Wintersmith (Discworld 35)

"You must be her," said the Wintersmith. "You were in the Dance! And now you are here, in my winter." The voice wasn't right. It sounded…fake, somehow, as if the Wintersmith had been taught to say the sound of words without understanding what they were. "I'm a her," she said uncertainly. "I don't know about 'must be.' Er…please, I'm really sorry about the dance, I didn't mean to, it just seemed so…" He's still got the same purple-gray eyes, she noticed. Purple-gray, in a face sculpted from freezing fog. A handsome face, too. "Look, I never meant to make you think—" she began. "Meant?" said the Wintersmith, looking astonished. "But we don't mean. We are!"

"What do you…mean?"

"Crivens!"

"Oh, no…" muttered Tiffany as Feegles erupted from the grass. The Feegles didn't know the meaning of the word "fear." Sometimes Tiffany wished they'd read a dictionary. They fought like tigers, they fought like demons, they fought like giants. What they didn't do was fight like something with more than a spoonful of brain. They attacked the Wintersmith with swords, heads, and feet, and the fact that everything went through him as if he were a shadow didn't seem to bother them. If a Feegle aimed a boot at a misty leg and ended up kicking himself in his own head, then it had been a good result. The Wintersmith ignored them, like a man paying no attention to butterflies. "Where is your power? Why are you dressed like this?" the Wintersmith demanded. "This is not as it should be!" He stepped forward and grabbed Tiffany's wrist hard, much harder than a ghostly hand should be able to do. "It is wrong!" he shouted. Above the clearing the clouds were moving fast. Tiffany tried to pull away. "Let me go!"

"You are her!" the Wintersmith shouted, pulling her toward him. Tiffany hadn't known where the shout came from, but the slap came from her hand, thinking for itself. It caught the figure on the cheek so hard that for a moment the face blurred, as if she'd smeared a painting. "Don't come near me! Don't touch me!" she screamed. There was a flicker behind the Wintersmith. Tiffany couldn't see it clearly because of the icy haze and her own anger and terror, but something blurred and dark was moving toward them across the clearing, wavering and distorted like a figure seen through ice. It loomed behind the transparent figure for one dark moment, and then became Granny Weatherwax, in the same space as the Wintersmith…inside him. He screamed for a second, and exploded into a mist. Granny stumbled forward, blinking. "Urrrgh. It'll take a while to get the taste of that out of my head," she said. "Shut your mouth, girl— something might fly into it." Tiffany shut her mouth. Something might fly into it. "What…what did you do to him?" she managed. "It!" snapped Granny, rubbing her forehead. "It's an it, not a he! An it that thinks it's a he! Now give me your necklace!"

"What! But it's mine!"

"Do you think I want an argument?" Granny Weatherwax demanded. "Does it say on my face I want an argument? Give it to me now! Don't you dare defy me!"

"I won't just—" Granny Weatherwax lowered her voice and, in a piercing hiss much worse than a scream, said: "It's how it finds you. Do you want it to find you again? It's just a fog now. How solid do you think it will become?" Tiffany thought about that strange face, not moving like a real one should, and that strange voice, putting words together as if they were bricks…. She undid the little silver clasp and held up the necklace. It's just Boffo, she told herself. Every stick is a wand, every puddle is a crystal ball. This is just a…a thing. I don't need it to be me. Yes, I do. "You must give it to me," said Granny softly. "I can't take it." She held out her hand, palm up. Tiffany dropped the horse into it and tried not to see Granny Weatherwax's fingers as a closing claw. "Very well," said Granny, satisfied. "Now we must go."

"You were watching me," said Tiffany sullenly. "All morning. You could have seen me if you'd thought to look," said Granny. "But you didn't do a bad job at the burial, I'll say that."

"I did a good job!"

"That's what I said."

"No," said Tiffany, still trembling. "You didn't."

