That was then. This is now.

“Ach, crivens,” moaned Wee Dangerous Spike, on the roof of the cart shed.

The fire went out. The snow that had filled the sky began to thin. Wee Dangerous Spike heard a scream high overhead and knew exactly what to do. He raised his arms in the air and shut his eyes just as the buzzard swooped out of the white sky and snatched him up.

He liked this bit. When he opened his eyes, the world was swinging beneath him and a voice nearby said, “Get up here quick, laddie!”

He grabbed the thin leather harness above him and pulled, and the talons gently released their grip. Then, hand over hand in the wind of the flight, he dragged himself across the bird’s feathers until he could grab the belt of Hamish the aviator.

“Rob says ye’re old enough tae come doon intae the Underworld,” said Hamish over his shoulder. “Rob’s gone tae fetch the Hero. Ye are a lucky wee laddie!”

The bird banked.

Below, the snow…fled. There was no more melting, it simply drew back from the lambing pen like the tide going out or a deep breath being taken, with no more sound than a sigh.

Morag skimmed over the lambing field, where men were looking around in puzzlement. “One deid ship and a dozen deid lambs,” said Hamish, “but no big wee hag! He’s taken her.”

“Where to?”

Hamish steered Morag up in a big wide circle. Around the farm the snow had stopped falling. But up on the downs it was still dropping like hammers.

And then it took a shape.

“Up there,” he said.

 

All right, I’m alive. I’m pretty sure about that.

Yes.

And I can feel the cold all around me, but I don’t feel cold, which would be pretty hard to explain to anyone else.

And I can’t move. Not at all.

White all around me. And inside my head, all white.

Who am I?

I can remember the name Tiffany. I hope that was me.

White all around me. That happened before. It was a kind of dream or memory or something else I don’t have a word for. And all around me, whiteness falling. And building up around me, and lifting me up. It was…the chalk lands being built, silently, under ancient seas.

That’s what my name means.

It means Land Under Wave.

And, like a wave, color came flooding back into her mind. It was mostly the redness of rage.

How dare he!

To kill the lambs!

Granny Aching wouldn’t have allowed that. She never lost a lamb. She could bring them back to life.

I should never have left here in the first place, Tiffany thought. Perhaps I should have stayed and tried to learn things by myself. But if I hadn’t gone, would I still be me? Know what I know? Would I have been as strong as my grandmother, or would I just be a cackler? Well, I’ll be strong now.

When the killing weather was blind nature, you could only cuss; but if it was walking about on two legs…then it was war. And there would be a reckoning!

She tried to move, and now the whiteness gave way. It felt like hard snow, but it wasn’t cold to her touch; it fell away, leaving a hole.

A smooth, slightly transparent floor stretched away in front of her. There were big pillars rising up to a ceiling that was hidden by some sort of fog.

There were walls made of the same stuff as the floor. They looked like ice—she could even see little bubbles inside them—but were no more than cool when she touched them.

It was a very large room. There was no furniture of any sort. It was just the sort of room a king would build to say “Look, I can afford to waste all this space!”

Her footsteps echoed as she explored. No, not even a chair. And how comfortable would it be if she found one?

She did, eventually, find a staircase that went up (unless, of course, you started at the top). It led to another hall that at least had furniture. They were the sort of couches that rich ladies were supposed to lounge on, looking tired but beautiful. Oh, and there were urns, quite big urns, and statues, too, all in the same warm ice. The statues showed athletes and gods, very much like the pictures in Chaffinch’s Mythology, doing ancient things like hurling javelins or killing huge snakes with their bare hands. They didn’t have a stitch of clothing between them, but all the men wore fig leaves, which Tiffany, in a spirit of enquiry, found would not come off.

And there was a fire. The first strange thing about it was that the logs were also of the same ice. The other strange thing was that the flames were blue—and cold.

This level had tall pointed windows, but they began a long way from the floor and showed nothing but the sky, where the pale sun was a ghost among the clouds.

Another staircase, very grand this time, led up to yet another floor with more statues and couches and urns. Who could live in a place like this? Someone who didn’t need to eat or sleep, that’s who. Someone who didn’t need to be comfortable.

“Wintersmith!”

Her voice bounced from wall to wall, sending back “ITH…Ith…ith…” until it died away.

Another staircase, then, and this time there was something new. On a plinth, where there might have been a statue, was a crown. It floated in the air a few feet above the base, turning gently, and glittered with frost. A little bit farther on was another statue, smaller than most, but around this one, blue and green and gold lights danced and shimmered.

They looked just like the Hublights that could sometimes be seen in the depths of winter floating over the mountains at the center of the world. Some people thought they were alive.

The statue was the same height as Tiffany.

“Wintersmith!” There was still no reply. A nice palace with no kitchen, no bed…. He didn’t need to eat or sleep, so who was it for?

She knew the answer already: me.

She reached out to touch the dancing lights, and they swarmed up her arm and spread across her body, making a dress that glittered like moonlight on snowfields. She was shocked, then angry. Then she wished she had a mirror, felt guilty about that, and went back to being angry again, and resolved that if by chance she did find a mirror, the only reason she’d look in it would be to check how angry she was.

After searching for a while, she found a mirror, which was nothing more than a wall of ice of such a dark green that it was almost black.

She did look angry. And immensely, beautifully sparkly. There were little glints of gold on the blue and green, just like there were in the sky on wintry nights.

“Wintersmith!”

He must be watching her. He could be anywhere.

“All right! I’m here! You know that!”

“Yes. I do,” said the Wintersmith behind her.

Tiffany spun around and slapped him across the face, then slapped him again with her other hand.

It was like hitting rock. He was learning very quickly now.

“That’s for the lambs,” she said, trying to shake some life back into her fingers. “How dare you! You didn’t have to!”

He looked much more human. Either he was wearing real clothes or he had worked hard on making them look real. He’d actually managed to look…well, handsome. Not cold anymore, just…cool.

He’s nothing but a snowman, her Second Thoughts protested. Remember that. He’s just too smart to have coal for eyes or a carrot for a nose.

“Ouch,” said the Wintersmith, as if he’d just remembered to say it.

“I demand that you let me go!” Tiffany snapped. “Right now!” That’s right, her Second Thoughts said. You want him to end up cowering behind the saucepans on top of the kitchen dresser. As it were…

“At this moment,” said the Wintersmith very calmly, “I am a gale wrecking ships a thousand miles away. I am freezing water pipes in a snowbound town. I am freezing the sweat on a dying man, lost in a terrible blizzard. I creep silently under doors. I hang from gutters. I stroke the fur of the sleeping bear, deep in her cave, and course in the blood of the fishes under the ice.”

“I don’t care!” said Tiffany. “I don’t want to be here! And you shouldn’t be here either!”

“Child, will you walk with me?” said the Wintersmith. “I will not harm you. You are safe here.”

“What from?” said Tiffany, and then, because too much time around Miss Tick does something to your conversation, even in times of stress, she changed this to: “From what?”

“Death,” said the Wintersmith. “Here you will never die.”

 

At the back of the Feegles’ chalk pit, more chalk had been carved out of the wall to make a tunnel about five feet high and perhaps as long.

