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“Knowing things that other people don't know,” said Granny. She carefully dropped the queen back among her subjects and closed the lid of the hive.
“And I think it's time you learned a few secrets,” she added.
At last, thought Esk.
“But first, we must pay our respects to the Hive,” said Granny. She managed to sound the capital H.
Without thinking, Esk bobbed a curtsey.
Granny's hand clipped the back of her head.
“Bow, I told you,” she said, without rancor. “Witches bow.” She demonstrated.
“But why?” complained Esk.
“Because witches have got to be different, and that's part of the secret,” said Granny.
They sat on a bleached bench in front of the rimward wall of the cottage. In front of them the Herbs were already a foot high, a sinister collection of pale green leaves.
“Right,” said Granny, settling herself down. “You know the hat on the hook by the door? Go and fetch it.”
Esk obediently went inside and unhooked Granny's hat. It was tall, pointed and, of course, black.
morning, before Esk got up, Granny hid the staff in the thatch, well out of harm's way.
Esk ate her breakfast and drank a pint of goat's milk without the least sign of the events of the last twenty-four hours. It was the first time she had been inside Granny's cottage for more than a brief visit, and while the old woman washed the dishes and milked the goats she made the most of her implied license to explore.
She found that life in the cottage wasn't entirely straightforward. There was the matter of the goats' names, for example.
“But they've got to have names!” she said. “Everything's got a name.”
Granny looked at her around the pear-shaped flanks of the head nanny, while the milk squirted into the low pail.
“I daresay they've got names in Goat,” she said vaguely. “What do they want names in Human for?”
“Well,” said Esk, and stopped. She thought for a bit. “How do you make them do what you want, then?”
“They just do, and when they want me they holler.”
Esk gravely gave the head goat a wisp of hay. Granny watched her thoughtfully. Goats did have names for themselves, she well knew: there was “goat who is my kid”, “goat who is my mother”, “goat who is herd leader”, and half a dozen other names not least of which was “goat who is this goat”. They had a complicated herd system and four stomachs and a digestive system that sounded very busy on still nights, and Granny had always felt that calling all this names like Buttercup was an insult to a noble animal.
“Esk? ” she said, making up her mind.
“Yes?”
“What would you like to be when you grow up?”
Esk looked blank. “Don't know.”
“Well,” said Granny, her hands still milking, “what do you think you will do when you are grown up?”
“Don't know. Get married, I suppose.”
“Do you want to?”
Esk's lips started to shape themselves around the D, but she caught Granny's eye and stopped, and thought.
“All the grown ups I know are married,” she said at last, and thought some more. “Except you,” she added, cautiously.