"I've never held with skulls and suchlike," said Granny, ignoring this. "Artificial ones, at any rate. But Miss Treason—" She stopped, and Tiffany saw her stare at the treetops. "Is that him again?" she asked. "No," said Granny, as if this were something to be disappointed about. "No, that's young Miss Hawkin. And Mrs. Letice Earwig. Didn't hang about, I see. And Miss Treason hardly cooled down." She sniffed. "Some people might have had the common decency not to snatch." The two broomsticks landed a little way off. Annagramma looked nervous. Mrs. Earwig looked like she always did: tall, pale, very well dressed, wearing lots of occult jewelry and an expression that said you were slightly annoying her but she was being gracious enough not to let it show. And she always looked at Tiffany, when she ever bothered to look at her at all, as if Tiffany were some kind of strange creature that she didn't quite understand. Mrs. Earwig was always polite to Granny, in a formal and chilly way. It made Granny Weatherwax mad, but that was the way of witches. When they really disliked one another, they were as polite as duchesses. As the other two approached, Granny bowed low and removed her hat. Mrs. Earwig did the same thing, only the bow was a little lower. Tiffany saw Granny glance up and then bow lower still, by about an inch. Mrs. Earwig managed to go half an inch farther down. Tiffany and Annagramma exchanged a hopeless glance over the straining backs. Sometimes this sort of thing could go on for hours. Granny Weatherwax gave a grunt and straightened up. So did Mrs. Earwig, red in the face. "Blessin's be upon our meetin'," said Granny in a calm voice. Tiffany winced. This was a declaration of hostilities. Yelling and prodding with the fingers was perfectly ordinary witch arguing, but speaking carefully and calmly was open warfare. "How kind of you to greet us," said Mrs. Earwig. "I hopes I sees you in good health?"

"I keep well, Miss Weatherwax." Annagramma shut her eyes. That was a kick in the stomach, by witch standards. "It's Mistress Weatherwax, Mrs. Earwig," said Granny. "As I believes you know?"

"Why, yes. Of course it is. I am so sorry." These vicious blows having been exchanged, Granny went on: "I trust Miss Hawkin will find everything to her likin'."

"I'm sure that—" Mrs. Earwig stared at Tiffany, her face a question. "Tiffany," said Tiffany helpfully. "Tiffany. Of course. What a lovely name…. I'm sure that Tiffany has done her very best," said Mrs. Earwig. "However, we shall shrive and consecrate the cottage, in case of…influences." I already scrubbed and scrubbed everything! Tiffany thought. "Influences?" said Granny Weatherwax. Even the Wintersmith could not have managed a voice so icy. "And disquieting vibrations," said Mrs. Earwig. "Oh, I know about those," said Tiffany. "It's the loose floorboard in the kitchen. If you tread on it, it makes the dresser wobble."

"There has been talk of a demon," said Mrs. Earwig, gravely ignoring this. "And…skulls."

"But—" Tiffany began, and Granny's hand squeezed her shoulder so hard she stopped. "Deary, deary me," said Granny, still holding on tightly. "Skulls, eh?"

"There are some very disturbing stories," said Mrs. Earwig, watching Tiffany. "Of the darkest nature, Mistress Weatherwax. I feel that the people in this steading have been very badly served, indeed. Dark forces have been unleashed." Tiffany wanted to yell: No! It was all stories! It was all Boffo! She watched over them! She stopped their stupid arguments, she remembered their laws, she scolded their silliness! She couldn't do that if she was just a frail old lady! She had to be a myth! But Granny's grip kept her silent. "Strange forces are certainly at work," said Granny Weatherwax. "I wish you well in your endeavors, Mrs. Earwig. If you will excuse me?"

"Of course, Mis—tress Weatherwax. May good stars attend you."

"May the road slow down to meet your feet," said Granny. She stopped gripping Tiffany so hard but nevertheless almost dragged her around the side of the cottage. The late Miss Treason's broomstick was leaning against the wall. "Tie your stuff on quickly!" she commanded. "We must move!"

"Is he going to come back?" asked Tiffany, struggling to tie the sack and old suitcase onto the bristles. "Not yet. Not soon, I think. But it will be looking for you. And it will be stronger. Dangerous to you, I believe, and those around you! You have such a lot to learn! You have such a lot to do!"

"I thanked him! I tried to be nice to him! Why is he still interested in me?"

"Because of the Dance," said Granny. "I'm sorry about that!"

"Not good enough. What does a storm know of sorrow? You must make amends. Did you really think that space was left there for you? Oh, this is so tangled! How are your feet?" Tiffany, angry and bewildered, stopped with one leg half over the stick. "My feet? What about my feet?"

"Do they itch? What happens when you take your boots off?"

"Nothing! I just see my socks! What have my feet got to do with anything?"

"We shall find out," said Granny, infuriatingly. "Now, come along." Tiffany tried to get the stick to rise, but it barely cleared the dead grass. She looked around. The bristles were covered with Nac Mac Feegles. "Dinna mind us," said Rob Anybody. "We'll hold on tight!"

"An' dinna make it too bumpy, 'cuz I feel like the top o' mah heid's come off," said Daft Wullie. "Do we get meals on this flight?" said Big Yan. "I'm fair boggin' for a wee drink."

"I can't take you all!" said Tiffany. "I don't even know where I'm going!" Granny Weatherwax glared at the Feegles. "You'll have to walk. We're travelin' to Lancre Town. The address is Tir Nani Ogg, The Square."