In front of it stood Roland de Chumsfanleigh (it wasn’t his fault). His ancestors had been knights, and they had come to own the Chalk by killing the kings who thought they did. Swords, that’s what it had all been about. Swords and cutting off heads. That was how you got land in the old days, and then the rules were changed so that you didn’t need a sword to own land anymore, you just needed the right piece of paper. But his ancestors had still hung on to their swords, just in case people thought that the whole thing with the bits of paper was unfair, it being a fact that you can’t please everybody.

He’d always wanted to be good with a sword, and it had come as a shock to find they were so heavy. He was great at air sword. In front of a mirror he could fence against his reflection and win nearly all the time. Real swords didn’t allow that. You tried to swing them and they ended up swinging you. He’d realized that maybe he was more cut out for bits of paper. Besides, he needed glasses, which could be a bit tricky under a helmet, especially if someone was hitting you with a sword.

He wore a helmet now, and held a sword that was—although he wouldn’t admit it—far too heavy for him. He was also wearing a suit of chain mail that made it very hard to walk. The Feegles had done their best to make it fit, but the crotch hung down to his knees and flapped amusingly when he moved.

I’m not a hero, he thought. I’ve got a sword, which I need two hands to lift, and I’ve got a shield that is also really heavy, and I’ve got a horse with curtains around it that I’ve had to leave at home (and my aunts will go mad when they go into the drawing room), but inside I’m a kid who would quite like to know where the privy is….

But she rescued me from the Queen of the Elves. If she hadn’t, I’d still be a stupid kid instead of…um…a young man hoping he isn’t too stupid.

The Nac Mac Feegles had exploded back into his room, fighting their way through the storm that had arrived overnight, and now, they said, it was time for him to be a Hero for Tiffany…. Well, he would be. He was sure of that. Fairly sure. But right now the scenery wasn’t what he’d expected.

“You know, this doesn’t look like the entrance to the Underworld,” he said.

“Ach, any cave can be the way in,” said Rob Anybody, who was sitting on Roland’s helmet. “But ye must ha’ the knowin’ o’ the crawstep. Okay, Big Yan, ye go first….”

Big Yan strutted up to the chalk hole. He stuck out his arms behind him, bent at the elbows. He leaned backward, sticking out one leg to keep his balance. Then he wiggled the foot in the air a few times, leaned forward, and vanished as soon as the foot touched the ground.

Rob Anybody banged on Roland’s helmet with his fist.

“Okay, big Hero,” he shouted. “Off ye go!”

 

There was no way out. Tiffany didn’t even know if there was a way in.

“If you were the Summer Lady, then we would dance,” said the Wintersmith. “But I know now that you are not her, even though you seem to be. But for the sake of you I am now human, and I must have company.”

Tiffany’s racing mind showed her pictures: the sprouting acorn, the fertile feet, the Cornucopia. I’m just enough of a goddess to fool a few floorboards and an acorn and a handful of seeds, she thought. I’m just like him. Iron enough to make a nail doesn’t make a snowman human, and a couple of oak leaves don’t make me a goddess.

“Come,” said the Wintersmith, “let me show you my world. Our world.”

 

When Roland opened his eyes, all he could see were shadows. Not shadows of things—just shadows, drifting like cobwebs.

“I was expecting somewhere…hotter,” he said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. Around him, Feegles popped out of nowhere.

“Ah, you’re thinkin’ o’ hells,” said Rob Anybody. “They tends to be on the toasty side, it’s true. Underworlds are more o’ the gloomy sort. It’s where folks end up when they’s lost, ye ken.”

“What? You mean if it’s a dark night and you take the wrong turning—”

“Ach, no! Like mebbe deid when they shouldn’t be an’ there’s nae place for ’em tae go, or they fall doon a gap in the worlds an’ dinna ken the way. Some o’ them don’t even ken where they are, poor souls. There’s an awful lot o’ that kind o’ thing. There’s no’ a lot o’ laughs in a underworld. This one used tae be called Limbo, ye ken, ’cuz the door was verra low. Looks like it’s gone way downhill since we wuz last here.” He raised his voice. “An’ a big hand, lads, for young Wee Dangerous Spike, oot wi’ us for the first time!” There was a ragged cheer, and Wee Dangerous Spike waved his sword.

Roland pushed his way through the shadows, which actually offered some resistance. The very air was gray down here. Sometimes he heard groans, or someone coughing in the distance…and then there were footsteps, shuffling toward him.

He drew his sword and peered through the gloom.

Shadows parted and a very old woman in tattered, threadbare clothes shuffled past, dragging a large cardboard box behind her. It bounced awkwardly as she tugged at it. She didn’t even glance at Roland.

He lowered the sword.

“I thought there’d be monsters,” he said as the old woman disappeared into the gloom.

“Aye,” said Rob Anybody grimly. “There are. Think o’ somethin’ solid, will ye?”

“Something solid?!”

“I’m nae jokin’! Think o’ a nice big mountain, or a hammer! Whatever ye do, dinna wish or regret or hope!”

Roland closed his eyes and then reached up to touch them.

“I can still see! But my eyes are shut!”

“Aye! And ye’ll see more wi’ yer een shut. Look aroond ye, if ye dare!”

Roland, his eyes shut, took a few steps forward and looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed. Perhaps things were slightly more gloomy. And then he saw it—a flash of bright orange, a line in the dark that came and went.

“What was that?” he asked.

“We dinna ken whut they call themselves. We call ’em bogles,” said Rob.

“They are flashes of light?”

“Ach, that one was a long way away,” said Rob. “If ye want tae see one close up, it’s standin’ right beside ye….”

Roland spun around.

“Ah, ye see, ye made a classic mistake right there,” said Rob, conversationally. “Ye opened yer eyes!”

Roland shut his eyes. The bogle was standing six inches away from him.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream. Hundreds of Feegles were watching him, he knew.

At first he thought: It’s a skeleton. When it flashed again, it looked like a bird, a tall bird like a heron. Then it was a stick figure, like a kid would draw. Over and over again it scribbled itself against the darkness in thin, burning lines.

It scribbled itself a mouth and leaned forward for a moment, showing hundreds of needle teeth. Then it vanished.

There was a murmur from the Feegles.

“Aye, ye done weel,” said Rob Anybody. “Ye stared it in the mouth and ye didna take so much as a step back.”

“Mr. Anybody, I was too scared to run,” Roland muttered.

Rob Anybody leaned down until he was level with the boy’s ear.

“Aye,” he whispered, “I ken that well enough! There be a lot o’ men who became heroes ’cuz they wuz too scared tae run! But ye didna yell nor cack yer kecks, an’ that’s good. There’ll be more o’ them as we go on. Dinna let them intae yer heid! Keep ’em oot!”

“Why, what do they—? No, don’t tell me!” said Roland.

He walked on through the shadows, blinking so he wouldn’t miss anything. The old woman had gone, but the gloom began to fill up with people. Mostly they stood by themselves, or sat on chairs. Some wandered around quietly. They passed a man in ancient clothing who was staring at his own hand as though he were seeing it for the first time.

