"Well, of course that's what Mrs. Earwig is telling everyone," said Annagramma, settling down a bit. "Completely unacceptable, she says." I took the hiver through the Dark Door, Tiffany thought, as she viciously scraped food scraps into the garden for the birds. The White Horse came out of the hill for me. I got my brother and Roland back from the Queen of the Elves. And I danced with the Wintersmith, who turned me into ten billion snowflakes. No, I don't want to be in a cottage in these damp woods, I don't want to be a kind of slave to people who can't be bothered to think for themselves, I don't want to wear midnight and make people afraid of me. There is no name for what I want to be. But I was old enough to do all those things, and I was acceptable. But she said: "I don't know what this is about!" At which point she felt someone looking at her, and she knew, if she turned around, that it would be Granny Weatherwax. Her Third Thoughts—the ones that paid attention out of the corner of her ear and the edge of her eye all the time—told her: Something is going on. All you can do about it is be yourself. Don't look around. "You're really not interested?" said Annagramma uncertainly. "I've come up here to learn witching," said Tiffany stiffly. "And then I'm going to go home. But…are you sure you want the cottage?"
"Well, of course! Every witch wants a cottage!"
"But they've had years and years of Miss Treason," Tiffany pointed out. "Then they'll just have to get used to me," said Annagramma. "I expect they'll be pretty glad to see the back of skulls and cobwebs and being frightened! I know she's got the local people really scared of her."
"Ah," said Tiffany. "I'll be a new broom," said Annagramma. "Frankly, Tiffany, after that old woman, just about anyone would be popular."
"Er, yes…" said Tiffany. "Tell me, Annagramma, have you ever worked with any other witch?"
"No, I've always been with Mrs. Earwig. I'm her first pupil, you know," Annagramma added proudly. "She's very exclusive."
"And she doesn't go around the villages much, does she?" said Tiffany. "No. She concentrates on the Higher Magik." Annagramma wasn't particularly observant and was very vain, even by the standard of witches, but now she looked a little less confident. "Well, someone has to. We can't all tramp around bandaging cut fingers, you know," she added. "Is there a problem?"
"Hmm? Oh, no. I'm sure you'll get on well," said Tiffany. "Er…I know my way around the place, so if you need any help, just ask."
"Oh, I'm sure I'll get things sorted out to my liking," said Annagramma, whose boundless self- confidence couldn't stay squashed for long. "I'd better go. By the way, it looks as though the food is running low." She swept away. The big vats on the trestle table just inside the door were indeed looking a bit empty. Tiffany saw one witch stuff four hard-boiled eggs into her pocket. "Good afternoon, Miss Tick," she said loudly. "Ah, Tiffany," said Miss Tick smoothly, turning around without the least sign of embarrassment. "Miss Treason has just been telling us how well you have been doing here."
"Thank you, Miss Tick."
"She says that you have a fine eye for hidden detail," Miss Tick went on. Like the labels on skulls, Tiffany thought. "Miss Tick," she said, "do you know anything about people wanting me to take over the cottage?"
"Oh, that's all been decided," said Miss Tick. "There was some suggestion that it should be you, since you're already here, but really, you are still young, and Annagramma has had much more experience. I'm sorry, but—"
"That's not fair, Miss Tick," said Tiffany. "Now, now, Tiffany, that's not the sort of thing a witch says—" Miss Tick began. "I don't mean not fair to me, I mean unfair to Annagramma. She's going to make a mess of it, isn't she?" Just for the skin of a moment Miss Tick looked guilty. It really was a very short space of time indeed, but Tiffany spotted it. "Mrs. Earwig is certain that Annagramma will do a very good job," said Miss Tick. "Are you?"
"Remember whom you are talking to, please!"
"I'm talking to you, Miss Tick! This is…wrong!" Tiffany's eyes blazed. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. An entire plate of sausages was moving across the white cloth at very high speed. "And that is stealing," she growled, leaping after it. She chased after the dish as, skimming a few inches above the ground, it rounded the cottage and disappeared behind the goat shed. She plunged after it. There were several plates lying on the leaves behind the shed. There were potatoes, oozing butter, and a dozen ham rolls, and a pile of boiled eggs, and two cooked chickens. Everything except the sausages in the dish, which was now stationary, had a gnawed look. There was absolutely no sign of the Feegles. That was how she could tell they were there. They always hid from her when they knew she was angry. Well, this time she was really angry. Not at the Feegles (much), although the stupid hiding trick got on her nerves, but at Miss Tick and Granny Weatherwax and Annagramma and Miss Treason (for dying), and the Wintersmith himself (for a lot of reasons she hadn't had time to sort out yet). She stepped back and went quiet. There was always a feeling of sinking slowly and peacefully, but this time it was like a dive into darkness. When she opened her eyes, it felt as if she were looking through windows into a huge hall. Sound seemed to be coming from a long way away, and there was an itching between her eyes. Feegles appeared, from under leaves, behind twigs, even from under plates. Their voices sounded as though they were underwater. "Ach, crivens! She's done some big hagglin' on us!"
