The Wintersmith and the Summer Lady…danced. The dance never ended.

Winter never dies. Not as people die. It hangs on in late frost and the smell of autumn in a summer evening, and in the heat it flees to the mountains.

Summer never dies. It sinks into the ground; in the depths, winter buds form in sheltered places and white shoots creep under dead leaves. Some of it flees into the deepest, hottest deserts, where there is a summer that never ends. To animals they were just the weather, just part of everything.

But humans arose and gave them names, just as people filled the starry sky with heroes and monsters, because this turned them into stories. And humans loved stories, because once you’d turned things into stories, you could change the stories. And there was the problem, right there.

Now the Lady and the Wintersmith danced around the year, changing places in the spring and autumn, and it had worked for thousands of years, right up until the time a girl couldn’t control her feet and had arrived in the dance at exactly the wrong time.

But the Story had life, too. It was like a play now. It would roll on around the year, and if one of the players wasn’t the real actress but just some girl who’d wandered onto the stage, well, that was too bad. She’d have to wear the costume and speak the lines and hope that there was going to be a happy ending. Change the Story, even if you don’t mean to, and the Story changes you.

Miss Tick used a lot more words than this, like “anthropomorphic personification,” but this was what ended up in Tiffany’s head.

“So…I’m not a goddess?” she said.

“Oh, I wish I had a blackboard.” Miss Tick sighed. “They really don’t survive the water, though, and of course the chalks get so soggy—”

“What we think happened in the Dance,” Granny Weatherwax began in a loud voice, “is that you and the Summer Lady got…mixed up.”

“Mixed up?”

“You may have some of her talents. The myth of the Summer Lady says that flowers grow wherever she walks,” said Granny Weatherwax.

“Where e’er,” said Miss Tick primly.

“What?” snapped Granny, who was now pacing up and down in front of the fire.

“It’s ‘where e’er she walks,’ in fact,” said Miss Tick. “It’s more…poetical.”

“Hah,” Granny said. “Poetry!”

Am I going to get into trouble about this? Tiffany wondered. “And what about the real Summer Lady? Is she going to be angry?” she asked.

Granny Weatherwax stopped pacing and looked at Miss Tick, who said: “Ah, yes…er…we are exploring every possibility—”

“That means we don’t know,” said Granny. “That’s the truth of it. This is about gods, see? But yes, since you ask, they can be a bit touchy.”

“I didn’t see her in the dance,” said Tiffany.

“Did you see the Wintersmith?”

“Well…no,” said Tiffany. How could she describe that wonderful, endless, golden, spinning moment? It went beyond bodies and thoughts. But it had sounded as though two people had said: “Who are you?” She pulled her boots back on. “Er…where is she now?” she asked as she tied the laces. Perhaps she’d have to run.

“She’s probably gone back underground for the winter. The Summer Lady doesn’t walk above ground in winter.”

“Up until now,” said Nanny Ogg cheerfully. She seemed to be enjoying this.

“Aah, Mrs. Ogg has put her finger on the other problem,” said Miss Tick. “The, er, Wintersmith and the Summer Lady are, uh, that is, they’ve never—” She looked imploringly at Nanny Ogg.

“They’ve never met except in the Dance,” said Nanny. “But now here you are, and you feel like the Summer Lady to him, walking around as bold as brass in the wintertime, so you might be…how shall I put it…?”

“…exciting his romantic propensities,” said Miss Tick quickly.

“I wasn’t going to describe it quite like that,” said Nanny Ogg.

“Yes, I suspects you weren’t!” said Granny. “I suspects you was going to use Language!”

Tiffany definitely heard the capital “L,” which entirely suggested that the language she was thinking of was not to be uttered in polite company.

Nanny stood up and tried to look haughty, which is hard to do when you have a face like a happy apple.

“I was actually going to draw Tiff’s attention to this,” she said, taking an ornament off the crowded mantelpiece. It was a little house. Tiffany had glanced at it before; it had two little doorways at the front and, at the moment, a tiny little wooden man with a top hat.

“It’s called a weather house,” Nanny said, handing it to Tiffany. “I don’t know how it works—there’s a bit of special string or something—but there’s a little wooden man who comes out if it’s going to rain and a little wooden woman who comes out when it’s going to be sunny. But they’re on a little pivoty thing, see? They can never be out at the same time, see? Never. An’ I can’t help wonderin’, when the weather’s changin’, if the little man sees the little woman out of the corner of his eye and wonders—”

“Is this about sex?” asked Tiffany.

Miss Tick looked at the ceiling. Granny Weatherwax cleared her throat. Nanny gave a huge laugh that would have embarrassed even the little wooden man.

“Sex?” she said. “Between Summer and Winter? Now there’s a thought.”

“Don’t…think…it,” said Granny Weatherwax sternly. She turned to Tiffany. “He’s fascinated by you, that’s what it is. And we don’t know how much of the Summer Lady’s power is in you. She might be quite weak. You’ll have to be a summer in winter until winter ends,” she added flatly. “That’s justice. No excuses. You made a choice. You get what you chose.”

“Couldn’t I just go and find her and say I’m sorry—?” Tiffany began.

“No. The old gods ain’t big on ‘sorry,’” said Granny, pacing up and down again. “They know it’s just a word.”

“You know what I think?” said Nanny. “I think she’s watchin’ you, Tiff. She’s sayin’ to herself, ‘Who’s this hoity-toity young madam steppin’ into my shoes? Well, let’s make her walk a mile in ’em and see how she likes it!’”

“Mrs. Ogg may have something there,” said Miss Tick, who was leafing through Chaffinch’s Mythology. “The gods expect you to pay for your mistakes.”

Nanny Ogg patted Tiffany’s hand. “If she wants to see what you can do, show her what you can do, Tiff, eh? That’s the way! Surprise her!”

“You mean the Summer Lady?” said Tiffany.

Nanny winked. “Oh, and the Summer Lady, too!”

There was what sounded very much like the start of a laugh from Miss Tick before Granny Weatherwax glared at her.

Tiffany sighed. It was all very well to talk about choices, but she had no choice here.

“All right. What else can I expect apart from…well, the feet?”

“I’m, er, checking,” said Miss Tick, still thumbing through the book. “Ah…it says here that she was, I mean is, fairer than all the stars in heaven….”

They all looked at Tiffany.

“You could try doing something with your hair,” said Nanny Ogg after a while.

“Like what?” said Tiffany.

“Like anything, really.”

“Apart from the feet and doing something with my hair,” said Tiffany sharply, “is there anything else?”

“Says here, quoting a very old manuscript: ‘She waketh the grasses in Aprill and filleth the beehives with honey swete,’” Miss Tick reported.

“How do I do that?”

“I don’t know, but I suspect that happens anyway,” said Miss Tick.

“And the Summer Lady gets the credit?”

“I think she just has to exist for it to happen, really,” said Miss Tick.

“Anything else?”