There was a woman swaying gently and singing a nonsense song in a quiet, little-girl voice. She gave Roland a strange, mad smile as he walked past. Right behind her stood a bogle.

“All right,” said Roland grimly. “Now tell me what they do.”

“They eat yer memories,” said Rob Anybody. “Yer thoughts is real tae them. Wishes an’ hope are like food! They’re vermin, really. This is whut happens when these places are no’ looked after.”

“And how can I kill them?”

“Oh, that was a verra nasty voice ye just used. Hark at the big wee hero! Dinna bother aboot them, laddie. They won’t attack ye yet, and we’ve got a job tae do.”

“I hate this place!”

“Aye, hells is a lot more lively,” said Rob Anybody. “Slow doon now—we’re at the river.”

A river ran through the Underworld. It was as dark as the soil, and lapped at its banks in a slow, oily way.

“Ah, I think I’ve heard of this,” said Roland. “There’s a ferryman, right?”

YES.

He was there, suddenly, standing in a long, low boat. He was all in black, of course in black, with a deep hood that entirely concealed his face and gave a definite feeling that this was just as well.

“Hi, pal,” said Rob Anybody cheerfully. “How’re ye doin’?”

OH NO, NOT YOU PEOPLE AGAIN, said the dark figure in a voice that was not so much heard as felt. I THOUGHT YOU WERE BANNED.

“Just a wee misunderstandin’, ye ken,” said Rob, sliding down Roland’s armor. “Ye have tae let us in, ’cuz we’s deid already.”

The figure extended an arm. The black robe fell away, and what pointed at Roland looked, to him, very much like a bony finger.

BUT HE MUST PAY THE FERRYMAN, he said accusingly, in a voice of crypts and graveyards.

“Not until I’m on the other side,” Roland said firmly.

“Oh, c’mon!” said Daft Wullie to the ferryman. “Ye can see he’s a Hero! If ye canna trust a Hero, who can ye trust?”

The cowl regarded Roland for what seemed like a hundred years.

OH, VERY WELL THEN.

The Feegles swarmed aboard the rotting boat with their usual enthusiasm and cries of “Crivens!” “Where’s the booze on this cruise?” and “We’re right oot in the Styx noo!” and Roland climbed in with care, watching the ferryman suspiciously.

The figure pulled on the big oar, and they set off with a creak and then, regrettably, and to the ferryman’s disgust, to the sound of singing. More or less singing, that is, at every possible speed and tempo and with no regard at all for the tune:

“Row row yer row boat boat boaty boat down boat stream boat merrily stream like a bird on the boa—”

WILL YOU SHUT UP?

“—bonny boat row stream stream boat boat row yer boat down the merrily stream row merrily merrily boat—”

THIS IS HARDLY APPROPRIATE!

“Down the boat boat down the merrily stream stream stream merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily boat!”

“Mr. Anybody?” said Roland as they glided jerkily along.

“Aye?”

“Why am I sitting next to a blue cheese with a bit of tartan wrapped around it?”

“Ah, that’d be Horace,” said Rob Anybody. “He’s Daft Wullie’s pal. He’s no’ bein’ a nuisance, is he?”

“No. But he’s trying to sing!”

“Aye, all blue cheeses hum a bit.”

“Mnamnam mnam mnamnam,” sang Horace.

The boat bumped against the far bank, and the ferryman stepped ashore quickly.

Rob Anybody scrambled up Roland’s ragged chain-mail sleeve and whispered: “When I gi’e ye the word, run for it!”

“But I can pay the ferryman. I have the money,” said Roland, patting his pocket.

“You whut?” said the Feegle, as if this were some strange and dangerous idea.

“I have the money,” Roland repeated. “Two pennies is the rate to cross the River of the Dead. It’s an old tradition. Two pennies to put on the eyes of the dead, to pay the ferryman.”

“Whut a clever man ye are, to be sure,” said Rob as Roland dropped two copper coins into the ferryman’s bony hand. “An’ did ye no’ think tae bring four pennies?”

“The book just said the dead take two,” said Roland.

“Aye, mebbe they do,” Rob agreed, “but that’s ’cuz the deid dinna expect tae be comin’ back!”

Roland looked back across the dark river. Flashes of orange light were thick on the bank they’d left.

“Mr. Anybody, I was once a prisoner of the Queen of Fairyland.”

“Aye, I ken that.”

“It was for a year in this world, but it only seemed like a few days there…except that the weeks passed like centuries. It was so…dull, I could hardly remember anything after a while. Not my name, not the feel of sunshine, not the taste of real food.”

“Aye, we ken that—we helped tae rescue ye. Ye niver say thanks, but ye wuz oot o’ yer skull the whole time, so we didna take offense.”

“Then allow me to thank you now, Mr. Anybody.”

“Dinna mention it. Anytime. Happy tae oblige.”

“She had pets that fed you dreams until you died of hunger. I hate things that try to take away what you are. I want to kill those things, Mr. Anybody. I want to kill all of them. When you take away memories, you take away the person. Everything they are.”

“’Tis a fine ambition ye’ve got there,” said Rob. “But we ha’ got a wee job tae do, ye ken. Aw crivens, this is whut happens when things get sloppy an’ bogles take over.”

There was a big pile of bones on the path. They were certainly animal bones, and the rotting collars and lengths of rusted chain were another clue.

“Three big dogs?” said Roland.

“One verra big dog wi’ three heads,” said Rob Anybody. “Verra popular in underworlds, that breed. Can bite right through a man’s throat. Three times!” he added with relish. “But put three doggy biscuits in a row on the groond, an’ the puir wee thing sits there strainin’ an’ whinin’ all day. It’s a wee laff, I’m tellin’ ye!” He kicked at the bones. “Aye, time wuz when places like this had some pers’nality. Look, see what they’ve done here, too.”

Farther along the path was what was probably a demon. It had a horrible face, with so many fangs that some of them must have been just for show. There were wings, too, but they couldn’t possibly have lifted it. It had found a piece of mirror, and every few seconds it took a peep into it and shuddered.

“Mr. Anybody,” said Roland, “is there anything down here that this sword I’m carrying could kill?”

“Ah, no. No’ kill,” said Rob Anybody. “No’ bogles. No’ as such. It’s no’ a magic sword, see?”

“Then why am I dragging it along?”

“’Cuz ye are a Hero. Who ever heard o’a Hero wi’oot a sword?”

Roland tugged the sword out of its scabbard. It was heavy and not at all like the flying, darting silver thing that he’d imagined in front of the mirror. It was more like a metal club with an edge.

He gripped it in both hands and managed to hurl it out into the middle of the slow, dark river.

Just before it hit the water, a white arm rose and caught it. The hand waved the sword a couple of times and then disappeared with it under the water.

“Was that supposed to happen?” he asked.

“A man throwin’ his sword awa’?” yelled Rob. “No! Ye’re no’ supposed tae bung a guid sword intae the drinkie!”

“No, I mean the hand,” said Roland. “It just—”

“Ach, they turn up sometimes.” Rob Anybody waved a hand as if midstream underwater sword jugglers were an everyday occurrence. “But ye’ve got no weapon noo!”

