The witches started arriving around four o’clock, and Tiffany went out into the clearing to do air traffic control. Annagramma arrived by herself, looking very pale and wearing more occult jewelry than you could imagine. And there was a difficult moment when Mrs. Earwig and Granny Weatherwax arrived at the same time, and circled in a ballet of careful politeness as each waited for the other to land. In the end, Tiffany directed them into different corners of the clearing and hurried away.

There was no sign of the Wintersmith, and she was sure she’d know if he was near. He’d gone far away, she hoped, arranging a gale or conducting a blizzard. The memory of that voice in her mouth remained, awkward and worrying. Like an oyster dealing with a piece of grit, Tiffany coated it with people and hard work.

Now the day was just another pale, dry, early winter’s day. Apart from the food, nothing else at the funeral had been arranged. Witches arrange themselves. Miss Treason sat in her big chair, greeting old friends and old enemies alike.* The cottage was far too small for them all, so they spilled out into the garden in gossiping groups, like a flock of old crows or, possibly, chickens. Tiffany didn’t have much time to talk, because she was kept too busy carrying trays.

But something was going on, she could tell. Witches would pause and turn to watch her as she staggered past, and then turn back to their group and the level of hubbub in the group would rise a bit. Groups would come together and separate again. Tiffany recognized this. The witches were making a Decision.

Lucy Warbeck sidled up to her while she was bringing out a tray of tea, and whispered, as if it were a guilty secret: “Mistress Weatherwax has suggested you, Tiff.”

“No!”

“It’s true! They’re talking about it! Annagramma’s having a fit!”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive! Best of luck!”

“But I don’t want the—” Tiffany pushed the tray into Lucy’s arms. “Look, can you take that around for me, please? They’ll just grab as you go past. I’ve got to get the, er, put the things in, er…got things to do….”

She hurried down the steps to the cellar, which was suspiciously empty of Feegles, and leaned against the wall.

Granny Weatherwax must be cackling, rules or no rules! But her Second Thoughts crept up to whisper: You could do it, though. She may be right. Annagramma annoys people. She talks to them as if they are children. She’s interested in magic (sorry, magik with a “K”), but people get on her nerves. She’ll make a mess of it, you know she will. She just happens to be tall and wears lots of occult jewelry and looks impressive in a pointy hat.

Why would Granny suggest Tiffany? Oh, she was good. She knew she was good. But didn’t everyone know she didn’t want to spend her life up here? Well, it had to be Annagramma, didn’t it? Witches tended to be cautious and traditional, and she was the oldest of the coven. Okay, a lot of witches didn’t like Mrs. Earwig, but Granny Weatherwax didn’t exactly have many friends either.

She went back upstairs before she could be missed, and tried to be inconspicuous as she sidled through the crowd.

She saw Mrs. Earwig and Annagramma as the center of one group; the girl looked worried, and hurried over when she caught sight of Tiffany. She was red in the face.

“Have you heard anything?” she demanded.

“What? No!” said Tiffany, starting to pile up used plates.

“You’re trying to take the cottage away from me, aren’t you?” Annagramma was nearly crying.

“Don’t be silly! Me? I don’t want a cottage at all!”

“So you say. But some of them are saying you should get it! Miss Level and Miss Pullunder have spoken up for you!”

“What? I couldn’t possibly follow Miss Treason!”

“Well, of course that’s what Mrs. Earwig is telling everyone,” said Annagramma, settling down a bit. “Completely unacceptable, she says.”

I took the hiver through the Dark Door, Tiffany thought, as she viciously scraped food scraps into the garden for the birds. The White Horse came out of the hill for me. I got my brother and Roland back from the Queen of the Elves. And I danced with the Wintersmith, who turned me into ten billion snowflakes. No, I don’t want to be in a cottage in these damp woods, I don’t want to be a kind of slave to people who can’t be bothered to think for themselves, I don’t want to wear midnight and make people afraid of me. There is no name for what I want to be. But I was old enough to do all those things, and I was acceptable.

But she said: “I don’t know what this is about!”

At which point she felt someone looking at her, and she knew, if she turned around, that it would be Granny Weatherwax.

Her Third Thoughts—the ones that paid attention out of the corner of her ear and the edge of her eye all the time—told her: Something is going on. All you can do about it is be yourself. Don’t look around.

“You’re really not interested?” said Annagramma uncertainly.

“I’ve come up here to learn witching,” said Tiffany stiffly. “And then I’m going to go home. But…are you sure you want the cottage?”

“Well, of course! Every witch wants a cottage!”

“But they’ve had years and years of Miss Treason,” Tiffany pointed out.