“Er, yes. You have to make sure the winter ends,” said Miss Tick. “And, of course, deal with the Wintersmith.”

“And how do I do that?”

“We think that you just have to…be there,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Or perhaps you’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

Meep.

“Be where?” said Tiffany.

“Everywhere. Anywhere.”

“Granny, your hat squeaked,” said Tiffany. “It went meep!”

“No it didn’t,” Granny said sharply.

“It did, you know,” said Nanny Ogg. “I heard it too.”

Granny Weatherwax grunted and pulled off her hat. The white kitten, curled around her tight bun of hair, blinked in the light.

“I can’t help it,” Granny muttered. “If I leave the dratted thing alone, it goes under the dresser and cries and cries.” She looked around at the others as if daring them to say anything. “Anyway,” she added, “it keeps m’ head warm.”

On his chair, the yellow slit of Greebo’s left eye opened lazily.

“Get down, You,” said Granny, lifting the kitten off her head and putting it on the floor. “I daresay Mrs. Ogg has got some milk in the kitchen.”

“Not much,” said Nanny. “I’ll swear something’s been drinking it!”

Greebo’s eye opened all the way, and he began to growl softly.

“You sure you know what you’re doing, Esme?” said Nanny Ogg, reaching for a cushion to throw. “He’s very protective of his territory.”

You the kitten sat on the floor and washed her ears. Then, as Greebo got to his feet, she fixed him with an innocent little stare and took a flying leap onto his nose, landing on it with all her claws out.

“So is she,” said Granny Weatherwax, as Greebo erupted from the chair and hurtled around the room before disappearing into the kitchen. There was a crash of saucepans followed by the groioioioing of a saucepan lid spinning into silence on the floor.

The kitten padded back into the room, hopped into the empty chair, and curled up.

“He brought in half a wolf last week,” said Nanny Ogg. “You haven’t been hexperimenting* on that poor kitten, have you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” said Granny. “She just knows her own mind, that’s all.” She turned to Tiffany. “I don’t reckon the Wintersmith will be worrying about you too much for a while,” she said. “The big winter weather will be on us soon. That’ll keep him busy. In the meantime, Mrs. Ogg will teach you…things she knows.”

And Tiffany thought: I wonder how embarrassing this is going to be.

 

Deep in the snow, in the middle of a windswept moorland, a small band of traveling librarians sat around their cooling stove and wondered what to burn next.

Tiffany had never been able to find out much about the librarians. They were a bit like the wandering priests and teachers who went even into the smallest, loneliest villages to deliver those things—prayers, medicine, facts—that people could do without for weeks at a time but sometimes needed a lot of all at once. The librarians would loan you a book for a penny, although they often would take food or good secondhand clothes. If you gave them a book, you got ten free loans.

Sometimes you’d see two or three of their wagons parked in some clearing and could smell the glues they boiled up to repair the oldest books. Some of the books they loaned were so old that the printing had been worn gray by the pressure of people’s eyeballs reading it.

The librarians were mysterious. It was said they could tell what book you needed just by looking at you, and they could take your voice away with a word.

But here they were searching the shelves for T. H. Mouse-holder’s famous book Survival in the Snow.

Things were getting desperate. The oxen that pulled the wagon had broken their tethers and run off in the blizzard, the stove was nearly out, and worst of all, they were down to their last candles, which meant that soon they would not be able to read books.

“It says here in K. Pierpoint Poundsworth’s Among the Snow Weasels that the members of the ill-fated expedition to Whale Bay survived by making soup of their own toes,” said Deputy Librarian Grizzler.

“That’s interesting,” said Senior Librarian Swinsley, who was rummaging on the shelf below. “Is there a recipe?”

“No, but there may be something in Superflua Raven’s book Cooking in Dire Straits. That’s where we got yesterday’s recipe for Nourishing Boiled Socks Surprise—” There was a thunderous knocking at the door. It was a two-part door that allowed only the top half to be opened, so that a ledge on the bottom half could be a sort of small desk for stamping books. Snow came through the crack as the knocking continued.

“I hope that’s not the wolves again,” said Mr. Grizzler. “I got no sleep at all last night!”

“Do they knock? We could check in The Habits of Wolves by Captain W. E. Lightly,” said Senior Librarian Swinsley, “or perhaps you could just open the door? Quickly! The candles are going out!”

Grizzler opened the top half of the door. There was a tall figure on the steps, hard to see in the fitful, cloud-strained moonlight.

“Ah’m lookin’ for Romance,” it rumbled.

The Deputy Librarian thought for a moment, and then said, “Isn’t it a bit chilly out there?”

“Aren’t ye the people wi’ all dem books?” the figure demanded.

“Yes, indeed…oh, Romance! Yes, certainly!” said Mr. Swinsley, looking relieved. “In that case, I think you’ll want Miss Jenkins. Forward please, Miss Jenkins.”

“It looks like youse is freezin’ in there,” said the figure. “Dem’s icicles hanging from der ceilin’.”

“Yes. However, we have managed to keep them off the books,” said Mr. Swinsley. “Ah, Miss Jenkins. The, er, gentleman is looking for Romance. Your department, I think.”

“Yes, sir,” said Miss Jenkins. “What kind of romance were you looking for?”

“Oh, one wi’ a cover on, ye ken, and wi’ pages wi’ all wurdies on ’em,” said the figure.

Miss Jenkins, who was used to this sort of thing, disappeared into the gloom at the other end of the wagon.

“Dese scunners are total loonies!” said a new voice. It appeared to come from somewhere on the person of the dark book borrower, but much lower than the head.

“Pardon?” said Mr. Swinsley.

“Ach, nae problemo,” said the figure quickly. “Ah’m sufferin’ from a grumblin’ knee, ’tis an old trouble—”

“Why don’t they be burnin’ all dem books, eh?” the unseen knee grumbled.

“Sorry aboot this, ye know how knees can let a man doon in public, I’m a martyr to dis one,” said the stranger.

“I know how it is. My elbow acts up in wet weather,” said Mr. Swinsley. There was some sort of fight going on in the nether regions of the stranger, who was shaking like a puppet.

“That will be one penny,” Miss Jenkins said. “And I will need your name and address.”

The dark figure shuddered. “Oh, I—we ne’er give out oor name an’ address!” it said quickly. “It is against oor religion, ye ken. Er…I dinna wanta be a knee aboot this, but why is ye all here freezin’ tae death?”

“Our oxen wandered off, and alas, the snow’s too deep to walk through,” said Mr. Swinsley.

“Aye. But youse got a stove an’ all them dry ol’ books,” said the dark figure.

“Yes, we know,” said the librarian, looking puzzled.

There was the kind of wretched pause you get when two people aren’t going to understand each other’s point of view at all. Then:

“Tell ye what, me an’—ma knee—will go an’ fetch yer cows for ye, eh?” said the mysterious figure. “Got tae be worth a penny, eh? Big Yan, you’ll feel the rough side o’ my hand in a minit!”

