraft,
　　that’s what it is!’ Then the woman gasped and clamped her free hand over her mouth.
　　Tiffany kept a straight face. She looked in the cauldron, and she looked around on the floor. There was no sign of any frogs anywhere, although there were two enormous puddings, still wrapped in their pudding cloths, at the bottom of the cauldron. When she picked them out, still very hot, and placed them on the table, she couldn’t help noticing that the maids backed away from them.

　　‘Perfectly good plum duff,’ she said cheerily. ‘Nothing to worry about here.’
　　‘I have often noticed,’ said Preston, ‘that in some circumstances, boiling water can seethe in a very strange way, with water droplets appearing to jump up and down just above the surface, which I might suggest is one reason why Mrs Coble thought she was seeing frogs?’ He leaned closer to Tiffany and whispered, ‘And another reason may quite possibly be that bottle of finest cream sherry I can see on the shelf over there, which appears to be almost empty, coupled with the lone glass noticeable in the washing-up bowl over there.’ Tiffany was impressed; she hadn’t noticed the glass.
　　Everyone was watching her. Somebody ought to have been saying something, and since nobody was, it had better be her.
　　‘I’m sure the death of our Baron has upset us all,’ she began, and got no further, because the cook sat bolt upright in the chair and pointed a trembling finger at her.
　　‘All except you,you creature!’ she accused. ‘I seed you, oh yes, I seed you! Everyone was sobbing and crying and wailing, but not you! Oh no! You were just strutting around, giving orders to your elders and betters! Just like your granny! Everybody knows! You was sweet on the young Baron, and when he chucked you over,you killed the old Baron, just to spite him! You was seen! Oh yes, and now the poor lad is beside himself with grief and his bride is in tears
　　and won’t come out of her room! Oh, how you must be laughing inside! People is saying that the
　　marriage should be put off! I’d bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? That would be a feather in your black hat, and no mistake! I remember when you were small, and then off you went up to the mountains, where the folks are so strange and wild, as everybody knows, and what comes back? Yes, what comes back? What comes back, knowing everything, acting so hoity-toity, treating us like dirt, tearing a young man’s life apart? And that ain’t the worst of it! You just talk to Mrs Petty! Don’t tell me about frogs! I know frogs when I sees them, and that’s what I saw! Frogs! They must—’
　　Tiffany stepped out of her body. She was good at this now, oh yes. Sometimes she practised the trick on animals, who were generally very hard to fool: even if only a mind seemed to be there, they got nervous and eventually ran away. But humans? Humans were easy to fool. Provided your body stayed where you left it, blinking its eyes, and breathing, and keeping its balance, and all the other little things bodies are good at doing even when you are not there, other humans thought you were.
　　And now she let herself drift towards the drunken cook, while she muttered and shouted and repeated herself, spitting out hurtful idiocies and bile and hatred, and also little flecks of spittle that stayed on her chins.
　　And now Tiffany could smell the stench. It was faint but it was there. She wondered: If I turn round, will I see two holes in a face? No, things weren’t that bad, surely. Perhaps he was just thinking about her. Should she run? No. She might be running to rather than from. He could be anywhere! But at least she could try to stop this mischief.
　　Tiffany was careful not to walk through people; it was possible, but even though she was in theory as insubstantial as a thought, walking through a person was like walking through a swamp – sticky and unpleasant and dark.
　　She had got past the kitchen girls, who seemed hypnotised; time always seemed to pass more slowly when she was out of her body.
　　Yes, the bottle of sherry was almost empty, and there was another empty one just visible behind a sack of potatoes. Mrs Coble herself reeked of it. She had always been partial to a drop of sherry, and possibly another drop as well; it could be a work-related illness among cooks,

　　along with three wobbly chins. But all that foul stuff? Where had that come from? Was it something she’d always wanted to say, or had he put it into her mouth?
　　I have done nothing wrong, she thought again. It might be useful to keep that firmly in
　　mind. But I have been stupid too, and I shall have to remember that as well.
　　The woman, still hypnotising the girls with her ranting, looked very ugly in the
　　slow-motion world: her face was a vicious red, and every time she opened her mouth her breath stank, and there was a piece of food stuck in her uncleaned teeth. Tiffany shifted sideways a little. Would it be possible to reach an invisible hand into her stupid body and see if she could stop the beating of the heart?
　　Nothing like that had ever occurred to her before, and it was a fact that you could not, of course, pick up anything when you were outside your body, but perhaps it would be possible to interrupt some little flow, some tiny spark? Even a big fat wretched creature like the cook could be brought down by the tiniest of upsets, and that stupid red face would shudder, and that stinking breath would gasp, and that foul mouth would shut—
　　First Thoughts, Second Thoughts, Third Thoughts, and the very rare Fourth Thoughts lined up in her head like planets to scream in chorus: That’s not us! Watch what you are thinking!
　　Tiffany slammed back into her body, nearly losing her balance, and was caught by
　　Preston, who was standing right behind her.
　　Quick! Remember that Mrs Coble had lost her husband only seven months ago, she told herself, and remember that she used to give you biscuits when you were small, and remember that she had a row with her daughter-in-law and doesn’t get to see her grand- children any more. Remember this, and see a poor old lady who has drunk too much and has listened to too much
　　gossip – from that nasty Miss Spruce, for one. Remember this, because if you hit back at her,you will become what he wants you to be! Don’t give him space in your head again!
　　Behind her, Preston grunted, and said, ‘I know it’s not the right thing to say to a lady, miss, but you are sweating like a pig!’
　　Tiffany, trying to get her shattered thoughts together, muttered, ‘My mother always said that horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies merely glow …’
　　‘Is that so?’ said Preston cheerfully. ‘Well, miss,you are glowing like a pig!’
　　This caused a lot of giggling from the girls, already shaken up by the cook’s ranting, but any laughter would be better than that and, it occurred to Tiffany, maybe Preston had worked that out.
　　But Mrs Coble had managed to get to her feet and waved a threatening finger at Tiffany– although she was swaying so much that for some of the time, depending on which way she was leaning, she was also threatening Preston, one of the girls and a rack of cheeses.
　　‘You don’t fool me,you evil-looking minx,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows you killed the old Baron! The nurse saw you! How dare you show your face in here? You’ll take us all sooner or later, and I won’t have that! I hope the ground opens up and swallows you!’ the cook snarled. She tottered backwards. There was a heavy thud, a creak and, just for a moment until it was cut off, the beginning of a scream as the cook fell into the cellar.
　　23 There is a lot of folklore about equestrian statues, especially the ones with riders on. There is said to be a code in the number and placement of the horse’s hooves: if one of the horse’s hooves is in the air, the rider was wounded in battle; two legs in the air means that the rider was killed in battle; three legs in the air indicates that the rider got lost on the way to the battle; and four legs in the air means that the sculptor was very, very clever. Five legs in the air

　　means that there’s probably at least one other horse standing behind the horse you’re looking at; and the rider lying on the ground with his horse lying on top of him with all four legs in the air means that the rider was either a very incompetent horseman or owned a very bad-tempered horse.

　　24 See Glossary, page 344.

　　25 In fact, chain-mail trousers are always full of holes, but they shouldn’t be full of holes seven inches wide.