‘Would you like to see, lad?’
While Geoffrey drank his mug of tea with Mr Sideways in Lancre, over in the Chalk Letitia, the Baroness, was sipping tea daintily with Magrat, the Queen of Lancre, who had arrived unexpectedly on her broomstick – a broomstick flying the pennant of Lancre, the two bears on black and gold, just to make sure that nobody could be in any doubt that this was a royal visit. She had arrived bearing a bunch of roses from the castle, throwing Letitia and her staff all in a tiswas and Letitia flapping about the cobwebs, some of which she had even managed to get tangled in her hair.
Magrat had smiled at the rather shaky-looking Letitia, and said, ‘I’m not here as a queen, love. I am here as a witch. I always have been one and always will be. So don’t worry about all the pomp – you know how it is, it’s just expected. A bit of dust here and there is nothing. Some parts of my castle are full of dust, I am sorry to say. You know how that is too.’
Letitia had nodded. She did indeed know what it was like. And as for the plumbing . . . well, she did not want to even think about how old-fashioned the castle was. The ancient privies had a habit of gurgling at the wrong time, and Roland said that if he had the time, he could create an orchestra from the bangs, gurgles and clankings that sometimes followed his morning visits.
She had rallied the troops, though, and now the two ladies sat side by side in the castle hall, breathing in the peaty fumes from the fireplace – it was always, always cold there, even in the summer, which was why the fireplaces were so big and ate several small trees at a time. The kitchen staff had brought out a hasty tray with tea and little snacks – and yes, the sandwiches did have the crusts cut off to make them appropriately dainty for the two noble ladies. Magrat sighed – she really hoped Letitia at least asked for the crusts to be given to the birds.
There was also a plate of rather wobbly cupcakes.fn2 ‘I made those,’ Letitia said proudly. ‘Yesterday. From a recipe in Nanny Ogg’s new cookbook – you know, A Lot of What You Fancy Makes You Fat.’ She coloured a little, and her hand crept self-consciously up to her bodice, where it was clear that when curves were being handed out, Letitia had been at the end of the line.
Magrat took a cake by its little case rather carefully. Some of Nanny Ogg’s recipes could include . . . unusual ingredients, and she already had three children. She nibbled at the little cake, and the two ladies exchanged the usual pleasantries, with Magrat admiring a watercolour Letitia had painted of the chalk giant up on the downlands. It was surprisingly detailed, especially in the No Trousers area. Nanny Ogg would definitely have approved, Magrat thought.
Then she got down to business. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Letitia, but up in Lancre we’ve had enough of the elves. Something must be done.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to say that Roland is about to write to Mistress Aching about the wave of elf raids and ask her what she’s proposing to do about them. There have been an awful lot of complaints, you know, and he’s out inspecting the damage.’ Letitia sighed. She understood that her husband looking at the damage comprised more than just inspecting the aftermath and saying, ‘Tsk, tsk,’ and ‘How long has this been going on?’ – it needed to include other things to make his tenants feel that someone was doing something about it. And Roland’s wife had impressed on him that this was not just a matter of being seen, but that rolling up his sleeves and getting stuck in alongside his men was good for morale. Even better if he bought a round in the pub when the day’s work was done and became not just the boss but almost a friend. ‘We’ve got men enough here, no doubt about that,’ she added, ‘but most of the time they are working on the farms. It would be appreciated if other witches could help.’
‘And unfortunately, that means us,’ Magrat said smartly, with the emphasis on the us part.
Letitia looked embarrassed. ‘I’m not a proper witch, you know.’
Magrat looked at the Baroness. There was something terribly soggy about Letitia, as if you could pick her up and wring her out. But witches came in all shapes and sizes. Both Nanny Ogg and Agnes Nitt, for instance, were decidedly plumpfn3 while Long Tall Short Fat Sally went up and down according to the tides – and there was no doubt that water could be powerful. ‘My dear, you are selling yourself short,’ she said. ‘And I know what it is. I believe, my dear, that you are frightened that you wouldn’t make the grade as a witch. We all went through that – girls normally do. Tiffany has told me all about you, you know. As for me, I don’t know what I would be like in a house with a screaming skeleton. Were you not the girl who gave a headless ghost a pumpkin to carry around? And handed a teddy bear to a screaming skeleton for comfort? You don’t think you are a witch, but every part of my soul says you are. I wish I’d had your opportunities when I was a girl.’
‘But I am the Baroness. I am a lady. I can’t be a witch.’
Magrat made a sound like ‘hurrumpf’, and said, ‘Well, I am a queen. That doesn’t stop me being a witch when needs must. This is the time, my dear, when we stop thinking about ourselves and who we are and get down and dirty. Tiffany cannot fight the elves on her own, and this is a war – and it will keep on going unless everyone pitches in.’
Her words flowed in and filled Letitia. ‘You are right, of course,’ the young Baroness said. ‘Naturally Roland will agree with me, as he always does. Count me in.’
‘Good,’ said Magrat. ‘I have got some chainmail which I think is your size. And now, how soon can you leave for Lancre? I believe we are meeting to discuss the situation. Can you ride a broomstick or do you need a lift?’
Tiffany straddled her broomstick. She had heard in the village that old Mrs Pigeon was near her time, and a wave of guilt had flooded through her. Yes, she had two steadings. Yes, she had to work out what to do with Nightshade. Yes, she had no time to rest. But she hadn’t seen the old lady for over a week, and in a week an old lady could fall through the cracks of life.
Nightshade was perched behind her, her sharp eyes noting everything. Noting how the Pigeon family had only the smallest plot of land, with soil so poor it was a wonder they got a crop out of it at all, their fortunes depending mostly on the little flock of sheep they had in their field by the stream.
Sid Pigeon, the youngest son, was there, looking much smaller somehow without his shiny railway uniform. To Tiffany’s surprise, he had brought a new work friend home with him.
Nightshade recoiled. ‘A goblin! In their house. Stinking . . .’ she said with distaste.
Tiffany felt like kicking her. ‘A very respectable goblin,’ she said smartly, though it was true that she could smell the goblin as soon as she went into the house, even over the layers of other smells happily living in that very dirty home. She nodded to the goblin, who was sitting with his feet up on the table, eating what looked like a chicken leg that others – possibly the cats – had had a go at before him. ‘Sid’s friend.’
‘Of Piston the Steam, mistresss,’ the goblin said cheerfully. ‘Works with the iron and steel, I doess—’
‘Tiffany,’ Sid said urgently, ‘have you come to see Granny? She’s in bed upstairs.’
Old Mrs Pigeon was indeed in her bed, and it didn’t look to Tiffany as if she was likely to be getting out of it ever again. The old lady was little more than a wrinkled set of bones, her twiglike fingers clutching at the edges of a faded patchwork quilt. Tiffany reached out and held one of her hands and . . . did what she could for the old lady, calling the pain out of the shrunken body—
And all hell broke loose downstairs.
‘Sid! Them pesky fairies or whatever – they’ve only gone and fouled the stream. It’s all yeller! And there’s dead fish floatin’ in it! We’ve got to move the sheep – now!’ Mr Pig
eon sounded desperate as he called to his son.
As a thunder of boots left the house, Tiffany held her concentration, drew more pain from old Mrs Pigeon. And then Nightshade was at her side.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘That . . . goblin went with the humans.’
‘It’s called helping,’ Tiffany said smartly, still trying to hold on to the pain she had taken from old Mrs Pigeon. ‘Remember?’