AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Granny Weatherwax's beehives were tucked away down one side of the cottage. Some were the old straw kind, most were patched-up wooden ones. They thundered with activity, even this late in the year. Tiffany turned aside to look at them, and the bees poured out in a dark stream. They swarmed towards Tiffany, formed a column and- She laughed. They'd made a witch of bees in front of her, thousands of them all holding station in the air. She raised her right hand. With a rise in the level of buzzing, the bee-witch raised its right hand. She turned around. It turned around, the bees carefully copying every swirl and flutter of her dress, the ones on the very edge buzzing desperately because they had furthest to fly. She carefully put down the big sack and reached out towards the figure. With another roar of wings it went shapeless for a moment, and then re-formed a little way away, but with a hand outstretched towards her. The bee that was the tip of its forefinger hovered just in front of Tiffany's fingernail. 'Shall we dance?' said Tiffany. In the clearing full of spinning seeds, she circled the swarm. It kept up pretty well, moving fingertip to buzzing tip, turning when she turned, although there were always a few bees racing to catch up. Then it raised both its arms and twirled in the opposite direction, the bees in the 'skirt' spreading out again as it spun. It was learning. Tiffany laughed and did the same thing. Swarm and girl whirled across the clearing. She felt happy and wondered if she'd ever felt this happy before. The gold light, the falling bracts, the dancing bees ... it was all one thing. This was the opposite of the dark desert. Here, light was everywhere and filled her up inside. She could feel herself here but see herself from above, twirling with a buzzing shadow that sparkled golden as the light struck the bees. Moments like this paid for it all. Then the witch made of bees leaned closer to Tiffany, as if staring at her with its thousands of little jewelled eyes. There was a faint piping noise from inside the figure and the bee-witch exploded into a spreading, buzzing cloud of insects which raced away across the clearing and disappeared. The only movement now was the whirring fall of the sycamore seeds. Tiffany breathed out. 'Now, some people would have found that scary,' said a voice behind her. Tiffany didn't turn round immediately. First she said, 'Good afternoon, Granny Weatherwax.' Then she turned round. 'Have you ever done this?' she demanded, still half-drunk with delight. 'It's rude to start with questions. You'd better come in and have a cup of tea,' said Granny Weatherwax. You'd barely know that anyone lived in the cottage. There were two chairs by the fire, one of them a rocking chair, and by the table were two chairs that didn't rock but did wobble because of the uneven stone floor. There was a dresser, and a rag-rug in front of the huge hearth. A broomstick leaned against the wall in one corner, next to something mysterious and pointy, under a cloth.
it's about time the old bully lost,' said Annagramma. But she's not a bully, Tiffany thought. She's tough, and she expects other witches to be tough> because the edge is no place for people who break. Everything with her is a kind of test. And her Third Thoughts handed over the thought that had not quite made it back in the tent: Granny Weatherwax, you knew the hiver would only come for me, didn't
you? You talked to Dr Bustle, you told me. Did you just turn me into your trick for today? How much did you guess? Or know? 'You'd win,' said Dimity Hubbub. 'Even some of the older ones would like to see her taken down a peg. They know big magic happened. There's not a whole shamble for miles.' So I'd win because some people don't like somebody else? Tiffany thought. Oh, yes, that'd really be something to be proud of... 'You can bet she'll stand up,' said Annagramma. 'You watch. She'll explain how the poor child got dragged into the Next World by a monster, and she brought her back. That's what I'd do, if I was her.' I expect you would, Tiffany thought. But you're not, and you're not me, either. She stared at Granny Weatherwax, who was waving away a couple of elderly witches. I wonder, she thought, if they've been saying things like 'This girl needs taking down a peg, Mistress Weatherwax.' And as she thought that, Granny turned back and caught her eye- The mice stopped singing, mostly in embarrassment. There was a pause, and then people started to clap, because it was the sort of thing you had to do. A witch, someone Tiffany didn't know, stepped out into the square, still clapping in that fluttery, hands-held-close-together-at shoulder-height way that people use when they want to encourage the audience to go on applauding just that little bit longer. 