“Then they’ll just have to get used to me,” said Annagramma. “I expect they’ll be pretty glad to see the back of skulls and cobwebs and being frightened! I know she’s got the local people really scared of her.”

“Ah,” said Tiffany.

“I’ll be a new broom,” said Annagramma. “Frankly, Tiffany, after that old woman, just about anyone would be popular.”

“Er, yes…” said Tiffany. “Tell me, Annagramma, have you ever worked with any other witch?”

“No, I’ve always been with Mrs. Earwig. I’m her first pupil, you know,” Annagramma added proudly. “She’s very exclusive.”

“And she doesn’t go around the villages much, does she?” said Tiffany.

“No. She concentrates on the Higher Magik.” Annagramma wasn’t particularly observant and was very vain, even by the standard of witches, but now she looked a little less confident. “Well, someone has to. We can’t all tramp around bandaging cut fingers, you know,” she added. “Is there a problem?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. I’m sure you’ll get on well,” said Tiffany. “Er…I know my way around the place, so if you need any help, just ask.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll get things sorted out to my liking,” said Annagramma, whose boundless self-confidence couldn’t stay squashed for long. “I’d better go. By the way, it looks as though the food is running low.”

She swept away.

The big vats on the trestle table just inside the door were indeed looking a bit empty. Tiffany saw one witch stuff four hard-boiled eggs into her pocket.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tick,” she said loudly.

“Ah, Tiffany,” said Miss Tick smoothly, turning around without the least sign of embarrassment. “Miss Treason has just been telling us how well you have been doing here.”

“Thank you, Miss Tick.”

“She says that you have a fine eye for hidden detail,” Miss Tick went on.

Like the labels on skulls, Tiffany thought. “Miss Tick,” she said, “do you know anything about people wanting me to take over the cottage?”

“Oh, that’s all been decided,” said Miss Tick. “There was some suggestion that it should be you, since you’re already here, but really, you are still young, and Annagramma has had much more experience. I’m sorry, but—”

“That’s not fair, Miss Tick,” said Tiffany.

“Now, now, Tiffany, that’s not the sort of thing a witch says—” Miss Tick began.

“I don’t mean not fair to me, I mean unfair to Annagramma. She’s going to make a mess of it, isn’t she?”

Just for the skin of a moment Miss Tick looked guilty. It really was a very short space of time indeed, but Tiffany spotted it.

“Mrs. Earwig is certain that Annagramma will do a very good job,” said Miss Tick.

“Are you?”

“Remember whom you are talking to, please!”

“I’m talking to you, Miss Tick! This is…wrong!” Tiffany’s eyes blazed.

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. An entire plate of sausages was moving across the white cloth at very high speed.

“And that is stealing,” she growled, leaping after it.

She chased after the dish as, skimming a few inches above the ground, it rounded the cottage and disappeared behind the goat shed. She plunged after it.

There were several plates lying on the leaves behind the shed. There were potatoes, oozing butter, and a dozen ham rolls, and a pile of boiled eggs, and two cooked chickens. Everything except the sausages in the dish, which was now stationary, had a gnawed look.

There was absolutely no sign of the Feegles. That was how she could tell they were there. They always hid from her when they knew she was angry.

Well, this time she was really angry. Not at the Feegles (much), although the stupid hiding trick got on her nerves, but at Miss Tick and Granny Weatherwax and Annagramma and Miss Treason (for dying), and the Wintersmith himself (for a lot of reasons she hadn’t had time to sort out yet).

She stepped back and went quiet.

There was always a feeling of sinking slowly and peacefully, but this time it was like a dive into darkness.

When she opened her eyes, it felt as if she were looking through windows into a huge hall. Sound seemed to be coming from a long way away, and there was an itching between her eyes.

Feegles appeared, from under leaves, behind twigs, even from under plates. Their voices sounded as though they were underwater.

“Ach, crivens! She’s done some big hagglin’ on us!”

“She’s ne’er done that before!”

Hah, I’m hiding from you, thought Tiffany. Bit of a change, eh? Hmm, I wonder if I can move. She took a step sideways. The Feegles didn’t seem to see it.

“She’s gonna jump oot on us any moment! Ooohhh, waily—”

Ha! If I could walk up to Granny Weatherwax like this, she’d have to be so impressed—

The itch on Tiffany’s nose was getting worse, and there was a feeling that was similar to, but fortunately not yet the same as, the need to visit the privy. It meant: Something is going to happen soon, so it would be a good idea to be ready for it.

The sound of the voices began to get clearer, and little blue and purple spots ran across her vision.

And then there was something that, if it had made a noise, would have gone wwwhamp! It was like the popping you got in your ears after a high broomstick flight. She reappeared in the middle of the Feegles, causing immediate panic.