"She's ne'er done that before!" Hah, I'm hiding from you, thought Tiffany. Bit of a change, eh? Hmm, I wonder if I can move. She took a step sideways. The Feegles didn't seem to see it. "She's gonna jump oot on us any moment! Ooohhh, waily—" Ha! If I could walk up to Granny Weatherwax like this, she'd have to be so impressed— The itch on Tiffany's nose was getting worse, and there was a feeling that was similar to, but fortunately not yet the same as, the need to visit the privy. It meant: Something is going to happen soon, so it would be a good idea to be ready for it. The sound of the voices began to get clearer, and little blue and purple spots ran across her vision. And then there was something that, if it had made a noise, would have gone wwwhamp! It was like the popping you got in your ears after a high broomstick flight. She reappeared in the middle of the Feegles, causing immediate panic. "Stop stealing the funeral meats right now, you wee scuggers!" she shouted. The Feegles stopped and stared at her. Then Rob Anybody said: "Socks wi'oot feets?" There was one of those moments—you got a lot of them around the Feegles—when the world seems to have got tangled up and it is so important to unravel the knot before you can go any further. "What are you talking about?" asked Tiffany. "Scuggers," said Rob Anybody. "They're like socks wi'oot feets in 'em. For keepin' yer legs warm, ye ken?"
"You mean like legwarmers?" said Tiffany. "Aye, aye, that would be a verra guid name for 'em, it bein' what they do," said Rob. "In point o' fact, mebbe the term ye meant to use wuz 'thievin' scunners,' which means—"
"—us," said Daft Wullie helpfully. "Oh. Yes. Thank you," said Tiffany quietly. She folded her arms and then shouted, "Right, you thieving scunners! How dare you steal Miss Treason's funeral meats!"
"Oh, waily waily, it's the Foldin' o' the Arms, the Foooldin' o' the Aaaarmss!" cried Daft Wullie, dropping to the ground and trying to cover himself with leaves. Around him Feegles started to wail and cower, and Big Yan began to bang his head on the rear wall of the dairy. "Now then, ye must all stay calm!" yelled Rob Anybody, turning around and waving his hands desperately at his brothers. "There's the Pursin' o' the Lips!" a Feegle shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Tiffany's face. "She's got the knowin' o' the Pursin' o' the Lips! 'Tis Doom come upon us a'!" The Feegles tried to run, but since they were panicking again, they mostly collided with one another. "I'm waiting for an explanation!" said Tiffany. The Feegles froze, and every face turned toward Rob Anybody. "An Explanation?" he said, shifting uneasily. "Oh, aye. An Explanation. Nae problemo. An Explanation. Er…what kind would you like?"
"What kind? I just want the truth!"
"Aye? Oh. The truth? Are you sure?" Rob ventured rather nervously. "I can do much more interestin' Explanations than that—"
"Out with it!" snapped Tiffany, tapping her foot. "Ach, crivens, the Tappin' o' the Feets has started!" moaned Daft Wullie. "There's gonna be witherin' scoldin' at any moment!" And that was it. Tiffany burst out laughing. You couldn't look at a bunch of frightened Nac Mac Feegles and not laugh. They were so bad at it. One sharp word and they were like a basket of scared puppies, only smellier. Rob Anybody gave her a lopsided grin. "Weel, all the big hags is doin' it too," he said. "The wee fat one's thieved fifteen ham rolls!" he added admiringly. "That'd be Nanny Ogg," said Tiffany. "Yes, she always carries a string bag up her knicker leg."
"Ach, this is no' a proper wake," said Rob Anybody. "There should be singin' an' boozin' an' the flexin' o' the knees, no' all this standin' aroond gossipin'."
"Well, gossiping's part of witchcraft," said Tiffany. "They're checking to see if they've gone batty yet. What is the flexin' o' the knees?"