'Very well done, Doris, excellent work, as ever,' she trilled. 'They've come on marvellously since last year, thank you very much, wonderful, well done . . . ahem . . .' The woman hesitated, while behind her Doris Trample crawled around on hands and knees trying to urge her mice back into their box. One of them was having hysterics. 'And now, perhaps . . . some lady would like to, er . . . take the, er . . . stage?' said the mistress of ceremonies, as brightly as a glass ball about to shatter. 'Anyone?' There was stillness, and silence. 'Don't be shy, ladies!' The voice of the mistress of ceremonies was getting more strained by the second. It's no fun trying to organize a field full of born organizers. 'Modesty does not become us! Anyone?' Tiffany felt the pointy hats turning, some towards her, some towards Granny Weatherwax. Away across the few. yards of grass, Granny reached up and brushed someone's hand from her shoulder, sharply, without breaking eye contact with Tiffany. And we're not wearing hats, thought Tiffany. You gave me a virtual hat once, Granny Weatherwax, and I thank you for it. But I don't need it today. Today, I know I'm a witch. 'Oh, come now, ladies!' said the mistress of ceremonies, now almost frantic. 'This is the Trials! A place for friendly and instructive contestation in an atmosphere of fraternity and goodwill! Surely some lady ... or young lady, perhaps. . . ? Tiffany smiled. It should be 'sorority', not 'fraternity'. We're sisters, mistress, not brothers.
'Come on, Tiffany!' Dimity urged. 'They know you're good!' Tiffany shook her head. 'Oh, well, that's it,' said Annagramma, rolling her eyes. 'The old baggage has messed with the girl's head, as usual-'
'I don't know who's messed with whose head,' snapped Petulia, rolling up her sleeves. 'But I'm going to do the pig trick.' She got to her feet and there was a general stir in the crowd. 'Oh, I see it's going to be- Oh, it's you, Petulia,' said the mistress of ceremonies, slightly disappointed. 'Yes, Miss Casement, and I intend to perform the pig trick,' said Petulia loudly. 'But, er, you don't seem to have brought a pig with you,' said Miss Casement, taken aback. 'Yes, Miss Casement. I shall perform the pig trick . . . without a pig!' This caused a sensation, and cries of 'Impossible!' and 'There are children here, you know!' Miss Casement looked around for assistance and found none. 'Oh well,' she said, helpless. 'If you are sure, dear 'Yes. I am. I shall use . . . a sausage!' said Petulia, producing one from a pocket and holding it up. There was another sensation. Tiffany didn't see the trick. Nor did Granny Weatherwax. Their gaze was like an iron bar, and even Miss Casement instinctively didn't step into it. But Tiffany heard the squeal, and the gasp of amazement, and then the thunder of applause. People would have applauded anything at that point, in the same way that pent-up water would take any route out of a dam. And then witches got up. Miss Level juggled balls that stopped and reversed direction in mid-air. A middle-aged witch demonstrated a new way to stop people choking, which doesn't even sound magical until you understand that a way of turning nearly-dead people into fully-alive people is worth a dozen spells that just go twing! And other women and girls came up one at a time, with big tricks and handy tips and things that went wheee! or stopped toothache or, in one case, exploded - - and then there were no more entries. Miss Casement walked back into the centre of the field, almost drunk with relief that there had been a Trials, and made one final invitation to any ladies 'or, indeed, young ladies' who might like to come forward. There was a silence so thick you could have stuck pins in it. And then she said: 'Oh, well . . . in that case, I declare the Trials well and truly closed. Tea will be in the big tent!' Tiffany and Granny stood up at the same time, to the second, and bowed to one another. Then Granny turned away and joined the stampede towards the teas. It was interesting to see how the crowd parted, all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front a particularly good prophet. Petulia was surrounded by other young witches. The pig trick had gone down very well. Tiffany queued up to give her a hug.