The figure dropped out of sight. Snow flew up in the moonlight. For a moment it sounded as if a scuffle were going on, and then a sound like “Crivens!” disappearing into the distance.

The librarians were about to shut the door when they heard the terrified bellows of the oxen, getting louder very quickly.

Two curling waves of snow came across the glittering moors. The creatures rode them like surfers, yelling at the moon. The snow settled down a few feet away from the wagon. There was a blue-and-red blur in the air, and the romantic book was whisked away.

But what was really odd, the librarians agreed, was that when the oxen had come speeding toward them, they had appeared to be traveling backward.

 

It was hard to be embarrassed by Nanny Ogg, because her laugh drove embarrassment away. She wasn’t embarrassed about anything.

Today Tiffany, with extra pairs of socks on to avoid unfortunate floral incidents, went with her “around the houses,” as it was known to witches.

“You did this for Miss Treason?” asked Nanny as they stepped out. There were big fat clouds massing around the mountains; there would be a lot more snow tonight.

“Oh yes. And for Miss Level and Miss Pullunder.”

“Enjoyed it, did you?” said Nanny, wrapping her cloak around her.

“Sometimes. I mean, I know why we do it, but sometimes you get fed up with people being stupid. I quite like doing the medicine stuff.”

“Good with the herbs, are you?”

“No. I’m very good with the herbs.”

“Oh, there’s a bit of swank, eh?” said Nanny.

“If I didn’t know I was good with herbs, I’d be stupid, Mrs. Ogg.”

“That’s right. Good. It’s good to be good at something. Now, our next little favor is—”

—giving an old lady a bath, as much as was possible with a couple of tin basins and some washcloths. And that was witchcraft. Then they looked in on a woman who’d just had a baby, and that was witchcraft, and a man with a very nasty leg injury that Nanny Ogg said was doing very well, and that was witchcraft too, and then in an out-of-the-way group of huddled little cottages, they climbed the cramped wooden stairs to a tiny little bedroom where an old man shot at them with a crossbow.

“You old devil, ain’t you dead yet?” said Nanny. “You’re looking well! I swear, the man with the scythe must’ve forgotten where you live!”

“I’m a-waitin’ for him, Mrs. Ogg!” said the old man cheerfully. “If I’m gonna go, I’ll take ’im with me!”

“This is my girl Tiff. She’s learnin’ the witchin’,” said Nanny, raising her voice. “This is Mr. Hogparsley, Tiff…Tiff?” She snapped her fingers in front of Tiffany’s eyes.

“Huh?” said Tiffany. She was still staring in horror.

The twang of the bow as Nanny opened the door had been bad enough, but for a fraction of a second, she would have sworn that an arrow had gone right through Nanny Ogg and stuck in the door frame.

“Shame on you for firing at a young lady, Bill,” said Nanny severely, plumping up his pillows. “And Mrs. Dowser says you’ve been shootin’ at her when she comes up to see you,” she added, putting her basket down by the bed. “That’s no way to treat a respectable woman who brings you your meals, is it? For shame!”

“Sorry, Nanny,” muttered Mr. Hogparsley. “It’s just that she’s skinny as a rake and wears black. ’Tis an easy mistake to make in poor light.”

“Mr. Hogparsley here is lying in wait for Death, Tiff,” said Nanny. “Mistress Weatherwax helped you make the special traps and arrows, ain’t that right, Bill?”

“Traps?” whispered Tiffany. Nanny just nudged her and pointed down. The floorboards were covered in ferociously spiked mantraps.

They were all drawn in charcoal.

“I said isn’t that right, Bill?” Nanny repeated, raising her voice. “She helped you with the traps!”

“She did that!” said Mr. Hogparsley. “Hah! I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side o’ her!”

“Right, so no shootin’ arrows at anyone except Death, right? Otherwise Mistress Weatherwax won’t make you any more,” said Nanny, putting a bottle on the old wooden box that was Mr. Hogparsley’s bedside table. “Here’s some of your jollop, freshly mixed up. Where did she tell you to keep the pain?”

“It’s sitting up here on my shoulder, missus, being no trouble.”

Nanny touched the shoulder, and seemed to think for a moment. “It’s a brown and white squiggle? Sort of oblong?”

“That’s right, missus,” said Mr. Hogparsley, pulling at the cork on the bottle. “It wiggles away there and I laughs at it.” The cork popped out. Suddenly, the room smelled of apples.

“It’s gettin’ big,” said Nanny. “Mistress Weatherwax will be along tonight to take it away.”

“Right you are, missus,” said the old man, filling a mug to the brim.

“Try not to shoot her, all right? It only makes her mad.”

It was snowing again when they stepped out of the cottage, big feathery flakes that meant business.

“I reckon that’s it for today,” Nanny announced. “I’ve got things to see to over in Slice, but we’ll take the stick tomorrow.”

“That arrow he fired at us—” said Tiffany.

“Imaginary,” said Nanny Ogg, smiling.

“It looked real for a moment!”

Nanny Ogg chuckled. “It’s amazing what Esme Weatherwax can make people imagine!”

“Like traps for Death?”

“Oh, yes. Well, it gives the old boy an interest in life. He’s on his way to the Door. But at least Esme’s seen to it that there’s no pain.”

“Because it’s floating over his shoulder?” said Tiffany.

“Yep. She put it just outside his body for him, so it don’t hurt,” said Nanny, the snow crunching under her feet.

“I didn’t know you could do that!”

“I can do it for small stuff, toothaches and the like. Esme’s the champion for it, though. We’re none of us too proud to call her in. Y’know, she’s very good at people. Funny, really, ’cuz she doesn’t like ’em much.”

Tiffany glanced at the sky, and Nanny was the kind of inconvenient person who notices everything.

“Wondering if lover boy is goin’ to drop in?” she said with a big grin.

“Nanny! Really!”

“But you are, aren’t you?” said Nanny, who knew no shame. “O’ course, he’s always around, when you think about it. You’re walking through him, you feel him on your skin, you stamp him off your boots when you go indoors—”

“Just don’t talk like that, please?” said Tiffany.

“Besides, what’s time to an elemental?” Nanny chattered. “And I suppose snowflakes don’t just make themselves, especially when you’ve got to get the arms and legs right….”

She’s looking at me out of the corner of her eye to see if I’m going red, Tiffany thought. I know it.

Then Nanny nudged her in the ribs and laughed one of her laughs that would make a rock blush.

“Good for you!” she said. “I’ve had a few boyfriends myself that I’d have loved to stamp off my boots!”

 

Tiffany was just getting ready for bed that night when she found a book under her pillow.

The title, in fiery red letters, was Passion’s Plaything by Marjory J. Boddice, and in smaller print were the words: Gods and Men said their love was not to be, but they would not listen!! A tortured tale of a tempestuous romance by the author of Sundered Hearts!!!