“Stop stealing the funeral meats right now, you wee scuggers!” she shouted.

The Feegles stopped and stared at her. Then Rob Anybody said: “Socks wi’oot feets?”

There was one of those moments—you got a lot of them around the Feegles—when the world seems to have got tangled up and it is so important to unravel the knot before you can go any further.

“What are you talking about?” asked Tiffany.

“Scuggers,” said Rob Anybody. “They’re like socks wi’oot feets in ’em. For keepin’ yer legs warm, ye ken?”

“You mean like legwarmers?” said Tiffany.

“Aye, aye, that would be a verra guid name for ’em, it bein’ what they do,” said Rob. “In point o’ fact, mebbe the term ye meant to use wuz ‘thievin’ scunners,’ which means—”

“—us,” said Daft Wullie helpfully.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you,” said Tiffany quietly. She folded her arms and then shouted, “Right, you thieving scunners! How dare you steal Miss Treason’s funeral meats!”

“Oh, waily waily, it’s the Foldin’ o’ the Arms, the Foooldin’ o’ the Aaaarmss!” cried Daft Wullie, dropping to the ground and trying to cover himself with leaves. Around him Feegles started to wail and cower, and Big Yan began to bang his head on the rear wall of the dairy.

“Now then, ye must all stay calm!” yelled Rob Anybody, turning around and waving his hands desperately at his brothers.

“There’s the Pursin’ o’ the Lips!” a Feegle shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Tiffany’s face. “She’s got the knowin’ o’ the Pursin’ o’ the Lips! ’Tis Doom come upon us a’!”

The Feegles tried to run, but since they were panicking again, they mostly collided with one another.

“I’m waiting for an explanation!” said Tiffany.

The Feegles froze, and every face turned toward Rob Anybody.

“An Explanation?” he said, shifting uneasily. “Oh, aye. An Explanation. Nae problemo. An Explanation. Er…what kind would you like?”

“What kind? I just want the truth!”

“Aye? Oh. The truth? Are you sure?” Rob ventured rather nervously. “I can do much more interestin’ Explanations than that—”

“Out with it!” snapped Tiffany, tapping her foot.

“Ach, crivens, the Tappin’ o’ the Feets has started!” moaned Daft Wullie. “There’s gonna be witherin’ scoldin’ at any moment!”

And that was it. Tiffany burst out laughing. You couldn’t look at a bunch of frightened Nac Mac Feegles and not laugh. They were so bad at it. One sharp word and they were like a basket of scared puppies, only smellier.

Rob Anybody gave her a lopsided grin.

“Weel, all the big hags is doin’ it too,” he said. “The wee fat one’s thieved fifteen ham rolls!” he added admiringly.

“That’d be Nanny Ogg,” said Tiffany. “Yes, she always carries a string bag up her knicker leg.”

“Ach, this is no’ a proper wake,” said Rob Anybody. “There should be singin’ an’ boozin’ an’ the flexin’ o’ the knees, no’ all this standin’ aroond gossipin’.”

“Well, gossiping’s part of witchcraft,” said Tiffany. “They’re checking to see if they’ve gone batty yet. What is the flexin’ o’ the knees?”

“The dancin’, ye ken,” said Rob. “The jigs an’ reels. ’Tis no’ a good wake unless the hands is flingin’ an’ the feets is twinklin’ an’ the knees is flexin’ an’ the kilts is flyin’.”

Tiffany had never seen the Feegles dance, but she had heard them. It sounded like warfare, which was probably how it ended up. The flyin’ o’ the kilts sounded a bit worrying, though, and reminded her of a question she had never quite dared to ask up until now.

“Tell me…is there anything worn under the kilt?”

From the way the Feegles went quiet again, she got the feeling that this was not a question they liked being asked.

Rob Anybody narrowed his eyes. The Feegles held their breath.

“Not necessarily,” he said.

 

At last the funeral was over, possibly because there was nothing left to eat and drink. Many of the departing witches were carrying small packages. That was another tradition. A lot of things in the cottage were the property of the cottage, and would pass on to the next witch, but everything else got passed on to the soon-to-be-late witch’s friends. Since the old witch would be alive when this happened, it saved squabbling.

That was the thing about witches. They were, according to Granny Weatherwax, “people what looks up.” She didn’t explain. She seldom explained. She didn’t mean people who looked at the sky; everyone did that. She probably meant that they looked up above the everyday chores and wondered, “What’s all this about? How does it work? What should I do? What am I for?” And possibly even: “Is there anything worn under the kilt?” Perhaps that was why odd, in a witch, was normal…

…but they’d squabble like polecats over a silver spoon that wasn’t even silver. As it was, several were waiting impatiently by the sink for Tiffany to wash some big dishes that Miss Treason had promised to them, and which had held the funeral roast potatoes and sausage rolls.