"The dancin', ye ken," said Rob. "The jigs an' reels. 'Tis no' a good wake unless the hands is flingin' an' the feets is twinklin' an' the knees is flexin' an' the kilts is flyin'." Tiffany had never seen the Feegles dance, but she had heard them. It sounded like warfare, which was probably how it ended up. The flyin' o' the kilts sounded a bit worrying, though, and reminded her of a question she had never quite dared to ask up until now. "Tell me…is there anything worn under the kilt?" From the way the Feegles went quiet again, she got the feeling that this was not a question they liked being asked. Rob Anybody narrowed his eyes. The Feegles held their breath. "Not necessarily," he said. At last the funeral was over, possibly because there was nothing left to eat and drink. Many of the departing witches were carrying small packages. That was another tradition. A lot of things in the cottage were the property of the cottage, and would pass on to the next witch, but everything else got passed on to the soon-to-be-late witch's friends. Since the old witch would be alive when this happened, it saved squabbling. That was the thing about witches. They were, according to Granny Weatherwax, "people what looks up." She didn't explain. She seldom explained. She didn't mean people who looked at the sky; everyone did that. She probably meant that they looked up above the everyday chores and wondered, "What's all this about? How does it work? What should I do? What am I for?" And possibly even: "Is there anything worn under the kilt?" Perhaps that was why odd, in a witch, was normal… …but they'd squabble like polecats over a silver spoon that wasn't even silver. As it was, several were waiting impatiently by the sink for Tiffany to wash some big dishes that Miss Treason had promised to them, and which had held the funeral roast potatoes and sausage rolls. At least there was no problem with leftovers. Nanny Ogg, a witch who'd invented Leftover Sandwiches Soup, was waiting in the scullery with her big string bag and a bigger grin. "We were going to have the rest and potatoes for supper," said Tiffany angrily, but with a certain amount of interest. She'd met Nanny Ogg before and quite liked her, but Miss Treason had said, darkly, that Nanny Ogg was "a disgusting old baggage." That sort of comment attracts your attention. "Fair enough," said Nanny Ogg as Tiffany placed her hand on the meat. "You did a good job here today, Tiff. People notice that." She was gone before Tiffany could recover. One of them had very nearly said thank you! Amazing! Petulia helped her bring the big table indoors and finish the tidying up. She hesitated, though, before she left. "Um…you will be all right, will you?" she said. "It's all a bit…strange."
"We're supposed to be no strangers to strangeness," said Tiffany primly. "Anyway, you've sat up with the dead and dying, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes. Mostly pigs, though. Some humans. Um…I don't mind staying, if you like," Petulia added in a leaving-as-soon-as-possible voice. "Thank you. But after all, what's the worst that can happen?" Petulia stared at her and then said, "Well, let me think…a thousand vampire demons, each one with enormous—"
"I'll be fine," said Tiffany quickly. "Don't you worry at all. Good night." Tiffany shut the door and then leaned on it with her hand over her mouth until she heard the gate click. She counted to ten to make sure that Petulia had got some distance and then risked taking her hand away. By then the scream that had been patiently waiting to come out had dwindled to something like "Unk!" This was going to be a very strange night. People died. It was sad, but they did. What did you do next? People expected the local witch to know. So you washed the body and did a few secret and squelchy things and dressed them in their best clothes and laid them out with bowls of earth and salt beside them (no one knew why you did this bit, not even Miss Treason, but it had always been done) and you put two pennies on their eyes "for the ferryman" and you sat with them the night before they were buried, because they shouldn't be left alone. Exactly why was never properly explained, although everyone got told the story of the old man who was slightly less dead than everybody thought and got up off the spare bed in the middle of the night and got back into bed with his wife. The real reason was probably a lot darker than that. The start and finish of things was always dangerous, lives most of all. But Miss Treason was a wicked ol' witch. Who knew what might happen? Hang on, Tiffany told herself; don't you believe the Boffo. She's really just a clever old lady with a catalogue! In the other room Miss Treason's loom stopped. It often did. But this evening the sudden silence it made was louder than usual. Miss Treason called out: "What do we have in the larder that needs eating up?" Yes, this is going to be a very odd night, Tiffany told herself. Miss Treason went to bed early. It was the first time Tiffany had ever known her not to sleep in a chair. She'd put on a long white nightdress, too, the first time Tiffany had seen her not in black. There was a lot still to do. It was traditional that the cottage should be left sparkling clean for the next witch, and although it was hard to make black sparkle, Tiffany did her best. Actually, the cottage was always pretty clean, but Tiffany scraped and scrubbed and polished because it put off the moment when she'd have to go and talk to Miss Treason. She even took down the fake spiderwebs and threw them on the fire, where they burned with a nasty blue flame. She wasn't sure what to do with the skulls. Finally, she wrote down everything she could remember about the local villages: when babies were due, who was very ill and what with, who was feuding, who was "difficult," and just about every other local detail she thought might be helpful to Annagramma. Anything to just put off the moment…. At last there was nothing for it but to climb the narrow stairs and say: "Is everything all right, Miss Treason?" The old woman was sitting up in bed, scribbling. The ravens were perched on the bedposts. "I'm just writing a few thank-you letters," she said. "Some of those ladies today came quite a long way and will be having a chilly ride back."
"'Thank you for coming to my funeral' letters?" asked Tiffany weakly. "Indeed. And they're not often written, you may be sure of that. You know the girl Annagramma Hawkin will be the new witch here? I am sure she would like you to stay on. At least for a while."
"I don't think that would be a good idea," said Tiffany. "Quite," said Miss Treason smiling. "I suspect the girl Weatherwax has arrangements in mind. It will be interesting to see how Mrs. Earwig's brand of witchcraft suits my silly people, although it may be best to observe events from behind a rock. Or, in my case, under it." She put the letters aside, and both the ravens turned to look at Tiffany. "You have been here with me only three months."