The cover showed, up close, a young woman with dark hair and clothes that were a bit on the skimpy side in Tiffany’s opinion, both hair and clothes blowing in the wind. She looked desperately determined, and also a bit chilly. A young man on a horse was watching her some distance away. It appeared that a thunderstorm was blowing up.

Strange. There was a library stamp inside, and Nanny didn’t use the library. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to read a bit before blowing the candle out.

Tiffany turned to page one. And then to page two. When she got to page nineteen she went and fetched the Unexpurgated Dictionary.

She had older sisters and she knew some of this, she told herself. But Marjory J. Boddice had got some things laughably wrong. Girls on the Chalk didn’t often run away from a young man who was rich enough to own his own horse—or not for long and not without giving him a chance to catch up. And Megs, the heroine of the book, clearly didn’t know a thing about farming. No young man would be interested in a woman who couldn’t dose a cow or carry a piglet. What kind of help would she be around the place? Standing around with lips like cherries wouldn’t get the cows milked or the sheep sheared!

And that was another thing. Did Marjory J. Boddice know anything about sheep? This was a sheep farm in the summertime, wasn’t it? So when did they shear the sheep? The second most important occasion in a sheep farm’s year and it wasn’t worth mentioning?

Of course, they might have a breed like Habbakuk Polls or Lowland Cobbleworths that didn’t need shearing, but these were rare and any sensible author would surely have mentioned it.

And the scene in chapter five, where Megs left the sheep to fend for themselves while she went gathering nuts with Roger…well, how stupid was that? They could have wandered anywhere, and they were really stupid to think they’d find nuts in June.

She read on a bit further, and thought: Oh. I see. Hmm. Hah. Not nuts at all, then. On the Chalk, that sort of thing was called “looking for cuckoo nests.”

She stopped there to go downstairs to fetch a fresh candle, got back into bed, let her feet warm up again, and went on reading.

Should Megs marry sulky dark-eyed William, who already owned two and a half cows, or should she be swayed by Roger, who called her “my proud beauty” but was clearly a bad man because he rode a black stallion and had a mustache?

Why did she think she had to marry either of them? Tiffany wondered. Anyway, she spent too much time leaning meaningfully against things and pouting. Wasn’t anyone doing any work? And if she always dressed like that, she’d catch a chill.

It was amazing what those men put up with. But it made you think.

She blew out the candle and sank gently under the eiderdown, which was as white as snow.

 

Snow covered the Chalk. It fell around the sheep, making them look a dirty yellow. It covered the stars but glowed by its own light. It stuck to the windows of the cottages, blotting out the orange candlelight. But it would never cover the castle. The castle stood on a mound a little way from the village, a tower of stone ruling all those thatched homes. They looked as if they had grown from the land, but the castle nailed it down. It said: I Own.

In his room, Roland wrote carefully. He ignored the hammering from outside.

Annagramma, Petulia, Miss Treason—Tiffany’s letters were full of faraway people with strange-sounding names. Sometimes he tried to imagine them, and wondered if she was making them up. The whole witchcraft business seemed…well, not as advertised. It seemed like—

“Do you hear this, you wicked boy?” Aunt Danuta sounded triumphant. “Now it’s barred from this side too! Hah! This is for your own good, you know. You will stay in there until you are ready to apologize!”

—like hard work, to be honest. Worthy, though, visiting the sick and everything, but very busy and not very magical. He’d heard of “dancing around without your drawers on” and tried his best not to imagine it, but in any case there didn’t seem to be anything like that. Even broomstick rides sounded—

“And we know about your secret passage now, oh yes! It’s being walled up! No more thumbing your nose at people who are doing their very best for you!”

—dull. He paused for a moment, staring blankly at the carefully stacked piles of loaves and sausages beside his bed. I ought to get some onions tonight, he thought. General Tacticus says they are unsurpassable for the proper operation of the digestive system if you can’t find fresh fruit.

What to write, what to write…yes! He’d tell her about the party. He’d only gone because his father, in one of his good moments, had asked him to. It was important to keep in with the neighbors but not with the relatives! It’d been quite nice to get out, and he’d been able to leave his horse at Mr. Gamely’s stable, where the aunts wouldn’t think of looking for it. Yes…she’d enjoy hearing about the party.

The aunts were shouting again, about locking the door to his father’s room. And they were blocking the secret passage. That meant that all he was left with was the loose stone that came out behind the tapestry in the next room, the wobbly flagstone that could let him drop down into the room below, and, of course, the chain outside the window that let him climb all the way down to the ground. And on his desk, on top of General Tacticus’s book, was a complete set of shiny new castle keys. He’d got Mr. Gamely to make them for him. The blacksmith was a thoughtful man who could see the sense in being friendly to the next Baron.

He could come and go as he liked, whatever they did. They could bully his father, they could shout all they pleased, but they would never own him.

You could learn a lot from books.

 

The Wintersmith was learning. It was a hard, slow task when you had to make your brain out of ice. But he had learned about snowmen. They were built by the smaller kinds of humans. That was interesting. Apart from the ones in pointy hats, the bigger humans didn’t seem to hear him. They knew invisible creatures didn’t speak to them out of the air.

The small ones, though, hadn’t found out what was impossible.

In the big city was a big snowman.

Actually, it would be more honest to call it a slushman. Technically it was snow, but by the time it had spiraled down through the big city’s fogs, smogs, and smokes, it was already a sort of yellowish gray, and then most of what ended up on the pavement was what had been thrown up from the gutter by cart wheels. It was, at best, a mostly snowman. But three grubby children were building it anyway, because building something that you could call a snowman was what you did. Even if it was yellow.

They’d done their best with what they could find and had given him two horse droppings for eyes and a dead rat for a nose.

At which point the snowman spoke to them, in their heads.

Small humans, why do you do that?

The boy who might have been the older boy looked at the girl who might have been the older girl. “I’ll tell you I heard that if you say you heard it too,” he said.

The girl was still young enough not to think “snowmen can’t talk” when one of them had just spoken to her, so she said to it: “You have to put them in to make you a snowman, mister.”

Does that make me human?

“No, ’cuz…” She hesitated.

“You ain’t got innards,” said the third and smallest child, who might have been the younger boy or the younger girl, but who was spherical with so many layers of clothing that it was quite impossible to tell. It did have a pink woolly hat with a bobble on it, but that didn’t mean anything. Someone did care about it, though, because they’d embroidered “R” and “L” on its mittens, “F” and “B” on the front and back of its coat, “T” on top of the bobble hat, and probably “U” on the underside of its rubber boots. That meant that while you couldn’t know what it was, you could be certain it was the right way up and which way it was facing.

A cart went by, throwing up another wave of slush.

Innards? said the secret voice of the snowman. Made of special dust, yes! But what dust?

“Iron,” said the possibly older boy promptly. “Enough iron to make a nail.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, that’s how it goes,” said the possibly older girl. “We used to skip to it. Er…‘Iron enough to make a nail…Water enough to drown a cow—’”

“A dog,” said the possibly older boy. “It’s ‘Water enough to drown a dog, Sulfur enough to stop the fleas.’ It’s ‘Poison enough to kill a cow.’”