At least there was no problem with leftovers. Nanny Ogg, a witch who’d invented Leftover Sandwiches Soup, was waiting in the scullery with her big string bag and a bigger grin.

“We were going to have the rest and potatoes for supper,” said Tiffany angrily, but with a certain amount of interest. She’d met Nanny Ogg before and quite liked her, but Miss Treason had said, darkly, that Nanny Ogg was “a disgusting old baggage.” That sort of comment attracts your attention.

“Fair enough,” said Nanny Ogg as Tiffany placed her hand on the meat. “You did a good job here today, Tiff. People notice that.”

She was gone before Tiffany could recover. One of them had very nearly said thank you! Amazing!

Petulia helped her bring the big table indoors and finish the tidying up. She hesitated, though, before she left.

“Um…you will be all right, will you?” she said. “It’s all a bit…strange.”

“We’re supposed to be no strangers to strangeness,” said Tiffany primly. “Anyway, you’ve sat up with the dead and dying, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Mostly pigs, though. Some humans. Um…I don’t mind staying, if you like,” Petulia added in a leaving-as-soon-as-possible voice.

“Thank you. But after all, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Petulia stared at her and then said, “Well, let me think…a thousand vampire demons, each one with enormous—”

“I’ll be fine,” said Tiffany quickly. “Don’t you worry at all. Good night.”

Tiffany shut the door and then leaned on it with her hand over her mouth until she heard the gate click. She counted to ten to make sure that Petulia had got some distance and then risked taking her hand away. By then the scream that had been patiently waiting to come out had dwindled to something like “Unk!”

This was going to be a very strange night.

People died. It was sad, but they did. What did you do next? People expected the local witch to know. So you washed the body and did a few secret and squelchy things and dressed them in their best clothes and laid them out with bowls of earth and salt beside them (no one knew why you did this bit, not even Miss Treason, but it had always been done) and you put two pennies on their eyes “for the ferryman” and you sat with them the night before they were buried, because they shouldn’t be left alone.

Exactly why was never properly explained, although everyone got told the story of the old man who was slightly less dead than everybody thought and got up off the spare bed in the middle of the night and got back into bed with his wife.

The real reason was probably a lot darker than that. The start and finish of things was always dangerous, lives most of all.

But Miss Treason was a wicked ol’ witch. Who knew what might happen? Hang on, Tiffany told herself; don’t you believe the Boffo. She’s really just a clever old lady with a catalogue!

In the other room Miss Treason’s loom stopped.

It often did. But this evening the sudden silence it made was louder than usual.

Miss Treason called out: “What do we have in the larder that needs eating up?”

Yes, this is going to be a very odd night, Tiffany told herself.

Miss Treason went to bed early. It was the first time Tiffany had ever known her not to sleep in a chair. She’d put on a long white nightdress, too, the first time Tiffany had seen her not in black.

There was a lot still to do. It was traditional that the cottage should be left sparkling clean for the next witch, and although it was hard to make black sparkle, Tiffany did her best. Actually, the cottage was always pretty clean, but Tiffany scraped and scrubbed and polished because it put off the moment when she’d have to go and talk to Miss Treason. She even took down the fake spiderwebs and threw them on the fire, where they burned with a nasty blue flame. She wasn’t sure what to do with the skulls. Finally, she wrote down everything she could remember about the local villages: when babies were due, who was very ill and what with, who was feuding, who was “difficult,” and just about every other local detail she thought might be helpful to Annagramma. Anything to just put off the moment….

At last there was nothing for it but to climb the narrow stairs and say: “Is everything all right, Miss Treason?”

The old woman was sitting up in bed, scribbling. The ravens were perched on the bedposts.

“I’m just writing a few thank-you letters,” she said. “Some of those ladies today came quite a long way and will be having a chilly ride back.”

“‘Thank you for coming to my funeral’ letters?” asked Tiffany weakly.

“Indeed. And they’re not often written, you may be sure of that. You know the girl Annagramma Hawkin will be the new witch here? I am sure she would like you to stay on. At least for a while.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” said Tiffany.

“Quite,” said Miss Treason smiling. “I suspect the girl Weatherwax has arrangements in mind. It will be interesting to see how Mrs. Earwig’s brand of witchcraft suits my silly people, although it may be best to observe events from behind a rock. Or, in my case, under it.”

She put the letters aside, and both the ravens turned to look at Tiffany.

“You have been here with me only three months.”

“That’s right, Miss Treason.”

“We have not talked, woman to woman. I should have taught you more.”

“I’ve learned a lot, Miss Treason.” And that was true.

