The Wee Free Men (Discworld 30)

“I’m not going to come with you, then,” said Roland. “I don’t want to see what she turns you into.”

Tiffany stepped out into the heavy, shadowless light and followed the path up the slope. Giant grasses arched overhead. Here and there more strangely dressed, strangely shaped people turned to watch her but then acted as though she was just a passing wanderer, of no interest whatsoever.

She glanced behind her. In the distance the nut cracker had found a bigger hammer and was getting ready to strike.

“Wanna wanna wanna sweetie!”

Tiffany’s head shot around like a weathercock in a tornado. She ran along the path, head down, ready to swing the pan at anything that stood in her way, and burst through a clump of grass into a space lined with daisies. It could well have been a bower. She didn’t bother to check.

Wentworth was sitting on a large, flat stone, surrounded by sweets. Many of them were bigger than he was. Smaller ones were in piles, large ones lay like logs. And they were in every color sweets can be, such as Not-Really-Raspberry Red, Fake-Lemon Yellow, Curiously-Chemical Orange, Some-Kind-of-Acidy Green, and Who-Knows-What Blue.

Tears were falling off his chin in blobs. Since they were landing among the sweets, serious stickiness was already taking place.

Wentworth howled. His mouth was a big red tunnel with the wobbly thing that no one knows the name of bouncing up and down in the back of his throat. He stopped crying only when it was time to either breathe in or die, and even then it was only for one huge sucking moment before the howl came back again.

Tiffany knew what the problem was immediately. She’d seen it before, at birthday parties. Her brother was suffering from tragic sweet deprivation. Yes, he was surrounded by sweets. But the moment he took any sweet at all, said his sugar-addled brain, that meant he was not taking all the rest. And there were so many sweets he’d never be able to eat them all. It was too much to cope with. The only solution was to burst into tears.

The only solution at home was to put a bucket over his head until he calmed down, and to take almost all the sweets away. He could deal with a few handfuls at a time.

Tiffany dropped the pan and swept him up in her arms. “It’s Tiffy,” she whispered. “And we’re going home.”

And this is where I meet the Queen, she thought. But there was no scream of rage, no explosion of magic…nothing.

There was just the buzz of bees in the distance, and the sound of wind in the grass, and the gulping of Wentworth, who was too shocked to cry.

She could see now that the far side of the bower contained a couch of leaves, surrounded by hanging flowers. But there was no one there.

“That’s because I’m behind you,” said the voice of the Queen in her ear.

Tiffany turned around quickly.

There was no one there.

“Still behind you,” said the Queen. “This is my world, child. You’ll never be as fast as me, or as clever as me. Why are you trying to take my boy away?”

“He isn’t yours! He’s ours!” said Tiffany.

“You never loved him. You have a heart like a little snowball. I can see it.”

Tiffany’s forehead wrinkled. “Love?” she said. “What’s that got to do with it? He’s my brother! My brother!”

“Yes, that’s a very witchy thing, isn’t it,” said the voice of the Queen. “Selfishness? Mine, mine, mine? All a witch cares about is what’s hers.”

“You stole him!”

“Stole? You mean you thought you owned him?”

Tiffany’s Second Thoughts said: She’s finding your weaknesses. Don’t listen to her.

“Ah, you have Second Thoughts,” said the Queen. “I expect you think that makes you very witchy, do you?”

“Why won’t you let me see you?” said Tiffany. “Are you frightened?”

“Frightened?” said the voice of the Queen. “Of something like you?”

And the Queen was there, in front of her. She was much taller than Tiffany, but just as slim; her hair was long and black, her face pale, her lips cherry red, her dress black and white and red. And it was all, very slightly, wrong.

Tiffany’s Second Thoughts said: It’s because she’s perfect. Completely perfect. Like a doll. No one real is as perfect as that.