“You said swords can’t hurt bogles!”

“Aye, but it’s the look o’ the thing, okay?” said Rob, hurrying on.

“But not having a sword should make me more heroic, right?” said Roland, as the rest of the Feegles trotted after them.

“Technic’ly, aye,” said Rob Anybody reluctantly. “But mebbe also more deid.”

“Besides, I have a Plan,” said Roland.

“Ye have a Plan?” said Rob.

“Yes. I mean aye.”

“Writted doon?”

“I’ve only just thought of—” Roland stopped. The ever-shifting shadows had parted, and a big cave lay ahead.

In the center of it, surrounding what looked like a rock slab, was a dim yellow glow. There was a small figure lying on the slab.

“Here we are,” said Rob Anybody. “That wasna so bad, aye?”

Roland blinked. Hundreds of bogles were clustered around the slab, but at a distance, as if they were not keen on going any closer.

“I can see…someone lying down,” he said.

“That’s Summer herself,” said Rob. “We have tae be canny aboot this.”

“Canny?”

“Like…careful,” said Rob helpfully. “Goddesses can be a wee bit tricky. Verra image conscious.”

“Don’t we just…you know, grab her and run?” said Roland.

“Oh, aye, we’ll end up doin’ somethin’ like that,” said Rob. “But you, mister, will have tae be the one tae kiss her first. You okay wi’ that?”

Roland looked a bit strained, but he said: “Yes…er, fine.”

“The ladies expect it, ye ken,” Rob went on.

“And then we run for it?” said Roland hopefully.

“Aye, ’cuz probably that’s when the bogles will try an’ stop us gettin’ awa.’ It’s people leavin’ that they don’t like. Off ye go, laddie.”

I’ve got a Plan, thought Roland, walking toward the slab. And I’ll concentrate on it so that I don’t think about the fact that I’m walking through a crowd of scribbly monsters that are only there if I blink and my eyes are watering. What’s in my head is real to them, right?

I’m going to blink, I’m going to blink, I’m going to…

…blink. It was over in a moment, but the shudder went on for a lot longer. They had been everywhere, and every toothy mouth was looking at him. It should not be possible to look with teeth.

He ran forward, eyes streaming with the effort of not closing, and looked down at the figure lying in the yellow glow. It was female, it was breathing, it was asleep, and it looked like Tiffany Aching.

 

From the top of the ice palace Tiffany could see for miles, and they were miles of snow. Only on the Chalk was there any sign of green. It was an island.

“You see how I learn?” said the Wintersmith. “The Chalk is yours. So there summer will come, and you will be happy. And you will be my bride and I will be happy. And everything will be happy. Happiness is when things are correct. Now I am human, I understand these things.”

Don’t scream, don’t shout, said her Third Thoughts. Don’t freeze up, either.

“Oh…I see,” she said. “And the rest of the world will stay in winter?”

“No, there are some latitudes that never feel my frost,” said the Wintersmith. “But the mountains, the plains as far as the circle sea…oh, yes.”

“Millions of people will die!”

“But only once, you see. That is what makes it wonderful. And after that, no more death!”

And Tiffany saw it, like a Hogswatch card: birds frozen to their twigs, horses and cows standing still in the fields, frozen grass like daggers, no smoke from any chimney; a world without death because there was nothing left to die, and everything glittering like tinsel.

She nodded carefully. “Very…sensible,” she said. “But it would be a shame if nothing moved at all.”

“That would be easy. Snow people,” said the Wintersmith. “I can make them human!”

“Iron enough to make a nail?” said Tiffany.

“Yes! It is easy. I have eaten sausage! And I can think! I never thought before. I was a part. Now I am apart. Only when you are apart do you know who you are.”

“You made me roses of ice,” said Tiffany.

“Yes! Already I was becoming!”

But the roses melted at dawn, Tiffany added to herself, and glanced at the pale-yellow sun. It had just enough strength to make the Wintersmith sparkle. He does think like a human, she thought, looking into the odd smile. He thinks like a human who’s never met another human. He’s cackling. He’s so mad, he will never understand how mad he is.

He just doesn’t have a clue what “human” means, he doesn’t know what horrors he’s planning, he just doesn’t…understand. And he’s so happy he’s almost sweet….

 

Rob Anybody banged on Roland’s helmet.

“Get on wi’ it, laddie,” he demanded.

Roland stared at the glowing figure. “This can’t be Tiffany!”

“Ach, she’s a goddess, she can look like anythin’,” said Rob Anybody. “Just a wee peck on the cheek, okay? Dinna get enthusiastic, we havena got all day. A wee peck an’ we’re offski.”

Something butted Roland on the ankle. It was a blue cheese.

“Dinna fash yerself aboot Horace—he just wants ye tae do the right thing,” said the mad Feegle whom Roland had come to know as Daft Wullie.

He went closer, with the glow crackling around him, because no man wants to be a coward in front of a cheese.

“This is kind of…embarrassing,” he said.

“Crivens, get on wi’ it, will ye?”

Roland leaned forward and pecked the sleeping cheek.

The sleeper opened her eyes, and he took a step back very quickly.

“That’s not Tiffany Aching!” he said, and blinked. Bogles were as thick around him as grass stems.

“Now take her by the hand an’ run,” said Rob Anybody. “The bogles will turn nasty when they see we’re leavin’.” He banged cheerfully on the side of the helmet and added: “But that’s okay, right? ’Cuz ye have a Plan!”

“I hope I’ve got it right, though,” said Roland. “My aunts say I’m too clever by half.”

“Glad tae hear it,” said Rob Anybody, “’cuz that’s much better than bein’ too stupid by three quarters! Now grab the lady an’ run!”

Roland tried to avoid the stare of the girl as he took her hand and pulled her gently off the slab. She said something in a language he couldn’t understand, except that it sounded as though there were a question mark on the end of it.

“I’m here to rescue you,” he said. She looked at him with the golden eyes of a snake.

“The sheep girl is in trouble,” she said, in a voice full of unpleasant echoes and hisses. “So sad, so sad.”

“Well, er, we’d better run,” he managed, “whoever you are….”

The not-Tiffany gave him a smile. It was an uncomfortable one, with a bit of a smirk in it. They ran.

“How do you fight the bogles?” he panted when the Feegle army jogged through the caves.

“Ach, they dinna like the taste o’ us overmuch,” said Rob Anybody as the shadows parted. “It may be ’cuz we think aboot the drinkin’ a lot—it makes ’em squiffy. Keep movin’!”

And it was at this point that the bogles struck, although that was hardly the right word. It was more like running into a wall of whispers. Nothing grabbed; there were no claws. If thousands of tiny weak things like shrimps or flies were trying to stop someone, this would be how it felt.

But the ferryman was waiting. He raised a hand as Roland staggered toward the boat.

THAT WILL BE SIX PENNIES, he said.

“Six?” said Roland.

“Ah, we wasna doon here more’n two hour, an’ bang went sixpence!” said Daft Wullie.

ONE ONE-DAY ROUND TRIP, ONE ONE-WAY, said the ferryman.