What is this? the Wintersmith asked.

“It’s…like…an old song,” said the possibly older boy.

“More like a sort of poem. Everyone knows it,” said the possibly older girl.

“’S called ‘These Are the Things That Make a Man,’” said the child who was the right way up.

Tell me the rest of it, the Wintersmith demanded, and on the freezing pavement they did, as much as they knew.

When they’d finished, the possibly older boy said hopefully, “Is there any chance you can take us flying?”

No, said the Wintersmith. I have things to find! Things that make a man!

 

One afternoon, when the sky was growing cold, there was a frantic knocking on Nanny’s door. It turned out to be caused by Annagramma, who almost fell into the room. She looked terrible, and her teeth were chattering.

Nanny and Tiffany stood her by the fire, but she started talking before her teeth had warmed up.

“Skkkkulls!” she managed.

Oh dear, thought Tiffany.

“What about them?” she said, as Nanny Ogg hurried in from the kitchen with a hot drink.

“Mmmmmiss Trrreason’s Skkkkulls!”

“Yes? What about them?”

Annagramma took a swig from the mug. “What did you do with them?” she gasped, cocoa dribbling down her chin.

“Buried them.”

“Oh, no! Why?”

“They were skulls. You can’t just leave skulls lying about!”

Annagramma looked around wildly. “Can you lend me a shovel, then?”

“Annagramma! You can’t dig up Miss Treason’s grave!”

“But I need some skulls!” Annagramma insisted. “The people there—well, it’s like the olden days! I whitewashed that place with my own hands! Have you any idea how long it takes to whitewash over black? They complained! They won’t have anything to do with crystal therapy, they just frown and say Miss Treason gave them sticky black medicine that tasted horrible but worked! And they keep on asking me to sort out stupid little problems, and I don’t have a clue what they’re about. And this morning there was this old man who’s dead and I’ve got to lay him out and sit up with him tonight. Well, I mean, that’s so…yuk….”

Tiffany glanced at Nanny Ogg, who was sitting in her chair and puffing gently on her pipe. Her eyes were gleaming. When she saw Tiffany’s expression, she winked and said: “I’ll leave you girls to have a little chat, shall I?”

“Yes, please, Nanny. And please don’t listen at the door.”

“To a private conversation? The very idea!” said Nanny, and went into the kitchen.

“Will she listen?” whispered Annagramma. “I’ll just die if Mistress Weatherwax finds out.”

Tiffany sighed. Did Annagramma know anything? “Of course she’ll listen,” she said. “She’s a witch.”

“But she said she wouldn’t!”

“She’ll listen, but she’ll pretend she hasn’t and she won’t tell anyone,” said Tiffany. “It’s her cottage, after all.”

Annagramma looked desperate. “And on Tuesday I’ve probably got to go and deliver a baby out in some valley somewhere! An old woman came and gabbled at me about it!”

“That’ll be Mrs. Owslick,” said Tiffany. “I did leave some notes, you know. Didn’t you read them?”

“I think perhaps Mrs. Earwig tidied them away,” Annagramma said.

“You should have looked at them! It took me an hour to write them all down!” said Tiffany reproachfully. “Three pieces of paper! Look, calm down, will you? Didn’t you learn anything about midwifery?”

“Mrs. Earwig said giving birth is a natural action and nature should be allowed to take its course,” said Annagramma, and Tiffany was sure she heard a snort from behind the kitchen door. “I know a soothing chant, though.”

“Well, I expect that will be a help,” said Tiffany weakly.

“Mrs. Earwig said the village women know what to do,” said Annagramma hopefully. “She says to trust in their peasant wisdom.”

“Well, Mrs. Obble was the old woman who called, and she has just got simple peasant ignorance,” said Tiffany. “She puts leaf mold on wounds if you don’t watch her. Look, just because a woman’s got no teeth doesn’t mean she’s wise. It might just mean she’s been stupid for a very long time. Don’t let her anywhere near Mrs. Owslick until after the baby. It’s not going to be an easy birth as it is.”

“Well, I know plenty of spells that will help—”

“No! No magic! Only to take away pain! Surely you know that?”

“Yes, but Mrs. Earwig says—”

“Why don’t you go and ask Mrs. Earwig to help you then?”

Annagramma stared at Tiffany. That sentence had come out a bit louder than intended. And then Annagramma’s face slid into what she probably thought was a friendly expression. It made her look slightly mad.

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea!” she said, as bright as a crystal that was about to shatter. “Why don’t you come back to the cottage and work for me?”

“No. I’ve got other work to do.”

“But you’re so good at the messy stuff, Tiffany,” said Annagramma in a syrupy voice. “It seems to come naturally to you.”

“I started at the lambing when I was small, that’s why. Small hands can get inside and untangle things.”

And now Annagramma had that hunted look she got when she was dealing with anything she didn’t immediately understand.

“Inside the sheep? You mean up its…”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Untangle things?”

“Sometimes the lambs try to get born backward,” said Tiffany.

“Backward,” muttered Annagramma weakly.

“And it can be worse if there’s twins.”

“Twins…” Then Annagramma said, as if spotting the flaw: “But look, I’ve seen lots of pictures of shepherds and sheep and there’s never anything like that. I thought it was all just…standing around and watching the sheep eat grass.”

There were times when you could feel that the world would be a better place if Annagramma got the occasional slap around the ear. The silly unthinking insults, her huge lack of interest in anyone other than herself, the way she treated everyone as if they were slightly deaf and a bit stupid…it could make your blood boil. But you put up with it because every once in a while you saw through it all. Inside there was this worried, frantic little face watching the world like a bunny watching a fox, and screaming at it in the hope that it would go away and not hurt her. And a meeting of witches, who were supposed to be clever, had handed her this steading that would be a hard job for anyone.

It didn’t make sense.

No, it didn’t make sense.

“It only happens when there’s a difficult lambing,” said Tiffany, while her mind raced. “And that means it’s out in the dark and the cold and the rain. Artists never seem to be around then. It’s amazing.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” said Annagramma. “Like I’m not here!”

Tiffany blinked. All right, she thought, how am I supposed to deal with this?

“Look, I’ll come and help you with the laying out,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. “And I expect I can help with Mrs. Owslick. Or ask Petulia. She’s good. But you’ll have to do the watching by yourself.”

“Sitting up all night with a dead person?” said Annagramma, and shivered.

“You can take a book to read,” said Tiffany.

“I suppose I could draw a circle of protection around the chair…” Annagramma muttered.

“No,” said Tiffany. “No magic. Mrs. Earwig must have told you this?”

“But a circle of protection—”

“It draws attention. Something might turn up to see why it’s there. Don’t worry, it’s just to make the old people happy.”

“Er…when you say that something might turn up…” Annagramma began.