'But you could have won!' said Petulia, red in the face with happiness and worry. 'That doesn't matter. It really doesn't,' said Tiffany. 'You gave it away,' said a sharp voice behind her. 'You had it in your hand, and you gave it all away. How do you feel about that, Tiffany? Do you have a taste for humble pie?'
'Now you listen to me, Annagramma,' Petulia began, pointing a furious finger. Tiffany reached out and lowered the girl's arm. Then she turned and smiled so happily at Annagramma that it was disturbing. What she wanted to say was: 'Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And there're silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize was? No, you wouldn't. Oh, there were judges, but they didn't count, not for the big prize. There is- There was a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and Lightning and they moved so fast they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really wanted, wasn't some silly cup or belt but to see her take her pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say “That'll do” because that meant he was a real shepherd and all the other shepherds would know it, too. And if you'd told him he had to challenge her, he'd cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he'd sooner spit the sun dark. How could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her you'd take away from yourself. You don't understand that, do you? But it's the heart and soul and centre of it! The soul. . . and . . . centre!' But it would be wasted, so what she said was: 'Oh, just shut up, Annagramma. Let's see if there's any buns left, shall we?' Overhead, a buzzard screamed. She looked up. The bird turned on the wind and, racing through the air as it began the long glide, headed back towards home. They were always there. Beside her cauldron, Jeannie opened her eyes. 'He's comin' hame!' she said, scrambling to her feet. She waved a hand urgently at the watching Feegles. 'Don't ye just stand there gawping!' she commanded. 'Catch some rabbits to roast! Build up the fire! Boil up a load o' water, 'cos I'm takin' a bath! Look at this place, 'tis like a midden! Get it cleaned up! I want it sparkling for the Big Man! Go an' steal some Special Sheep Liniment! Cut some green boughs, holly or yew, mebbe! Shine up the golden plates! The place must sparkle! What're ye all standin' there for?'
'Er, what did ye want us to do first, Kelda,' said a Feegle nervously. 'All of it!' In her chamber they filled the kelda's soup-bowl bath and she scrubbed, using one of Tiffany's old toothbrushes, while outside there were the sounds of Feegles working hard at cross-purposes. The smell of roasting rabbit began to fill the mound.
Jeannie dressed herself in her best dress, did her hair, picked up her shawl and climbed out of the hole. She stood there watching the mountains until, after about an hour, a dot in the sky got bigger and bigger. As a kelda, she would welcome home a warrior. As a wife, she would kiss her husband and scold him for being so long away. As a woman, she thought she would melt with relief, thankfulness and joy. CHAPTER 14 QUEEN of the Bees And, one afternoon about a week later, Tiffany went to see Granny Weatherwax. It was only fifteen miles as the broomstick flies, and as Tiffany still didn't like flying a broomstick, Miss Level took her. It was the invisible part of Miss Level. Tiffany just lay flat on the stick, holding on with arms and legs and knees and ears if possible, and took along a paper bag to be sick into, because no one likes anonymous sick dropping out of the sky. She was also holding a large hessian sack, which she handled with care. She didn't open her eyes until the rushing noises had stopped and the sounds around her told her she was probably very close to the ground. In fact Miss Level had been very kind. When she fell off, because of the cramp in her legs, the broomstick was just above some quite thick moss. Thank you,' said Tiffany as she got up, because it always pays to mind your manners around invisible people. She had a new dress. It was green, like the last one. The complex world of favours and obligations and gifts that Miss Level lived and moved in had thrown up four yards of nice material (for the trouble-free birth of Miss Quickly's baby boy) and a few hours' dressmaking (Mrs Hunter's bad leg feeling a lot better, thank you). She'd given the black one away. When I'm old I shall wear midnight, she'd decided. But, for now, she'd had enough of darkness. She looked around at this clearing on the side of a hill, surrounded by oak and sycamore on three sides but open on the downhill side with a wide view of the countryside below. The sycamores were shedding their spinning seeds, which whirled down lazily across a patch of garden. It was unfenced, even though some goats were grazing nearby. If you wondered why it was the goats weren't eating the garden, it was because you'd forgotten who lived here. There was a well. And, of course, a cottage. Mrs Earwig would definitely have objected to the cottage. It was out of a storybook. The walls leaned against one another for support, the thatched roof was slipping off like a bad wig, and the chimneys were corkscrewed. If you thought a gingerbread cottage would be too fattening, this was the next worst thing. In a cottage deep in the forest lived the Wicked Old Witch . . . It was a cottage out of the nastier kind of fairy tale.