“I don’t have that much!” Roland shouted. He was beginning to feel little tugs in his head now. Thoughts had to push hard to get as far as his mouth.

“Leave this tae me,” said Rob Anybody. He turned to look down on his fellow Feegles and banged on Roland’s helmet for silence.

“Okay, lads,” he announced. “We’re no’ leavin’!”

WHAT? said the ferryman. OH NO, YOU LEAVE! I’M NOT HAVING YOU DOWN HERE AGAIN! WE’RE STILL FINDING THE BOTTLES FROM LAST TIME! COME ON, GET ON THE BOAT THIS MINUTE!

“Crivens, we canna do that, pal,” said Rob Anybody. “We’re under a geas to help this lad, ye ken. Where he disna go, we dinna go!”

PEOPLE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO WANT TO STAY HERE! snapped the ferryman.

“Ach, we’ll soon ha’ the old place jumpin’ again,” said Rob Anybody, grinning.

The ferryman drummed his fingers on the pole. They made a clicking sound, like dice.

OH, ALL RIGHT THEN. BUT—AND I WANT TO BE CLEAR ON THIS—THERE IS TO BE NO SINGING!

Roland dragged the girl onto the boat. The bogles kept clear of that, at least, but as the ferryman pushed away from the shore, Big Yan kicked Roland on the boot and pointed upward. Scribbles of orange light, hundreds of them, were moving across the roof of the cavern. There were more of them on the opposite shore.

“How’s the Plan goin’, Mister Hero?” asked Rob Anybody quietly as he climbed down from the boy’s helmet.

“I’m waiting for the opportune moment,” said Roland haughtily. He turned to look at the not-Tiffany. “I’m here to get you out,” he said, trying not to look directly at her eyes.

“You?” said the not-Tiffany, as if the idea were amusing.

“Well, us,” Roland corrected himself. “Everything is—”

There was a bump as the boat grounded on the farther shore, where the bogles were as thick as standing corn.

“Off ye go, then,” said Big Yan.

Roland pulled the not-Tiffany along the path for a few steps, and stopped. When he blinked, the path ahead was a writhing orange mass. He could feel the little pulls on him, no stronger than a breeze. But they were in his brain, too. Cold, and nibbling. This was stupid. It couldn’t work. He wouldn’t be able to do it. He wasn’t any good at this sort of thing. He was wayward and inconsiderate and disobedient, just like his…aunts…said.

Behind him, Daft Wullie shouted, in his cheerful way, “Make yer aunties proud of ye!”

Roland half turned, suddenly angry. “My aunts? Let me tell you about my aunts—”

“No time, laddie!” shouted Rob Anybody. “Get on wi’ it!”

Roland looked around, his mind on fire.

Our memories are real, he thought. And I will not stand for this!

He turned to the not-Tiffany and said: “Don’t be afraid.” Then he held out his left hand and whispered, under his breath: “I remember…a sword….”

When he shut his eyes, there it was—so light he could barely feel it, so thin he could hardly see it, a line in the air that was made up mostly of sharpness. He’d killed a thousand enemies with it, in the mirror. It was never too heavy, it moved like part of him, and here it was. A weapon that chopped away everything that clung and lied and stole.

“Mebbe ye can make a Hero all in one go,” said Rob Anybody thoughtfully, as bogles scribbled themselves into existence and died. He turned to Daft Wullie. “Daft Wullie?” he said. “Can ye bring to mind when it was I told ye that sometimes ye say exactly the right thing?”

Daft Wullie looked baffled. “Noo that ye mention it, Rob, I dinna recall ye ever sayin’ that, ever.”

“Aye?” said Rob. “Weel, if I had done, just now would ha’ been one o’ those times.”

Daft Wullie looked worried. “That’s all right though, aye? I said somethin’ right?”

“Aye. Ye did, Daft Wullie. A First. I’m proud o’ ye,” said Rob.

Daft Wullie’s face split in an enormous grin. “Crivens! Hey, lads, I said—”

“But dinna get carried awa’,” Rob added.

As Roland swung the airy blade, the bogles parted like spiderwebs. There were more, always more, but the silver line always found them, cutting him free. They backed away, tried new shapes, recoiled from the heat of the anger in his head. The sword hummed. Bogles curled around the blade and squealed, and sizzled into nothingness on the floor—

—and someone was banging on his helmet. They’d been doing so for quite a while.

“Huh?” he said, opening his eyes.

“Ye’ve run oot,” said Rob Anybody. His chest heaving, Roland looked around. Eyes open or shut, the caves were empty of orange streaks. The not-Tiffany was watching him with a strange smile on her face.

“Either we get oot noo,” said Rob, “or ye can hang aroond and wait for some more, mebbe?”

“An’ here they come,” said Billy Bigchin. He pointed across the river. A pure mass of orange was pouring into the cave, so many bogles that there was no space between them.

Roland hesitated, still fighting for breath.

“I’ll tell ye whut,” said Rob Anybody soothingly. “If ye are a guid boy an’ rescue the lady, we’ll bring ye doon here another time, wi’ some sandwiches so’s we can make a day o’ it.”

Roland blinked. “Er, yes,” he said. “Um…sorry. I don’t know what happened just then….”

“Offski time!” yelled Big Yan. Roland grabbed the hand of the not-Tiffany.

“An’ don’t look back until we’re well oot o’ here,” said Rob Anybody. “It’s kind of traditional.”

 

On the top of the tower, the ice crown appeared in the Wintersmith’s pale hands. It shone more than diamonds could, even in the pale sunlight. It was purest ice, without bubbles, lines, or flaw.

“I made this for you,” he said. “The Summer Lady will never wear it,” he added sadly.

It fit perfectly. It didn’t feel cold.

He stepped back.

“And now it is done,” said the Wintersmith.

“There is something I have to do, too,” said Tiffany. “But first there’s something I have to know. You found the things that make a man?”

“Yes!”

“How did you find out what they were?”

The Wintersmith proudly told her about the children, while Tiffany breathed carefully, forcing herself to relax. His logic was very…logical. After all, if a carrot and two pieces of coal can make a heap of snow a snowman, then a big bucket of salts and gases and metal should certainly make him a human. It made…sense. At least, sense to the Wintersmith.

“But, you see, you need to know the whole song,” said Tiffany. “It is mostly only about what humans are made of. It isn’t about what humans are.”

“There were some things that I could not find,” said the Wintersmith. “They made no sense. They had no substance.”

“Yes,” said Tiffany, nodding sadly. “The last three lines, I expect, which are the whole point. I’m really sorry about that.”

“But I will find them,” said the Wintersmith. “I will!”

“I hope you do, one day,” said Tiffany. “Now, have you ever heard of Boffo?”

“What is this Boffo? It was not in the song!” said the Wintersmith, looking uneasy.

“Oh, Boffo is how humans change the world by fooling themselves,” said Tiffany. “It’s wonderful. And Boffo says that things have no power that humans don’t put there. You can make things magical, but you can’t magically make a human out of things. It’s just a nail in your heart. Only a nail.”