“You have a young man, Tiffany. He sends you letters and packages. You go into Lancre Town every week to send letters to him. I fear you live not where you love.”

Tiffany said nothing. They’d been through this before. Roland seemed to fascinate Miss Treason.

“I was always too busy to pay attention to young men,” said Miss Treason. “They were always for later and then later was too late. Pay attention to your young man.”

“Erm…I did say he’s not actually my—” Tiffany began, feeling herself start to blush.

“But do not become a strumpet like Mrs. Ogg,” said Miss Treason.

“I’m not very musical,” said Tiffany uncertainly.

Miss Treason laughed. “You have a dictionary, I believe,” she said. “A strange but useful thing for a girl to have.”

“Yes, Miss Treason.”

“On my bookshelf you will find a rather larger dictionary. An Unexpurgated Dictionary. A useful thing for a young woman to have. You may take it, and one other book. The others will remain with the cottage. You may also have my broomstick. Everything else, of course, belongs to the cottage.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Treason. I’d like to take that book about mythology.”

“Ah, yes. Chaffinch. A very good choice. It has been a great help to me and will, I suspect, be of particular assistance to you. The loom must stay, of course. Annagramma Hawkin will find it useful.”

Tiffany doubted this. Annagramma wasn’t very practical at all. But it was probably not the time to say so.

Miss Treason leaned back against the cushions.

“They think you wove names into your cloth,” said Tiffany.

“That? Oh, it’s true. There’s nothing magical about it. It’s a very old trick. Any weaver can do it. You won’t be able to read it, though, without knowing how it was done.” Miss Treason sighed. “Oh, my silly people. Anything they don’t understand is magic. They think I can see into their hearts, but no witch can do that. Not without surgery, at least. No magic is needed to read their little minds, though. I’ve known them since they were babes. I remember when their grandparents were babes! They think they’re so grown-up! But they’re still no better than babies in the sandpit, squabbling over mud pies. I see their lies and excuses and fears. They never grow up, not really. They never look up and open their eyes. They stay children their whole lives.”

“I’m sure they’ll miss you,” said Tiffany.

“Ha! I’m the wicked ol’ witch, girl. They feared me, and did what they were told! They feared joke skulls and silly stories. I chose fear. I knew they’d never love me for telling ’em the truth, so I made certain of their fear. No, they’ll be relieved to hear the witch is dead. And now I shall tell you something vitally important. It is the secret of my long life.”

Ah, thought Tiffany, and she leaned forward.

“The important thing,” said Miss Treason, “is to stay the passage of the wind. You should avoid rumbustious fruits and vegetables. Beans are the worst, take it from me.”

“I don’t think I understand—” Tiffany began.

“Try not to fart, in a nutshell.”

“In a nutshell I imagine it would be pretty unpleasant!” said Tiffany nervously. She couldn’t believe she was being told this.

“This is no joking matter,” said Miss Treason. “The human body only has so much air in it. You have to make it last. One plate of beans can take a year off your life. I have avoided rumbustiousness all my days. I am an old person and that means what I say is wisdom!” She gave the bewildered Tiffany a stern look. “Do you understand, child?”

Tiffany’s mind raced. Everything is a test! “No,” she said. “I’m not a child and that’s nonsense, not wisdom!”

The stern look cracked into a smile. “Yes,” said Miss Treason. “Total gibberish. But you’ve got to admit it’s a corker, all the same, right? You definitely believed it, just for a moment? The villagers did last year. You should have seen the way they walked about for a few weeks! The strained looks on their faces quite cheered me up! How are things with the Wintersmith? All gone quiet, has it?”

The question was like a sharp knife in a slice of cake, and arrived so suddenly that Tiffany gasped.

“I woke up early and wondered where you were,” said Miss Treason. It was so easy to forget that she used other people’s ears and eyes all the time, in an absentminded sort of way.

“Did you see the roses?” asked Tiffany. She hadn’t felt the telltale tickle, but she hadn’t exactly had much time for anything but worry.

“Yes. Fine things,” said Miss Treason. “I wish I could help you, Tiffany, but I’m going to be otherwise occupied. And romance is an area where I cannot offer much advice.”

“Romance?” said Tiffany, shocked.

“The girl Weatherwax and Miss Tick will have to guide you,” Miss Treason went on. “I must say, though, that I suspect that neither of them has jousted much in the lists of love.”

“Lists of love?” said Tiffany. It was getting worse!

“Can you play poker?” Miss Treason asked.

“Pardon?”

“Poker. The card game. Or Cripple Mr. Onion? Chase My Neighbor Up the Passage? You must have sat up with the dead and dying before?”

“Well, yes. But I’ve never played cards with them! Anyway, I don’t know how to play!”