Granny Weatherwax's beehives were tucked away down one side of the cottage. Some were the old straw kind, most were patched-up wooden ones. They thundered with activity, even this late in the year. Tiffany turned aside to look at them, and the bees poured out in a dark stream. They swarmed towards Tiffany, formed a column and- She laughed. They'd made a witch of bees in front of her, thousands of them all holding station in the air. She raised her right hand. With a rise in the level of buzzing, the bee-witch raised its right hand. She turned around. It turned around, the bees carefully copying every swirl and flutter of her dress, the ones on the very edge buzzing desperately because they had furthest to fly. She carefully put down the big sack and reached out towards the figure. With another roar of wings it went shapeless for a moment, and then re-formed a little way away, but with a hand outstretched towards her. The bee that was the tip of its forefinger hovered just in front of Tiffany's fingernail. 'Shall we dance?' said Tiffany. In the clearing full of spinning seeds, she circled the swarm. It kept up pretty well, moving fingertip to buzzing tip, turning when she turned, although there were always a few bees racing to catch up. Then it raised both its arms and twirled in the opposite direction, the bees in the 'skirt' spreading out again as it spun. It was learning. Tiffany laughed and did the same thing. Swarm and girl whirled across the clearing. She felt happy and wondered if she'd ever felt this happy before. The gold light, the falling bracts, the dancing bees ... it was all one thing. This was the opposite of the dark desert. Here, light was everywhere and filled her up inside. She could feel herself here but see herself from above, twirling with a buzzing shadow that sparkled golden as the light struck the bees. Moments like this paid for it all. Then the witch made of bees leaned closer to Tiffany, as if staring at her with its thousands of little jewelled eyes. There was a faint piping noise from inside the figure and the bee-witch exploded into a spreading, buzzing cloud of insects which raced away across the clearing and disappeared. The only movement now was the whirring fall of the sycamore seeds. Tiffany breathed out. 'Now, some people would have found that scary,' said a voice behind her. Tiffany didn't turn round immediately. First she said, 'Good afternoon, Granny Weatherwax.' Then she turned round. 'Have you ever done this?' she demanded, still half-drunk with delight. 'It's rude to start with questions. You'd better come in and have a cup of tea,' said Granny Weatherwax. You'd barely know that anyone lived in the cottage. There were two chairs by the fire, one of them a rocking chair, and by the table were two chairs that didn't rock but did wobble because of the uneven stone floor. There was a dresser, and a rag-rug in front of the huge hearth. A broomstick leaned against the wall in one corner, next to something mysterious and pointy, under a cloth.
There was a very narrow and dark flight of stairs. And that was it. There was nothing shiny, nothing new and nothing unnecessary. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?' said Granny Weatherwax, taking a sooty black kettle off the fire and filling an equally black teapot. Tiffany opened the sack she had brought with her. 'I've come to bring you your hat back,' she said. 'Ah,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Have you? And why?'
'Because it's your hat,' said Tiffany, putting it on the table. 'Thank you for the loan of it, though.'