Tiffany sighed. “All right, I’ll sit up with you, just this once,” she said. Annagramma beamed.

“And as for skulls,” said Tiffany, “just wait a moment.” She went upstairs and got the Boffo catalogue, which she’d hidden in her old suitcase. She came back with it carefully rolled up and handed it over. “Don’t look at it now,” she said. “Wait until you’re alone. You might find it gives you ideas. Okay? I’ll come and meet you around seven tonight.”

When Annagramma had gone, Tiffany sat and counted under her breath. When she’d got to five, Nanny Ogg came and vigorously dusted a few ornaments before saying: “Oh, has your little friend gone?”

“Do you think I’m being silly?” said Tiffany.

Nanny stopped pretending to do housework. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, not havin’ listened,” she said, “but if I had been listenin’, I’d think you won’t get any thanks, that’s what I’d think.”

“Granny shouldn’t have meddled,” said Tiffany.

“Shouldn’t have, eh?” said Nanny, her face blank.

“I’m not stupid, Nanny,” said Tiffany. “I’ve worked it out.”

“Worked it out, have you? There’s a clever girl,” said Nanny Ogg, sitting down in her chair. “And what is it you’ve worked out then?”

This was going to get difficult. Nanny was usually cheerful all the time. When she went solemn, like she was now, it could make you nervous. But Tiffany pressed on.

“I couldn’t take on a cottage,” she said. “Oh, I can do most of the everyday stuff, but you need to be older to run a steading. There’s things people won’t tell you if you’re thirteen, hat or not. But Granny put it about that she was suggesting me, and so everyone saw it as a contest between me and Annagramma, right? And they chose her because she’s older and sounds really competent. And now it’s all falling apart. It’s not her fault she was taught magic instead of witchcraft. Granny just wants her to fail so that everyone will know that Mrs. Earwig is a bad teacher. And I don’t think that’s good.”

“I wouldn’t be too quick to decide what it is Esme Weatherwax wants, if I was you,” said Nanny Ogg. “I won’t say a word, mind you. You go off and help your friend if you want, but you’ve still got to work for me, okay? That’s only fair. How’s the feet?”

“They feel fine, Nanny. Thank you for asking.”

 

More than a hundred miles away, Mr. Fusel Johnson knew nothing about Tiffany, Nanny Ogg, or indeed anything very much except for clocks and watches, which he made for a living. He also knew how to lime-wash a kitchen, which was an easy and cheap way to get a nice white look even if the stuff was a bit runny. And therefore he had no idea why several handfuls of the white powder fountained up out of the mixing bowl before he could add the water, hung in the air for a moment like a ghost, and vanished up the chimney. In the end he put it down to too many trolls moving into the area. This wasn’t very logical, but such beliefs generally aren’t.

And the Wintersmith thought: Lime enough to make a man!

 

That night Tiffany sat up with Annagramma and old Mr. Tissot, except that he was lying down because he was dead. Tiffany had never liked watching over the dead. It wasn’t exactly something you could like. It was always a relief when the sky turned gray and the birds started to sing.

Sometimes, in the night, Mr. Tissot made little noises. Except, of course, it wasn’t Mr. Tissot, who’d met Death hours ago. It was just the body he’d left behind, and the sounds it made were really no different from the noises made by an old house as it cooled down.

It was important to remember these things around two o’clock in the morning. Vitally important, when the candle flickered.

Annagramma snored. No one with a nose that small should be able to make a snore that loud. It was like ripping planks. Whatever evil spirits might be around on this night, that sound would probably scare them away.

It wasn’t the gnh gnh gnh part that was so bad, and Tiffany could live with the bloooooorrrrt! It was the gap between them, after the gnh gnh gnh had wound up but before the long letdown of the bloooooorrrrt! that really got on her nerves. It was never the same length twice. Sometimes there was gnh gnh gnh bloooooorrrrt!, one right after the other, and then there might be such a huge gap after gnh gnh gnh that Tiffany found herself holding her breath while she waited for the bloooooorrrrt! It wouldn’t have been so bad if Annagramma had stuck to one length of pause. Sometimes she stopped altogether, and there was blessed silence until a festival of bloorts began, usually with a faint mni mni lip-smacking sound as Annagramma shifted position in her chair.

Where are you, Flower Lady? What are you? You should be sleeping!

The voice was so faint that Tiffany might not have heard it at all if she hadn’t been all tensed up waiting for the next gnh gnh gnh. And here it came—

Gnh gnh gnh!

Let me show you my world, Flower Lady. Let me show you all the colors of ice!

BLOOOOOORRRRT!

About three quarters of Tiffany thought: Oh, no! Will he find me if I reply? No. If he could find me, he’d be here. My hand isn’t itching.

The other quarter thought: A god or godlike being is talking to me and I could really do without the snoring, Annagramma, thank you so much.

Gnh gnh gnh!

“I said I was sorry,” she whispered into the dancing candlelight. “I saw the iceberg. It was very…er…nice of you.”

I have made many more.

BLOOOOOORRRRT!

Many more icebergs, thought Tiffany. Great big freezing, floating mountains that look like me, dragging fog banks and snowstorms behind them. I wonder how many ships will run into them.

“You shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble,” she whispered.

Now I am growing stronger! I am listening and learning! I am understanding humans!

Outside the cottage window a thrush began to sing. Tiffany blew out the candle, and gray light crept into the room.

Listening and learning…how could a blizzard understand things?

Tiffany, Flower Lady! I am making myself a man!

There was a complicated grunting as Annagramma’s gnh gnh gnh and bloooooorrrrt! ran into each other and she woke up.

“Ah,” she said, stretching her arms and yawning. She looked around. “Well, that seemed to go well.”

Tiffany stared at the wall. What did he mean, making himself a man? Surely he—

“You didn’t fall asleep, did you, Tiffany?” said Annagramma in what she probably thought was a playful voice. “Not even for one tiny little second?”

“What?” said Tiffany, glaring at the wall. “Oh…no. I didn’t!”

People were moving around downstairs. After a little while there was a creaking on the stairs and the low door was pushed open. A middle-aged man, looking sheepishly at the floor, uttered, “Mam says would you ladies like some breakfast?”

“Oh, no, we couldn’t possibly take what little you have—” Annagramma began.

“Yes, please, we will be grateful,” said Tiffany, louder and quicker. The man nodded, and shut the door.

“Oh, how could you say that?” said Annagramma, as his footsteps creaked down. “These are poor people! I thought you would—”

“Shut up, will you?” snapped Tiffany. “Just shut up and wake up! These are real people! They’re not some kind of, of, of idea! We will go down there and we will eat breakfast and we’ll say how good it is and then we will thank them and they will thank us and we will go! And that will mean everyone has done the right thing by custom, and that will be what’s important to them. Besides, they don’t think they’re poor, because everyone around here is poor! But they’re not so poor they can’t afford to do the right things! That would be poor!”

Annagramma was staring at her with her mouth open.