“I’ll teach you. There’s a pack of cards in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Go and fetch them.”

“Is this like gambling? My father said that people shouldn’t gamble.”

Miss Treason nodded. “Good advice, my dear. Don’t worry. The way I play poker isn’t like gambling at all….”

 

When Tiffany awoke with a jolt, playing cards sliding off her dress and onto the floor, the cold gray light of morning filled the room.

She peered at Miss Treason, who was snoring like a pig.

What was the time? It was six at least! What should she do?

Nothing. There was nothing to do.

She picked up the Ace of Wands and stared at it. So that was poker, was it? Well, she hadn’t been too bad at it, once she’d worked out that it was all about making your face tell lies. For most of the time the cards were just something to do with your hands.

Miss Treason slept on. Tiffany wondered if she should get some breakfast, but it seemed such a—

“The ancient kings of Djelibeybi, who are buried in pyramids,” said Miss Treason from the bed, “used to believe that they could take things with them into the next world. Such things as gold and precious stones and even slaves. On that basis, please make me a ham sandwich.”

“Er…you mean…?” Tiffany began.

“The journey after death is quite a long one,” said Miss Treason, sitting up. “I may get hungry.”

“But you’ll just be a soul!”

“Well, perhaps a ham sandwich has a soul, too,” said Miss Treason, as she swung her skinny legs out of the bed. “I’m not sure about the mustard, but it’s worth a try. Hold still there!” This was because she had picked up her hairbrush and was using Tiffany as a mirror. The fiercely concentrated glare a few inches away was as much as Tiffany could bear on a morning like this.

“Thank you—you may go and make the sandwich,” said Miss Treason, laying the brush aside. “I will now get dressed.”

Tiffany hurried out and washed her face in the basin in her room; she always did that after the eyeballing, but she’d never plucked up the courage to object, and now certainly wasn’t the time to start.

As she dried her face, she thought she heard a muffled sound outside and went over to the window. There was frost on—

Oh, no…oh…no…no! He was at it again!

The frost ferns spelled the word “Tiffany.” Over and over.

She grabbed a rag and wiped them off, but the ice only formed again, thicker.

She hurried downstairs. The ferns were all over the windows, and when she tried to wipe them off, the rag froze to the glass. It creaked when she pulled at it.

Her name, all over the window. Over all the windows. Maybe over all the windows in all the mountains. Everywhere.

He’d come back. That was dreadful!

But also, just a bit…cool….

She didn’t think the word, because as far as Tiffany knew the word meant “slightly cold.” But she thought the thought, even so. It was a hot little thought.

“In my day young men would just carve the girl’s initials on a tree,” said Miss Treason, coming down the stairs one careful step at a time. Too late, Tiffany felt the tickle behind her eyes.

“It’s not funny, Miss Treason! What shall I do?”

“I don’t know. If possible, be yourself.”

Miss Treason bent down creakily and opened her hand. The seeing-eye mouse hopped down onto the floor, turned, and stared at her with tiny black eyes for a moment. She prodded it with a finger. “Go on, off you go. Thank you,” she said, and then it scuttled off to a hole.

Tiffany helped her upright, and the old witch said: “You’re starting to snivel, aren’t you.”

“Well, it’s all a bit—” Tiffany began. The little mouse had looked so lost and forlorn.

“Don’t cry,” said Miss Treason. “Living this long’s not as wonderful as people think. I mean, you get the same amount of youth as everyone else, but a great big extra helping of being very old and deaf and creaky. Now, blow your nose and help me on with the ravens’ perch.”

“He might still be out there…” Tiffany mumbled, as she eased the perch onto the thin shoulders.

Then she rubbed at the window again and saw shapes and movement.

“Oh…they came…” she said.

“What?” said Miss Treason. She stopped. “There’s lots of people out there!”

“Er…yes,” said Tiffany.

“What do you know about this, my girl?”

“Well, you see, they kept asking when—”

“Fetch my skulls! They mustn’t see me without my skulls! How does my hair look?” said Miss Treason, frantically winding up her clock.

“It looks nice—”

“Nice? Nice? Are you mad? Mess it up this minute!” Miss Treason demanded. “And fetch my most raggedy cloak! This one’s far too clean! Move yourself, child!”

It took several minutes to get Miss Treason ready, and a lot of the time was spent convincing her that taking the skulls out in daylight might be dangerous, in case they got dropped and someone saw the labels. Then Tiffany opened the door.

A murmur of conversation crashed into silence.

There were people in a crowd all around the door. As Miss Treason stepped forward, it parted to leave a clear path.

To her horror, Tiffany saw a dug grave on the other side of the clearing. She hadn’t expected that. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but a dug grave wasn’t it.