'I dare say there's plenty of young witches who'd give their high teeth for an ol' hat of mine,' said Granny, lifting up the battered hat. 'There are,' said Tiffany, and did not add 'and it's eye teeth, actually'. What she did add was: 'But I think everyone has to find their own hat. The right hat for them, I mean.'
'I see you're now wearing a shop-bought one, then,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'One of them Sky Scrapers. With stars,' she added, and there was so much acid in the word 'stars' that it would've melted copper and then dropped through the table and the floor and melted more copper in the cellar below. 'Think that makes it more magical, do you? Stars?'
'I... did when I bought it. And it'll do for now.'
'Until you find the right hat,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Yes.'
'Which ain't mine?'
'No.'
'Good.' The old witch walked across the room and tugged the cloth off the thing in the corner. It turned out to be a big wooden spike, just about the size of a pointy hat on a tall stand. A hat was being ... constructed on it, with thin strips of willow and pins and stiff black doth. 'I make my own,' she said. 'Every year. There's no hat like the hat you make yourself. Take my advice. I stiffens the calico and makes it waterproof with special jollop. It's amazing what you can put into a hat you make yourself. But you didn't come to talk about hats.' Tiffany let the question out at last. 'Was it real?'. Granny Weatherwax poured the tea, picked up her cup and saucer, then carefully poured some of the tea out of the cup and into the saucer. She held this up and, with care, like someone dealing with an important and delicate task, blew gently on it. She did this slowly and calmly, while Tiffany tried hard to conceal her impatience. down the cup and saucer. 'Child, you've come here to learn what's true and what's not but there's little I can teach you that you don't already know. You just don't know you know it, and you'll spend the rest of your life learning what's already in your bones. And that's the truth.' She stared at Tiffany's hopeful face and sighed. 'Come outside then,' she said. 'I'll give you lesson one. It's the only lesson there is. It
don't need writing down in no book with eyes on.' She led the way to the well in her back garden, looked around on the ground and picked up a stick. 'Magic wand,' she said. 'See?' A green flame leaped out of it, making Tiffany jump. 'Now you try.' It didn't work for Tiffany, no matter how much she shook it. 'Of course not,' said Granny. 'It's a stick. Now, maybe I made a flame come out of it, or maybe I made you think it did. That don't matter. It was me is what I'm sayin', not the stick. Get your mind right and you can make a stick your wand and the sky your hat and a puddle your magic . . . your magic . . . er, what're them fancy cups called?'
'Er . . . goblet,' said Tiffany. 'Right. Magic goblet. Things aren't important. People are.' Granny Weatherwax looked sidelong at Tiffany. 'And I could teach you how to run across those hills of yours with the hare, I could teach you how to fly above them with the buzzard. I could tell you the secrets of the bees. I could teach you all this and much more besides if you'd do just one thing, right here and now. One simple thing, easy to do.' Tiffany nodded, eyes wide. 'You understand, then, that all the glittery stuff is just toys, and toys can lead you astray?'
'Yes!'
'Then take off that shiny horse you wear around your neck, girl, and drop it in the well.' Obediently, half-hypnotized by the voice, Tiffany reached behind her neck and undid the clasp. The pieces of the silver horse shone as she held it over the water. She stared at it as if she was seeing it for the first time. And then . . . She tests people, she thought. All the time. 'Well?' said the old witch. 'No,' said Tiffany. 'I can't.'
'Can't or won't?' said Granny sharply. 'Can't,' said Tiffany and stuck out her chin. 'And won't!' She drew her hand back and fastened the necklace again, glaring defiantly at Granny Weatherwax The witch smiled. 'Well done,' she said quietly. 'If you don't know when to be a human being, you don't know when to be a witch. And if you're too afraid of goin' astray, you won't go anywhere. May I see it, please?' Tiffany looked into those blue eyes. Then she undid the clasp and handed over the necklace. Granny held it up. 'Funny, ain't it, that it seems to gallop when the light hits it,' said the witch, watching it twist this way and that. 'Well-made thing. O'course, it's not what a horse looks like, but it's certainly what a horse is.' Tiffany stared at her with her mouth open. For a moment Granny Aching stood there grinning, and then Granny Weatherwax was back. Did she do that, she wondered, or did
I do it myself? And do I dare find out? 'I didn't just come to bring the hat back,' she managed to say. 'I brought you a present, too.'