“Be careful what you say next,” said Tiffany, breathing heavily. “In fact, don’t say anything.”

Breakfast was ham and eggs. It was eaten in polite silence. After that, in the same silence except that it was outdoors, they flew back to what people would probably always think of as Miss Treason’s cottage.

There was a small boy loitering outside. As soon as they landed, he blurted out, “Mrs. Obble says the baby’s on the way an’ she said you’d give me a penny for goin’.”

“You have got a bag, haven’t you?” said Tiffany, turning to Annagramma.

“Yes, er, lots.”

“I mean a call-out bag. You know, you keep it by the door with everything in it that you’ll need if…”

Tiffany saw the terrified look on the girl’s face. “Okay, so you haven’t got a bag. We’ll just have to do the best we can. Give him a penny and let’s go.”

“Can we get anyone to help if it goes wrong?” Annagramma asked as they left the ground.

“We are the help,” said Tiffany simply. “And since this is your steading, I’m giving you the really tough job—”

—which was keeping Mrs. Obble occupied. Mrs. Obble wasn’t a witch, although most people thought she was. She looked like one—that is, she looked like someone who’d bought everything in the Boffo catalogue on the day of the Special Offer on Hairy Warts—and she was mildly crazy and should not have been allowed within a mile of any mother who was going to have her first baby, since she would very conscientiously tell them (or cackle at them, anyway) about all the things that could go wrong in a way that made it sound as if they would all go wrong. She wasn’t a bad nurse, though, once you stopped her from putting a leaf-mold poultice on everything.

Things went noisily and with a certain amount of fuss, but nothing like Mrs. Obble had predicted, and the result was a baby boy, who was not a bouncing baby but only because Tiffany caught him; Annagramma didn’t know how to hold babies.

She did look good in a pointy hat, though, and since she was clearly older than Tiffany and did hardly any of the work, the other women assumed she was in charge.

Tiffany left her holding the baby (the right way up, this time) and looking proud, and began the long flight back through the woods to Tir Nani Ogg. It was a crisp evening, but there was a bit of wind that blew stinging snow crystals off the trees. It was an exhausting journey and very, very cold. He can’t know where I am, she repeated to herself as she flew back in the dusk. And he’s not very clever. Winter has to end sometime, right?

Er…how? said her Second Thoughts. Miss Tick said you just have to be there, but surely you have to do something else?

I suppose I’ll have to walk around with my shoes off, Tiffany thought.

Everywhere? her Second Thoughts wondered, as she swerved between the trees.

It’s probably like being a queen, her Third Thoughts said. She just has to sit in a palace and maybe do a bit of driving around in a big coach and waving, and all over a huge kingdom monarching is going on.

But as she avoided more trees, she also tried to avoid the little scurrying thought that was trying to creep into her mind: Sooner or later, one way or the other, he will find you…and how can he make himself a man?

 

Assistant Postmaster Groat did not believe in doctors. They made you ill, he thought. So he put sulfur in his socks every morning and he was proud to say that he had never had a day’s illness in his life. This may have been because not many people cared to come very close to him, because of the smell. Something did, though. A gale roared into his post office when he was opening the door one morning and blew his socks clean off.*

And no one heard the Wintersmith say: “Sulfur enough to make a man!”

 

Nanny Ogg was sitting by the fire when Tiffany came in, stamping snow off her boots.

“You look frozen all through,” Nanny said. “You need a glass of hot milk with a drop of brandy in it, that’s what you need.”

“Ooh, yyess…” Tiffany managed through chattering teeth.

“Get me one too, then, will you?” said Nanny. “Only joking. You get warmed up; I’ll see to the drink.”

Tiffany’s feet felt like blocks of ice. She knelt by the fire and stretched out her hand to the stockpot on its big black hook. It bubbled all the time.

Get your mind right, and balance. Reach out and cup your hands around it, and concentrate, concentrate, on your freezing boots.

After a while her toes felt warm and then—

“Ow!” Tiffany pulled her hands away and sucked at her fingers.

“Didn’t have your mind right,” said Nanny Ogg from the doorway.

“Well, you know, that’s just a bit difficult when you’ve had a long day and you didn’t sleep much and the Wintersmith is looking for you,” snapped Tiffany.

“The fire doesn’t care,” said Nanny, shrugging. “Hot milk coming up.”

Things were a little better when Tiffany had warmed up. She wondered how much brandy Nanny had added to the milk. Nanny had done one for herself, with probably some milk added to the brandy.

“Isn’t this nice and cozy,” said Nanny after a while.

“Is this going to be the talk about sex?” said Tiffany.

“Did anyone say there was going to be one?” said Nanny innocently.

“I kind of got the feeling,” said Tiffany. “And I know where babies come from, Mrs. Ogg.”

“I should hope so.”

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

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

“No!” Tiffany looked into Nanny’s smile. “Well, a bit,” she admitted.

“And frightened of him?”

“Yes.”

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

“Why? Because I’m pretending to be the flower woman?”

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

“He did? What happened?”

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

“You’re not saying I should try to tear the Wintersmith’s face off, are you?”

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

“He wants to marry me!”

“Good.”

“Good?”

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

“Writing this down,” said Tiffany, scribbling in her diary.

“You don’t need to write it down, love,” said Nanny. “It’s written down in you somewhere. On a page you haven’t read yet, I reckon. Which reminds me, these came when you were out.” Nanny fished down among the seat cushions and pulled out a couple of envelopes. “My boy Shawn is the postman, so he knew you’d moved.”

Tiffany nearly snatched them out of her hand. Two letters! “Like him, do you? Your young man in the castle?” said Nanny.

“He’s a friend who writes to me,” said Tiffany haughtily.

“That’s right, that’s just the look and voice you need for dealing with the Wintersmith!” said Nanny, looking delighted. “Who does he think he is, daring to talk to you? That’s the way!”

“I shall read them in my room,” said Tiffany.

Nanny nodded. “One of the girls did us a lovely casserole,” she said (famously, Nanny never remembered the names of her daughters-in-law). “Yours is in the oven. I’m off to the pub. Early start tomorrow!”

 

Alone in her room, Tiffany read the first letter.

To the unaided eye, not much happened on the Chalk. It had avoided History. It was a place of small things. Tiffany enjoyed reading about them.

The second letter seemed to be much the same as the first one—until the bit about the ball. He’d gone to a ball! It was at the house of Lord Diver, who was a neighbor! He’d danced with his daughter, who was called Iodine because Lord Diver thought that was a nice name for a girl! They’d had three dances!! And ice cream!! Iodine had shown him her watercolors!!!

How could he sit there and write such things?!!!

Tiffany’s eyes moved on, over the everyday news like the bad weather and what had happened to old Aggie’s leg, but the words didn’t enter her head because it was on fire.

Who did he think he was, dancing with another girl?

You danced with the Wintersmith, her Third Thoughts said.

All right, but what about the watercolors?

The Wintersmith showed you the snowflakes, said her Third Thoughts.