“Who dug—?”

“Our blue friends,” said Miss Treason. “I asked them to.”

And then the crowd started to cheer. Women hurried forward with big bunches of yew, holly, and mistletoe, the only green things growing. People were laughing. People were crying. They clustered around the witch, forcing Tiffany out to the edge of the crowd. She went quiet and listened.

“We don’t know what we’ll do without you, Miss Treason.”—“I don’t think we’ll get another witch as good as you, Miss Treason!”—“We never thought you’d go, Miss Treason. You brought my ol’ granddad into the world.”—

Walking into the grave, Tiffany thought. Well, that’s style. That is…solid gold Boffo. They’ll remember that for the rest of their lives—

“In that case you shall keep all the puppies but one—” Miss Treason had stopped to organize the crowd. “The custom is to give that one to the owner of the dog. You should have kept the bitch in, after all, and minded your fences. And your question, Mister Blinkhorn?”

Tiffany stood up straight. They were bothering her! Even this morning! But she…wanted to be bothered. Being bothered was her life.

“Miss Treason!” she snapped, pushing her way through the mob. “Remember you have an appointment!”

It wasn’t the best thing to say, but a lot better than: “You said you were going to die in about five minutes’ time!”

Miss Treason turned and looked uncertain for a moment.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, indeed. We had better get on.” Then, still talking to Mr. Blinkhorn about some complex problem concerning a fallen tree and someone’s shed, and with the rest of the crowd trailing after her, she let Tiffany walk her gently to the graveside.

“Well, at least you’ve got a happy ending, Miss Treason,” Tiffany whispered. It was a silly thing to say and deserved what it got.

“We make happy endings, child, day to day. But you see, for the witch there are no happy endings. There are just endings. And here we are….”

Best not to think, thought Tiffany. Best not to think you’re climbing down an actual ladder into an actual grave. Try not to think about helping Miss Treason down the ladder onto the leaves that are piled up at one end. Do not let yourself know you’re standing in a grave.

Down here, the horrible clock seemed to clank even louder: clonk-clank, clonk-clank….

Miss Treason trod the leaves down a bit and said cheerfully, “Yes, I can see myself being quite comfortable here. Listen, child, I told you about the books, did I not? And there is a small gift for you under my chair. Yes, this seems adequate. Oh, I forgot…”

Clonk-clank, clonk-clank…went the clock, sounding much louder down there.

Miss Treason stood on tiptoe and poked her head over the edge of the hole. “Mr. Easy! You owe two months’ rent to the Widow Langley! Understand? Mr. Plenty, the pig belongs to Mrs. Frumment, and if you don’t give it back to her, I shall come back and groan under your window! Mistress Fullsome, the Dogelley family have had Right of Passage over the Turnwise pasture since even I cannot remember, and you must…you must…”

Clon…k.

There was a moment, one long moment, when the sudden silence of the clock not ticking anymore filled the clearing like thunder.

Slowly Miss Treason sagged down onto the leaves.

It took a few dreadful seconds for her brain to start working, and then Tiffany screamed at the people clustered above: “Go back, all of you! Give her some air!”

She knelt down as they backed hurriedly away.

The smell of the raw soil was sharp in the air. At least Miss Treason seemed to have died with her eyes shut. Not everyone did. Tiffany hated having to shut them for people; it was like killing them all over again.

“Miss Treason?” she whispered. That was the first test. There were a lot of them, and you had to do them all: speak to them, raise an arm, check the pulses including the one behind the ear, check for breath with a mirror…and she’d always been so nervous about getting them wrong that the first time she’d had to go out to deal with someone who looked dead—a young man who’d been in a horrible sawmill accident—she’d done every single test, even though she’d had to go and find his head.

There were no mirrors in Miss Treason’s cottage.

In that case she—

—should think! This is Miss Treason here! And I heard her wind her clock up only a few minutes ago!

She smiled.

“Miss Treason!” she said, very close to the woman’s ear. “I know you’re in there!”

And that’s when the morning, which had been sad, weird, odd, and horrible, became…Boffo all the way.

Miss Treason smiled.

“Have they gone?” she inquired.

“Miss Treason!” said Tiffany sternly. “That was a terrible thing to do!”

“I stopped my clock with my thumbnail,” said Miss Treason proudly. “Couldn’t disappoint them, eh? Had to give ’em a show!”

“Miss Treason,” said Tiffany severely, “did you make up the story about your clock?”

“Of course I did! And it’s a wonderful bit of folklore, a real corker. Miss Treason and her clockwork heart! Might even become a myth, if I’m lucky. They’ll remember Miss Treason for thousands of years!”