'I'm sure there's no call for anyone to bring me a present,' said Granny Weatherwax, sniffing. Tiffany ignored this, because her mind was still spinning. She fetched her sack again and handed over a small, soft parcel, which moved as it changed shape in her hands. 'I took most of the stuff back to Mr Strong-inthearm,' she said. 'But I thought you might have a . . . a use for this.' The old woman slowly unwrapped the white paper. The Zephyr Billow cloak unrolled itself under her fingers and filled the air like smoke. 'It's lovely, but I couldn't wear it,' said Tiffany as the cloak shaped itself over the gentle currents of the clearing. 'You need gravitas to carry off a cloak like that.'
'What's gravitarse?' said Granny Weatherwax sharply. 'Oh . . . dignity. Seniority. Wisdom. Those sort of things,' said Tiffany. 'Ah,' said Granny, relaxing a little. She stared at the gently rippling cloak and sniffed. It really was a wonderful creation. The wizards had got at least one thing right when they had made it. It was one of those items that fill a hole in your life that you didn't know was there until you'd seen it. 'Well, I suppose there's those as can wear a cloak like this, and those as can't,' she conceded. She let it curl around her neck and fastened it there with a crescent-shaped brooch. 'It's a bit too grand for the likes of me,' she said. 'A bit too fancy. I could look like a flibbertigibbet wearing something like this.' It was spoken like a statement but it had a curl like a question. 'No, it suits you, it really does,' said Tiffany cheerfully. 'If you don't know when to be a human being, you don't know when to be a witch.' Birds stopped singing. Up in the trees, squirrels ran and hid. Even the sky seemed to darken for a moment. 'Er ... that's what I heard,' said Tiffany, and added, 'From someone who knows these things.' The blue eyes stared into hers. There were no secrets from Granny Weatherwax. Whatever you said, she watched what you meant. 'Perhaps you'll call again sometimes,' she said, turning slowly and watching the cloak curve in the air. 'It's always very quiet here.'
'I should like that,' said Tiffany. 'Shall I tell the bees before I come, so you can get the tea ready?' For a moment Granny Weatherwax glared, and then the lines faded into a wry grin. 'Clever,' she said. What's inside you? Tiffany thought. Who are you really, in there? Did you want me to take your hat? You pretend to be the big bad wicked witch, and you're not. You test people all the time, test, test, test, but you really want them to be clever enough to beat you. Because it must be hard, being the best. You're not allowed to stop. You can only be beaten, and you're too proud ever to lose. Pride! You've turned it into terrible
strength, but it eats away at you. Are you afraid to laugh in case you hear an early cackle? We'll meet again, one day. We both know it. We'll meet again, at the Witch Trials. 'I'm clever enough to know how you manage not to think of a pink rhinoceros if someone says “pink rhinoceros”,' she managed to say aloud. 'Ah, that's deep magic, that is,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'No. It's not. You don't know what a rhinoceros looks like, do you?' Sunlight filled the clearing as the old witch laughed, as clear as a downland stream. 'That's right!' she said. Chapter 15 A Hat Full of Sky It was one of those strange days in late February when it's a little warmer than it should be and, although there's wind, it seems to be all round the horizons and never quite where you are. Tiffany climbed up onto the downs where, in the sheltered valleys, the early lambs had already found their legs and were running around in a gang in that strange jerky run that lambs have, which makes them look like woolly rocking horses. Perhaps there was something about that day, because the old ewes joined in, too, and skipped with their lambs. They jumped and spun, half happy, half embarrassed, big winter fleeces bouncing up and down like a clown's trousers. It had been an interesting winter. She'd learned a lot of things. One of them was that you could be a bridesmaid to two people who between them were over 170 years old. This time Mr Weavall, with his wig spinning on his head and his big spectacles