And the time has come and I know what to do, she thought dreamily. I know how the Story has to end. I must end it in the right kind of way.

She pulled the Wintersmith toward her and saw the look of astonishment on his face. She felt light-headed, as though her feet weren’t touching the floor. The world became…simpler. It was a tunnel, leading to the future. There was nothing to see but the Wintersmith’s cold face, nothing to hear but her own breathing, nothing to feel but the warmth of the sun on her hair.

It wasn’t the fiery globe of summer, but it was still much bigger than any bonfire could ever be.

Where this takes me, there I choose to go, she told herself, letting the warmth pour into her. I choose. This I choose to do. And I’m going to have to stand on tiptoe, she added.

Thunder on my right hand. Lightning in my left hand.

Fire above me….

“Please,” she said, “take the winter away. Go back to your mountains. Please.”

Frost in front of me….

“No. I am Winter. I cannot be anything else.”

“Then you cannot be human,” said Tiffany. “The last three lines are: ‘Strength enough to build a home, Time enough to hold a child, Love enough to break a heart.’”

Balance…and it came quickly, out of nowhere, lifting her up inside.

The center of the seesaw does not move. It feels neither upness nor downness. It is balanced.

Balance…and his lips were like blue ice. She’d cry, later, for the Wintersmith who wanted to be human.

Balance…and the old kelda had once told her: “There’s a little bitty bit inside ye that willna melt and flow.”

Time to thaw.

She shut her eyes and kissed the Wintersmith…

…and drew down the sun.

Frost to fire.

 

The entire top of the ice palace melted in a flash of white light that cast shadows on walls a hundred miles away. A pillar of steam roared up, stitched with lightning, and spread out above the world like an umbrella, covering the sun. Then it began to fall back as a soft, warm rain that punched little wormholes in the snow.

Tiffany, her head usually so full of thoughts, hadn’t got a thought to spare. She lay on a slab of ice in the soft rain and listened to the palace collapse around her.

There are times when everything that you can do has been done and there’s nothing for it now but to curl up and wait for the thunder to die down.

There was something else in the air, too, a golden glint that vanished when she tried to look at it and then turned up again in the corner of her eye.

The palace was melting like a waterfall. The slab she lay on half slid and half floated down a staircase that was turning into a river. Above her, huge pillars fell but went from ice to a gush of warm water in midair, so that what crashed down was spray.

Good-bye to the glittering crown, Tiffany thought with a touch of regret. Good-bye to the dress made of dancing light, and good-bye to the ice roses and the snowflakes. Such a shame. Such a shame.

And then there was grass under her, and so much water pouring past her that it was a case of get up or drown. She managed to get to her knees, at least, and waited until it was possible to stand up without being knocked over.

“You have something of mine, child,” said a voice behind her. She turned, and golden light rushed into a shape. It was her own shape, but her eyes were… odd, like a snake’s. Right here and now, with the roaring of the heat of the sun still filling her ears, this didn’t seem very amazing.

Slowly, Tiffany took the Cornucopia out of her pocket and handed it over.

“You are the Summer Lady, aren’t you?” she asked.

“And you are the sheep-girl who would be me?” There was a hiss to the words.

“I didn’t want to be!” said Tiffany hurriedly. “Why do you look like me?”

The Summer Lady sat down on the turf. It is very strange to watch yourself, and Tiffany noticed she had a small mole on the back of her neck.

“It’s called resonance,” she said. “Do you know what that is?”

“It means ‘vibrating with,’” said Tiffany.

“How does a sheep-girl know that?”

“I have a dictionary,” said Tiffany. “And I’m a witch, thank you.”

“Well, while you were picking up things from me, I’ve been picking up things from you, clever sheep-witch,” said the Summer Lady. She was beginning to remind Tiffany a lot of Annagramma. That was actually a relief. She didn’t sound wise, or nice…she was just another person, who happened to be very powerful but not frighteningly smart and was, frankly, a bit annoying.

“What’s your real shape?” Tiffany asked.

“The shape of heat on a road, the shape of the smell of apples.” Nice reply, Tiffany thought, but not helpful, as such.

Tiffany sat down next to the goddess. “Am I in trouble?” she asked.

“Because of what you did to the Wintersmith? No. He has to die every year, as do I. We die, and sleep and wake. Besides…you were entertaining.”

“Oh? I was entertaining, was I?” said Tiffany, her eyes narrowing.

“What is it you want?” asked the Summer Lady. Yes, thought Tiffany, just like Annagramma. Wouldn’t spot a hint a mile high.

“Want?” said Tiffany. “Nothing. Just the summer, thank you.”

The Summer Lady looked puzzled. “But humans always want something from gods.”

“But witches don’t accept payment. Green grass and blue skies will do.”

“What? You’ll get those anyway!” The Summer Lady sounded both confused and angry, and Tiffany was quite happy about this, in a small and spiteful way.

“Good,” she said.

“You saved the world from the Wintersmith!”

“Actually, I saved it from a silly girl, Miss Summer. I put right what I put wrong.”

“One simple mistake? You’d be a silly girl not to accept a reward.”

“I’d be a sensible young woman to refuse one,” said Tiffany, and it felt good to say that. “Winter is over. I know. I’ve seen it through. Where it took me, there I chose to go. I chose when I danced with the Wintersmith.”

The Summer Lady stood up. “Remarkable,” she said. “And strange. And now we part. But first, some more things must be taken. Stand up, young woman.”

Tiffany did so, and when she looked into the face of Summer, golden eyes became pits that drew her in.

And then the summer filled her up. It must have been for only a few seconds, but inside them it went on for much longer. She felt what it was like to be the breeze through green corn on a spring day, to ripen an apple, to make the salmon leap the rapids—the sensations came all at once and merged into one great big, glistening, golden-yellow feeling of summer…

…that grew hotter. Now the sun turned red in a burning sky. Tiffany drifted through air like warm oil into the searing calm of deep deserts, where even camels die. There was no living thing. Nothing moved except ash.

She drifted down a dried-up riverbed, with pure white animal bones on the banks. There was no mud, not one drop of moisture in this oven of a land. This was a river of stones—agates banded like a cat’s eye, garnets lying loose, thunder eggs with their rings of color, stones of brown, orange, creamy white, some with black veins, all polished by the heat.

“Here is the heart of the summer,” hissed the voice of the Summer Lady. “Fear me as much as the Wintersmith. We are not yours, though you give us shapes and names. Fire and ice we are, in balance. Do not come between us again….”

And now, at last, there was movement. From out of gaps between the stones they came like stones brought alive: bronze and red, umber and yellow, black and white, with harlequin patterns and deadly gleaming scales.

The snakes tested the boiling air with their forked tongues and hissed triumphantly.

The vision vanished. The world came back.

The water had poured away. The everlasting wind had teased the fogs and steams into long streamers of cloud, but the unconquered sun was finding its way through. And, as always happens, and happens far too soon, the strange and wonderful becomes a memory and a memory becomes a dream. Tomorrow it’s gone.

Tiffany walked across the grass where the palace had been. There were a few pieces of ice left, but they would be gone in an hour. There were the clouds, but clouds drifted away. The normal world pressed in on her, with its dull little songs. She was walking on a stage after the play was over, and who now could say it had ever happened?