Miss Treason closed her eyes again.

“I’ll certainly remember you, Miss Treason,” said Tiffany. “I will really, because—”

The world had gone gray, and was getting grayer. And Miss Treason had gone very still.

“Miss Treason?” said Tiffany, nudging her. “Miss Treason?”

MISS EUMENIDES TREASON, AGED ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN?

Tiffany heard the voice inside her head. It didn’t seem to have come through her ears. And she’d heard it before, making her quite unusual. Most people hear the voice of Death only once.

Miss Treason stood up, without the creak of even one bone. And she looked just like Miss Treason, solid and smiling. What now lay on the dead leaves was, in this strange light, just a shadow.

But a very tall dark figure was standing beside her. It was Death himself. Tiffany had seen him before, in his own land beyond the Dark Door, but you didn’t need to have met him before to know who he was. The scythe, the long hooded robe, and of course the bundle of hourglasses were all clues.

“Where are your manners, child?” said Miss Treason.

Tiffany looked up and said: “Good morning.”

GOOD MORNING, TIFFANY ACHING, AGED THIRTEEN, said Death in his no-voice. I SEE YOU ARE IN GOOD HEALTH.

“A little curtsy would be in order too,” said Miss Treason.

To Death? thought Tiffany. Granny Aching wouldn’t have liked that. Never bend the knee to tyrants, she would say.

AT LAST, MISS EUMENIDES TREASON, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER. Death took her gently by the arm.

“Hey, wait a minute!” said Tiffany. “Miss Treason is one hundred and thirteen!”

“Er…I adjusted it slightly for professional reasons,” said Miss Treason. “One hundred and eleven sounds so…adolescent.” As if to hide her ghostly embarrassment, she plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out the spirit of the ham sandwich.

“Ah, it worked,” she said. “I know I—where has the mustard gone?”

MUSTARD IS ALWAYS TRICKY, said Death as they began to fade.

“No mustard? What about pickled onions?”

PICKLES OF ALL SORTS DON’T SEEM TO MAKE IT. I’M SORRY. Behind them, the outline of a door appeared.

“No relishes in the next world? That’s dreadful! What about chutneys?” said the vanishing Miss Treason.

THERE’S JAM. JAM WORKS.

“Jam? Jam! With ham?”

And they were gone. The light went back to normal. Sound came back. Time came back.

Once again the thing to do was not to think too deeply, just keep her thoughts nice and level and focused on what she had to do.

Watched by the people still hovering around the clearing, Tiffany went and got some blankets, bundling them up so that when she carried them back to the grave, no one would notice that the two Boffo skulls and the spiderweb-making machine were tucked inside. Then with Miss Treason and the secret of Boffo safely tucked away, she filled in the grave, and at this point a couple of men ran and helped her—right until there came, from under the soil:

Clonk-clank. Clonk.

The men froze. So did Tiffany, but her Third Thoughts cut in with: Don’t worry! Remember, she stopped it! A falling stone or something must have started it going again!

She relaxed and said sweetly: “That was probably just her saying good-bye.”

The rest of the soil got shoveled in really quickly.

And now I’m part of the Boffo, Tiffany thought, as the people hurried back to their villages. But Miss Treason worked very hard for them. She deserves to be a myth, if that’s what she wants. And I’ll bet, I’ll bet that on dark nights they’ll hear her….

But now there was nothing but the wind in the trees.

She stared at the grave.

Someone should say something. Well? She was the witch, after all.

There wasn’t much religion on the Chalk or in the mountains. The Omnians came and had a prayer meeting about once a year, and sometimes a priest from the Nine Day Wonderers or the See of Little Faith or the Church of Small Gods would come by on a donkey. People went to listen, if a priest sounded interesting or went red and shouted, and they sang the songs if they had a good tune. And then they went home again.

“We are small people,” her father had said. “It ain’t wise to come to the attention of the gods.”

Tiffany remembered the words he had said over the grave of Granny Aching, what seemed like a lifetime ago. On the summer turf of the downlands, with the buzzards screaming in the sky, they had seemed to be all there was to say. So she said them now:

She saw a movement, and then Billy Bigchin, the gonnagle, scrambled onto the turned earth of the grave. He gave Tiffany a solemn look, then unslung his mousepipes and began to play.

Humans could not hear the mousepipes very well because the notes were too high, but Tiffany could feel them in her head. A gonnagle could put many things into his music, and she felt sunsets, and autumns, and the mist on hills and the smell of roses so red they were nearly black….

When he had finished, the gonnagle stood in silence for a moment, looked at Tiffany again, then vanished.

Tiffany sat on a stump and cried a bit, because it needed to be done. Then she went and milked the goats, because someone had to do that, too.