‘Let us say, young woman, we would have done our best not to. But all in all, Tiffany, it seems to us that you’ve done a woman’s job today. The place where we looks for witches is at the centre of things. Well, we looks around here and we see that you is so central that this steading spins on you. You are your own mistress, nevertheless, and if you don’t start training somebody, that will be a waste. We leave this steading in the best of hands.’
The witches clapped, and some of the other guests joined in, even though they did not understand what those few sentences had meant. What they did recognize, however, was that these were mostly elderly, experienced, important and scary witches. And they were paying their respect to Tiffany Aching, one of them, their witch. And she was a very important witch, and so the Chalk had to be a very important place. Of course, they had known that all along but it was nice to have it acknowledged. They stood a little straighter and felt proud.
Mrs Proust removed her hat again, and said, ‘Please don’t be afraid to come back to the city again, Miss Aching. I think I can promise you a thirty per cent discount on all Boffo products, except for perishables or consumables, an offer not to be sneezed at.’
The group of witches raised their hats in unison again and walked back into the crowd.
‘You know all that just now was organizing people’s lives for them,’ said Preston behind her, but as she spun round he backed away laughing and added, ‘But in a good way. You are the witch, Tiffany. You are the witch!’
And people drank a toast and there was more food, and more dancing and laughter and friendship and tiredness, and at midnight Tiffany Aching lay alone on her broomstick high above the chalk hills and looked up at the universe, and then down on the bit of it that belonged to her. She was the witch, floating high over everything but, it must be said, with the leather strap carefully buckled.
The stick rose and fell gently as warm breezes took it and as tiredness and darkness took her, she stretched out her arms to the dark and, just for a moment, as the world turned, Tiffany Aching wore midnight.
She didn’t come down until the sun was crusting the horizon with light. And she woke up to birdsong. All across the Chalk the larks were rising as they did every morning in a symphony of liquid sound. They did indeed sing melodious. They streamed up past the stick, paying it no attention at all, and Tiffany listened, entranced, until the last bird had got lost in the brilliant sky.
She landed, made breakfast for an old lady who was bed-bound, fed her cat, and went to see how Trivial Boxer’s30 broken leg was doing. She was stopped halfway there by the neighbour of old Miss Swivel, who had apparently become suddenly unable to walk overnight, but Tiffany was fortunately able to point out that she had regrettably put both feet through one knicker leg.
Then she went down into the castle to see what else needed doing. After all, she was the witch.
30 Mr and Mrs Boxer had been slightly more educated than wa
s good for them, and thought that ‘trivial’ was a good name for their third child.
Epilogue
MIDNIGHT BY DAY
IT WAS THE scouring fair again, the same noisy hurdy-gurdy, the bobbing for frogs, the fortune-telling, the laughter, the pick-pockets (though never of a witch’s pocket), but this year, by common consent, no cheese rolling. Tiffany walked through it all, nodding at people she knew, which was everybody, and generally enjoying the sunshine. Had it been a year? So much had happened, it all swam together, like the sounds of the fair.
‘Good afternoon, miss.’
And there was Amber, with her boy – with her husband …
‘Nearly didn’t recognize you, miss,’ said Amber cheerfully, ‘what with you not having your pointy hat on, if you see what I mean.’
‘I thought I’d just be Tiffany Aching today,’ said Tiffany. ‘It is a holiday after all.’
‘But you are still the witch?’
‘Oh yes, I’m still the witch, but I’m not necessarily the hat.’
Amber’s husband laughed. ‘I know what you mean, miss! Sometimes I swear that people think I’m a pair of hands!’ Tiffany looked him up and down. They had met properly when she had married him to Amber, of course, and she had been impressed; he was what they called a steady lad and as sharp as his needles. He would go far, and take Amber with him. And after Amber finished her training under the kelda, who knows where she would take him?
Amber hung on his arm as if it was an oak. ‘My William done a little present for you, miss,’ she said. ‘Go on, William, show her!’
The young man proffered the package he had been carrying, and cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know if you keep up with the fashions, miss, but they are doing wonderful fabrics now down in the big city, so when Amber suggested this to me I thought of them. But it also has to be washable, for a start, with perhaps a split skirt for the broomstick and leg-of-mutton sleeves, which are all the go this season, and with buttons tight at the wrists to keep them out of the way, and pockets on the inside and styled to be hardly noticeable. I hope it fits, miss. I’m good at measuring without a tape. It’s a knack.’
Amber bounced up and down at his side. ‘Put it on, miss! Go on, miss! Put it on!’
‘What? In front of all these people?’ said Tiffany, embarrassed and intrigued at the same time.
Amber was not to be denied. ‘There’s the mother-and-baby tent, miss! No men in there, miss, no fear! They’d be afraid that they would have to burp somebody, miss!’
Tiffany gave in. The package had a rich feel to it; it felt soft, like a glove. Mothers and babies watched her as she slid into the dress and she heard the envious sighs that interspersed burps.
Amber, on fire with enthusiasm, pushed her way in through the flap, and gasped.
‘Oh, miss, oh, miss, it does suit you so! Oh, miss! If only you could see yourself, miss! Do come and show William, miss, he’ll be as proud as a king! Oh, miss!’