Something sizzled on the grass. Tiffany reached down and picked up a piece of metal. It was still warm with the last of the heat that had twisted it out of shape, but you could see that it had once been a nail.

No, I won’t take a gift to make the giver feel better, she thought. Why should I? I’ll find my own gifts. I was…“entertaining” to her, that’s all.

But him—he made me roses and icebergs and frost and never understood….

She turned suddenly at the sound of voices. The Feegles came bounding over the slope of the downs, at a speed just fast enough for a human to keep up. And Roland was keeping up, panting a little, his overlarge chain mail making him run like a duck.

She laughed.

 

Two weeks later Tiffany went back to Lancre. Roland took her as far as Twoshirts, and the pointy hat took her the rest of the way. That was a bit of luck. The driver remembered Miss Tick, and since there was a spare space on the roof of the coach, he wasn’t prepared to go through all that again. The roads were flooded, the ditches gurgled, the swollen rivers sucked at the bridges.

First she visited Nanny Ogg, who had to be told everything. That saved some time, because once you’ve told Nanny Ogg, you’ve more or less told everyone else. When she heard exactly what Tiffany had done to the Wintersmith, she laughed and laughed.

Tiffany borrowed Nanny’s broomstick and flew slowly across the forests to Miss Treason’s cottage.

Things were going on. In the clearing, several men were digging the vegetable area, and lots of people were hanging around the door, so she landed back in the woods, shoved the broom into a rabbit hole and her hat under a bush, and walked back on foot.

Stuck in a birch tree where the track entered the clearing was…a doll, maybe, made out of lots of twigs bound together. It was new, and a bit worrying. That was probably the idea.

No one saw her raise the catch on the scullery door or slip inside the cottage. She leaned against the kitchen wall and went quiet.

From the next room came the unmistakable voice of Annagramma at her most typically Annagrammatical.

“—only a tree, do you understand? Cut it up and share the wood. Agreed? And now shake hands. Go on. I mean it. Properly, or else I’ll get angry! Good. That feels better, doesn’t it? Let’s have no more of this silliness—”

After ten minutes of listening to people being scolded, grumbled at, and generally prodded, Tiffany crept out again, cut through the woods, and walked into the clearing via the track. There was a woman hurrying toward her, but she stopped when Tiffany said: “Excuse me, is there a witch near here?”

“Ooooh, yes,” said the woman, and gave Tiffany a hard stare. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No,” said Tiffany, and thought: I lived here for months, Mrs. Carter, and I saw you most days. But I always wore the hat. People always talk to the hat. Without the hat, I’m in disguise.

“Well, there’s Miss Hawkin,” said Mrs. Carter, as if reluctant to give away a secret. “Be careful, though.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “She turns into a terrible monster when she’s angry! I’ve seen her! She’s all right with us, of course,” she added. “Lots of young witches have been coming to learn things from her!”

“Gosh, she must be good!”

“She’s amazing,” Mrs. Carter went on. “She’d only been here five minutes and she seemed to know all about us!”

“Amazing,” said Tiffany. You’d think that somebody wrote it all down. Twice. But that wouldn’t be interesting enough, would it? And who would believe that a real witch bought her face from Boffo?

“And she’s got a cauldron that bubbles green,” Mrs. Carter said with great pride. “All down the sides. That’s proper witching, that is.”

“It sounds like it,” said Tiffany. No witch she’d met had done anything with a cauldron apart from make stew, but somehow people believed in their hearts that a witch’s cauldron should bubble green. And that must be why Mr. Boffo sold Item #61 Bubbling Green Cauldron Kit, $14, extra sachets of Green, $1 each.

Well, it worked. It probably shouldn’t, but people were people. She didn’t think Annagramma would be particularly interested in a visit right now, especially from someone who’d read all the way through the Boffo catalogue, so she retrieved her broom and headed on to Granny Weatherwax’s cottage.

There was a chicken run out in the back garden now. It had been carefully woven out of pliable hazel, and contented werks were coming from the other side.

Granny Weatherwax was coming out of the back door. She looked at Tiffany as if the girl had just come back from a ten-minute stroll.

“I’ve got business down in the town right now,” she said. “It wouldn’t worry me if you came, too.” That was, from Granny, as good as a brass band and an illuminated scroll of welcome. Tiffany fell in alongside her as she strode off along the track.

“I hope I find you well, Mistress Weatherwax?” she said, hurrying to keep up.

“I’m still here after another winter, that’s all I know,” said Granny. “You look well, girl.”

“Oh, yes.”

“We saw the steam from up here,” said Granny.

Tiffany said nothing. That was it? Well, yes. From Granny, that would be it.

After a while Granny said: “Come back to see your young friends, eh?”

Tiffany took a deep breath. She’d been through this in her head dozens of times: what she would say, what Granny would say, what she would shout, what Granny would shout…

“You planned it, didn’t you?” she said. “If you’d suggested one of the others, they’d probably have got the cottage, so you suggested me. And you knew, you just knew that I’d help her. And it’s all worked out, hasn’t it? I bet every witch in the mountains knows what happened by now. I bet Mrs. Earwig is seething. And the best bit is, no one got hurt. Annagramma’s picked up where Miss Treason left off, all the villagers are happy, and you’ve won! Oh, I expect you’ll say it was to keep me busy and teach me important things and keep my mind off the Wintersmith, but you still won!”

Granny Weatherwax walked on calmly. Then she said: “I see you got your little trinket back.”

It was like having a bolt of lightning and then not getting any thunder, or throwing a pebble into a pool and not getting a splash.

“What? Oh. The horse. Yes! Look, I—”

“What kind of fish?”

“Er…pike,” said Tiffany.

“Ah? Some likes ’em, but they are too muddy for my taste.”

And that was it. Against Granny’s calm she had nowhere to go. She could nag, she could whine, and it wouldn’t make any difference. Tiffany consoled herself with the fact that at least Granny knew that she knew. It wasn’t much, but it was all she was going to get.

“And the horse ain’t the only trinket I see,” Granny continued. “Magick, is it?” She always stuck a K on the end of any magic she disapproved of.

Tiffany glanced down at the ring on her finger. It had a dull shine. It’d never rust while she wore it, the blacksmith had told her, because of the oils in her skin. He’d even taken the time to cut little snowflakes in it with a tiny chisel.

“It’s just a ring I had made out of a nail,” she said.

“Iron enough to make a ring,” said Granny, and Tiffany stopped dead. Did she really get into people’s minds? It had to be something like that.

“And why did you decide you wanted a ring?” said Granny.

For all sorts of reasons that never quite managed to be clear in Tiffany’s head, she knew. All she could think of to say was: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” She waited for the explosion.

“Then it probably was,” said Granny mildly. She stopped, pointed away from the path—in the direction of the town and Nanny Ogg’s house—and said: “I put the fence around it. It’s got other things protectin’ it, you may be sure of that, but some beasts is just too stupid to scare.”

It was the oak tree sapling, already five feet high. A fence of poles and woven branches surrounded it.