But I was just being polite!

Perhaps he was just being polite, too.

All right, but I know those aunts, Tiffany thought furiously. They’ve never liked me, because I’m only a farm girl! And Lord Diver’s very rich and his daughter is his only child! They’re scheming!

How could he sit there and write as if eating ice cream with another girl was a perfectly normal thing to do! That was as bad as—well, something pretty bad, at least!

As for looking at her watercolors…

He’s just a boy you happen to write to, said her Third Thoughts.

Yes, well…

Yes, well…what? her Third Thoughts persisted. They were getting on Tiffany’s nerves. Your own brains ought to have the decency to be on your side!

Just “Yes, well…” okay? she thought angrily.

You’re not being very sensible about this.

Oh, really? Well, I’ve been sensible all day! I’ve been sensible for years! I think I’m owed five minutes of being really unreasonably angry, don’t you?

There’s some casserole downstairs, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast, said her Third Thoughts. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten something.

How can I eat stew when people are looking at watercolors? How dare he look at watercolors!

But her Third Thoughts were right—not that this made things any better. If you’re going to be angry and miserable, you might as well be so on a full stomach. She went downstairs and found the casserole in the oven. It smelled good. Nothing but the best for dear ol’ Mum.

She opened the cutlery drawer for a spoon. The drawer stuck. She rattled it, pulled at it, and swore a few times, but it stayed stuck.

“Oh, yes, go ahead,” said a voice behind her. “See how much help that is. Don’t be sensible and stick your hand under the top and carefully free up the stuck item. Oh no. Rattle and curse, that’s the way!”

Tiffany turned.

There was a skinny, tired-looking woman standing by the kitchen table. She seemed to be wearing a sheet draped around her and was smoking a cigarette. Tiffany had never seen a woman smoke a cigarette before, but especially never a cigarette that burned with a fat red flame and gave off sparks.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in Mrs. Ogg’s kitchen?” Tiffany said sharply.

This time it was the woman who looked surprised.

“You can hear me?” she said. “And see me?”

“Yes!” Tiffany snarled. “And this is a food preparation area, you know!”

“You’re not supposed to be able to see me!”

“Well, I’m looking at you!”

“Hold on a minute,” said the woman, frowning at Tiffany. “You’re not just a human, are you…?” She squinted oddly for a moment and then said, “Oh, you’re her. Am I right? The new Summer?”

“Never mind me, who are you?” said Tiffany. “And it was only one dance!”

“Anoia, Goddess of Things That Get Stuck in Drawers,” said the woman. “Pleased to meet you.” She took another puff at the flaming cigarette, and there were more sparks. Some of them dropped on the floor but didn’t seem to do any damage.

“There’s a goddess just for that?” said Tiffany.

“Well, I find lost corkscrews and things that roll under furniture,” said Anoia offhandedly. “Sometimes things that get lost under sofa cushions, too. They want me to do stuck zippers, and I’m thinking about that. But mostly I manifest whensoever people rattle stuck drawers and call upon the gods.” She puffed on her cigarette. “Got any tea?”

“But I didn’t call on anyone!”

“You did,” said Anoia, blowing more sparks. “You cussed. Sooner or later, every curse is a prayer.” She waved the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette and something in the drawer went pling. “It’ll be all right now. It was the egg slicer. Everyone has one, and no one knows why. Did anyone in the world ever knowingly go out one day and buy an egg slicer? I don’t think so.”

Tiffany tried the drawer. It slid out easily.

“About that tea?” said Anoia, sitting down.

Tiffany put the kettle on. “You know about me?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Anoia. “It’s been quite some time since a god fell in love with a mortal. Everyone wants to see how it turns out.”

“Fell in love?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you mean the gods are watching?”

“Well, of course,” said Anoia. “Most of the big ones don’t do anything else these days! But I’m supposed to do zippers, oh yes, and my hands get very stiff in this weather!”

Tiffany glanced at the ceiling, which was now full of smoke.

“They’re watching all the time?” she said, aghast.

“I heard you’re getting more interest than the war in Klatchistan, and that was pretty popular,” said Anoia, holding out her red hands. “Look, chilblains. Not that they care, of course.”

“Even when I’m having a…wash?” said Tiffany.

The goddess laughed nastily. “Yes. And they can see in the dark, too. Best not to think about it.”

Tiffany looked up at the ceiling again. She had been hoping for a bath tonight.

“I’ll try not to,” she said darkly, and added: “Is it…hard, being a goddess?”

“It has its good days,” said Anoia. She stood with her cigarette arm cupped at the elbow by her other hand, holding the flaming, sparking thing close to her face. Now she took a sharp pull, raised her head, and blew a cloud of smoke out to join the smog on the ceiling. Sparks fell out of it like rain. “I haven’t been doing drawers long. I used to be a volcano goddess.”

“Really?” said Tiffany. “I’d never have guessed.”

“Oh, yes. It was good work, apart from the screaming,” said Anoia, and then added in a bitter tone of voice: “Ha! And the god of storms was always raining on my lava. That’s men for you, dear. They rain on your lava.”

“And look at watercolors,” said Tiffany.

Anoia’s eyes narrowed. “Someone else’s watercolors?”

“Yes!”

“Men! They’re all the same,” said Anoia. “Take my advice, dear, and show Mr. Wintersmith the door. He’s only an elemental, after all.”

Tiffany glanced at the door.

“Give him the boot, dear, send him packing and change the locks. Let’s have summer all year round like the hot countries do. Grapes all over the place, eh? Coconuts on every tree! Hah, when I was in the volcano game, I couldn’t move for mangoes. Kiss good-bye to snow and fog and slush. Have you got the thingy yet?”

“The thingy?” said Tiffany, looking worried.

“It’ll turn up, I daresay,” said Anoia. “I hear it can be a bit tricky to—Oops, I hear rattling, must fly, don’t worry, I won’t tell him where you are—”

She vanished. So did the smoke.

Not knowing what else to do, Tiffany ladled out a plate of hearty meat and vegetables and ate it. So…she could see gods now? And they knew about her? And everyone wanted to give her advice.

It was not a good idea to come to the attention of those in high places, her father had said.

But it was impressive. In love with her, eh? And telling everyone? But he was really an elemental, not a proper god at all. All he knew was how to move wind and water around!

Even so…huh. Some people have elementals running after them! Oh yes! How about that? If people were stupid enough to dance around with girls who painted watercolors to lead honest men to their Doom, well, she could be haughty to people who were almost gods. She ought to mention that in a letter, except that of course she wasn’t going to be writing to him now. Hah!

 

And a few miles away Old Mother Blackcap, who made her own soap out of animal fat and potash made, indeed, from plant ashes, felt a bar of soap snatched from her hand just as she was about to boil some sheets. The tub of water froze solid, too.

Being a witch, she immediately said: “There’s a strange thief about!”

And the Wintersmith said: “Potash enough to make a man!”