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“Didda nasty wolfie fwiten us, den?” she hazarded.
For quite the wrong reasons, this seemed to work. From the depths of the ball a muffled voice said: “I am eight, you know.”
“People who are eight don't curl up in the middle of the snow,” said Granny, feeling her way through the intricacies of adult-child conversation.
The ball didn't answer.
“I've probably got some milk and biscuits at home,” Granny ventured.
There was no perceptible effect.
“Eskarina Smith, if you don't behave this minute I will give you such a smack!”
Esk poked her head out cautiously.
“There's no need to be like that,” she said.
When Smith reached the cottage Granny had just arrived, leading Esk by the hand. The boys peered around from behind him.
“Um,” said Smith, not quite aware of how to begin a conversation with someone who was supposed to be dead. “They, um, told me you were - ill.” He turned and glared at his sons.
“I was just having a rest and I must have dozed off. I sleeps very sound.”
“Yes,” said Smith, uncertainly. “Well. All's well, then. What's up with Esk? ”
“She took a bit of a fright,” said Granny, squeezing the girl's hand. “Shadows and whatnot. She needs a good warm. I was going to put her in my bed, she's a bit mazed, if that's all right with you.”
Smith wasn't absolutely sure that it was all right with him. But he was quite sure that his wife, like every other woman in the village, held Granny Weatherwax in solemn regard, even in awe, and that if he started to object he would rapidly get out of his depth.
“Fine, fine,” he said, “if it's no trouble. I'll send along for her in the morning, shall I?”
“That's right,” said Granny. “I'd invite you in, but there's me without a fire -”
“No, no, that's all right,” said Smith hurriedly. “I've got my supper waiting. Drying up,” he added, looking down at Gulta, who opened his mouth to say something and wisely thought better of it.
When they had gone, with the sound of the two boys' protests ringing out among the trees, Granny opened the door, pushed Esk inside, and bolted it behind them. She took a couple of candles from her store above the dresser and lit them. Then she pulled some old but serviceable wool blankets, still smelling of anti-moth herbs, from an old chest, wrapped Esk in them and sat her in the rocking chair.
She got down on her knees, to an accompaniment of clicks and grunts, and started to lay the fire. It was a complicated business involving dry fungus punk, wood shavings, bits of split twig and much puffing and swearing.
Esk said: “You don't have to do it like that, Granny.”
Granny stiffened, and looked at the fireback. It was a rather nice one Smith had cast for her, years ago, with an owl-and-bat motif. Currently, though, she wasn't interested in the design.
“Oh yes?” she said, her voice dead-level. “You know of a better way, do you?”
“You could magic it alight.”
Granny paid great attention to arranging bits of twig on the reluctant flames.
“How would I do that, pray?” she said, apparently addressing her remarks to the fireback.
“Er,” said Esk, “I . . . I can't remember. But you must know anyway, don't you? Everyone knows you can do magic.”
“There's magic,” said Granny, “and then again, there's magic. The important thing, my girl, is to know what magic is for and what it isn't for. And you can take it from me, it was never intended for lighting fires, you can be absolutely certain of that. If the Creator had meant us to use magic for lighting fires, then he wouldn't have given us - er, matches.”
“But could you light a fire with magic?” said Esk, as Granny slung an ancient black kettle on its hook. “I mean, if you wanted to. If it was allowed.”
“Maybe,” said Granny, who couldn't: fire had no mind, it wasn't alive, and they were two of the three reasons.