“Growing fast, for oak,” said Granny. “I’m keeping an eye on it. But come on, I don’t want to miss it.” She set off again, covering the ground fast. Bewildered, Tiffany ran after her.

“Miss what?” she panted.

“The dance, of course!”

“Isn’t it too early for that?”

“Not up here. They starts up here!”

Granny hurried along little paths and behind gardens and came out into the town square, which was thronged with people. Small stalls had been set up. A lot of people were standing around in the slightly hopeless why-are-we-here? way of crowds who’re doing what their hearts want to do but their heads feel embarrassed about, but at least there were hot things on sticks to eat. There were lots of white chickens, too. Very good eggs, Nanny had said, so it would have been a shame to kill them.

Granny walked to the front of the crowd. There was no need to push people out of the way. They just moved sideways, without noticing.

They’d arrived just in time. Children came running along the road to the bridge, only just ahead of the dancers who, as they trudged along, seemed like quite homely and ordinary men—men Tiffany’d seen often, working in forges or driving carts. They all wore white clothes, or at least clothes that had been white once, and like the audience they looked a bit sheepish, their expressions suggesting that this was all just a bit of fun, really, not to be taken seriously. They were even waving to people in the crowd. Tiffany looked around and saw Miss Tick, and Nanny, and even Mrs. Earwig…nearly every witch she knew. Oh, and there was Annagramma, minus Mr. Boffo’s little devices, and looking very proud.

It wasn’t like this last autumn, she thought. It was dark and quiet and solemn and hidden, everything that this isn’t. Who watched it from the shadows?

Who is watching now from the light? Who is here in secret?

A drummer and a man with an accordion pushed their way through the crowd, along with the local pub owner carrying eight pints of beer on a tray (because no grown man is going to dance in front of his friends with ribbons around his hat and bells on his trousers without the clear prospect of a large drink).

When the noise had died down a bit, the drummer beat the drum a few times and the accordionist played a long-drawn-out chord, the legal signal that a Morris dance is about to begin, and people who hang around after this have only got themselves to blame.

The two-man band struck up. The men, in two lines of three facing each other, counted the beat and then leaped…. Tiffany turned to Granny as twelve hobnailed boots crashed to the ground, throwing up sparks.

“Tell me how to take away pain,” she said, above the noise of the dance.

Crash!

“It’s hard,” said Granny, not taking her eyes off the dancers. Crash went the boots again.

“You can move it out of the body?”

Crash!

“Sometimes. Or hide it. Or make a cage for it and carry it away. And all of it’s dangerous, and it will kill you if you don’t respect it, young woman. It is all price and no profit. You are asking me to tell you how to put your hand in the lion’s mouth.”

Crash!

“I must know, to help the Baron. It’s bad. There is a lot I have to do.”

“This you choose to do?” said Granny, still watching.

“Yes!”

Crash!

“This is your Baron who doesn’t like witches?” said Granny, her gaze going from face to face in the crowd.

“But who does like witches until they need one, Mistress Weatherwax?” said Tiffany sweetly.

Crash!

“This is a reckoning, Mistress Weatherwax,” Tiffany added. After all, once you’ve kissed the Wintersmith, you’re in the mood to dare. And Granny Weatherwax smiled, as if she’d done all that was expected of her.

“Ha! Is it now?” she said. “Very well. Come and see me again before you go, and we’ll see what you may take back with you. And I hopes you can close the doors you are opening. Now watch the people! Sometimes you see her!”

Tiffany paid attention to the dance. The Fool had turned up without her noticing, wandering around collecting money in his greasy top hat. If a girl looked as though she’d squeal if he kissed her, he gave her a kiss. And sometimes, without any warning, he’d spring off into the dance, spinning through the men with never a foot in the wrong place.

Then Tiffany saw it. The eyes of a woman on the other side of the dance flashed gold, just for a moment. Once she’d seen it, she saw it again—in the eyes of a boy, a girl, the man holding the beer, moving around to watch the Fool—

“Summer’s here!” said Tiffany, and realized that she was tapping her foot to the beat; she realized it because a heavier boot had just trodden on it and pinned it gently but firmly to the ground. Beside it, You looked up at her in blue-eyed innocence that became, for the briefest fragment of a second, the lazy golden eyes of a snake.

“She’s meant to be,” said Granny Weatherwax, removing her boot.

“A few coppers for luck, miss?” said a voice close by, and there was the sound of money being shaken in an ancient hat.

Tiffany turned and looked into purple-gray eyes. The face around them was lined and tanned and grinning. He had a gold earring. “A copper or two from the lovely lady?” he wheedled. “Silver or gold, maybe?”

Sometimes, Tiffany thought, you just know how it all should go….

“Iron?” she said, taking the ring off her finger and dropping it into the hat.

The Fool picked it out, delicately, and flipped it into the air. Tiffany’s eye followed it, but somehow it wasn’t in the air anymore but was glistening on the man’s finger.

“Iron’s enough,” he said, and gave her a sudden kiss on the cheek.

It was only slightly chilly.

 

The galleries inside the Feegle mound were crowded but hushed. This was important. The honor of the clan was at stake here.

In the middle was a large book, taller than Rob and filled with colorful pictures. It was quite muddy from its journey down into the mound. Rob had been challenged. For years he’d thought himself to be a hero, and then the hag o’ hags had said he wasna, no’ really. Weel, you couldn’t argue wi’ the hag o’ hags, but he wuz goin’ to rise tae the challenge, oh aye, so he wuz, or his name wasna Rob Anybody.

“Where’s mah coo?” he read. “Is that mah coo? It gaes cluck! It is a…a…chicken! It is no’ mah coo! An’ then there’s this wee paintin’ o’ a couple o’ chickens. That’s another page, right?”

“It is indeed, Rob,” said Billy Bigchin.

There was a cheer from the assembled Feegles as Rob ran around the book, waving his hands in the air.

“An’ this one is a lot harder than Abker, right?” he said, when he’d done the circuit. “That one was easy! An’ a very predictable plot. Whoever writted that book didna stretch himself, in ma opinion.”

“You mean The ABC?” said Billy Bigchin.

“Aye.” Rob Anybody jumped up and down and punched the air a few times. “Got somethin’ a wee bit tougher?”

The gonnagle looked at the stack of battered books the Feegles had, in various ways, collected.

“Somethin’ I can get ma teeth intae,” Rob added. “A big book.”

“Well, this one’s called Principles of Modern Accountancy,” said Billy doubtfully.

“An’ is that a big heroic book to read?” said Rob, running on the spot.

“Aye. Probably, but—”

Rob Anybody held up a hand for silence and looked across at Jeannie, who had a crowd of little Feegles surrounding her. She was smiling at him, and his sons were staring at their father in silent astonishment. One day, Rob thought, they’ll be able to walk up to even the longest words and give them a good kicking. Not even commas and those tricksie semicolonses will stop them!

He had to be a hero.

“Ah’m feelin’ guid about this readin’,” said Rob Anybody. “Bring it on!”

And he read Principles of Modern Accountancy all morning, but just to make it interesting, he put lots of dragons in it.