gleaming, had insisted on giving one of the gold pieces to 'our little helper', which more than made up for the wages that she hadn't asked for and Miss Level couldn't afford. She'd used some of it to buy a really good brown cloak. It didn't billow, it didn't fly out behind her, but it was warm and thick and kept her dry. She'd learned lots of other things too. As she walked past the sheep and their lambs, she gently touched their minds, so softly that they didn't notice . . . Tiffany had stayed up in the mountains for Hogswatch, which officially marked the changing of the year. There'd been a lot to do there, and anyway it wasn't much celebrated on the Chalk. Miss Level had been happy to give her leave now, though, for the lambing festival, which the old people called Sheepbellies. It was when the shepherds' year began. The hag of the hills couldn't miss that. That was when, in warm nests of straw shielded from the wind by hurdles and barriers of cut furze, the
future happened. She'd helped it happen, working with the shepherds by lantern light, dealing with the difficult births. She'd worked with the pointy hat on her head and had felt the shepherds watching her as, with knife and needle and thread and hands and soothing words, she'd saved ewes from the black doorway and helped new lambs into the light. You had to give them a show. You had to give them a story. And she'd walked back home proudly in the morning and bloody to the elbows, but it had been the blood of life. Later, she had gone up to the Feegles' mound, and slid down the hole. She'd thought about this for some time, and had gone prepared - with clean torn-up handkerchiefs and some soapwort shampoo made to a recipe Miss Level had given her. She had a feeling that Jeannie would have a use for these. Miss Level always visited new mothers. It was what you did. Jeannie had been pleased to see her. Lying on her stomach so that she could get part of her body into the kelda's chamber, Tiffany had been allowed to hold all eight of what she kept thinking of as the Roblets, born at the same time as the lambs. Seven of them were bawling and fighting one another. The eighth lay quietly, biding her time. The future happened. It wasn't only Jeannie who thought of her differently. News had got around. The people of the Chalk hadn't liked witches. They had always come from outside. They had always come as strangers. But now here was our Tiffany, birthing the lambs like her granny did, and they say she's been learning witchery in the mountains! Ah, but that's still our Tiffany, that is. OK, I'll grant you that she's wearing a hat with big stars on it, but she makes good cheese and she knows about lambing and she's Granny Aching's grand-daughter, right? And they'd tap their noses, knowingly. Granny Aching's grand-daughter. Remember what the old woman could do? So if witch she be, then she's our witch. She knows about sheep, she does. Hah, and I heard they had a big sort of trial for witches up in them mountains and our Tiffany showed 'em what a girl from the Chalk can do. It's modern times, right? We got a witch now, and she's better'n anyone else's! No one's throwing Granny Aching's grand- daughter in a pond! Tomorrow she'd go back to the mountains again. It had been a busy three weeks, quite apart from the lambing. Roland had invited her to tea at the castle. It had been a bit awkward, as these things are, but it was funny how, in a couple of years, he'd gone from a lumbering oaf into a nervous young man who forgot what he was talking about when she smiled at him. And they had books in the castle! He'd shyly presented her with a Dictionary of Amazingly Uncommon Words, and she had been prepared enough to bring him a hunting knife made by Zakzak, who was excellent at blades even if he was rubbish at magic. The hat wasn't mentioned, very carefully. And when she'd got home she'd found a bookmark in the P section and a faint pencil underline under the words Plongeon: a small curtsy, about one-third as deep as the traditional one. No longer used.' Alone in her bedroom, she'd blushed. It's always surprising to be reminded that while you're watching and thinking about people, all knowing and superior, they're watching and thinking about you, right back at you.
