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Tiffany sighed. Why were elderly witches so nosy? But then she thought: Actually, all witches are nosy. It’s part of what being a witch is. And she relaxed. At least Mrs Proust wasn’t trying to push her Derek at her again.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I do like Preston and he likes me – he’s my best friend – but I’m not sure either of us are ready for, well . . . anything more. You see, he does a lot of wonderful work at the hospital and we write to each other and even meet up sometimes.’ She paused. ‘I think we are married to our jobs.’ She swallowed, a lump suddenly appearing in her thro
at. ‘It’s not that we don’t want to be together . . . I mean, I . . . but . . .’ The words trailed off and Tiffany just looked totally miserable now.
Mrs Proust did her best to look sympathetic. ‘You’re not the first witch to have that problem, my dear,’ she said. ‘Nor will you be the last.’
Tiffany could feel the tears beginning. She said, ‘But why do I feel like this? I know a part of me does want to be with Preston – and it would make my family so happy! – but I also want to be a witch. And I’m good at it – I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I measure myself against the other witches and I know I’m better than most of them when it comes to witchcraft. I can’t not do it.’ A tear threatened to trickle down her cheek. ‘Just like Preston can’t not be a doctor,’ she finished sadly.
‘Oh, I understand all that,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘But this is today. It’s soon going to be tomorrow and things can change. Things are changing, especially for you young people, when you both want to do different things. Just do the work you find in front of you and enjoy yourself. After all, you are both still young, so you still have options for the future. Just like my Derek.’
‘But that’s the difficulty,’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t really want options. I know what I want to do. I enjoy my work, I really do.’ This last word came out as a squeal. ‘I just wish Preston could be with me,’ she added quietly. ‘Not here in the city.’
‘But you tell me he is training to be a doctor,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘And he loves his work. You wouldn’t want him to give that up for you, now would you? So don’t worry so much. Think yourself lucky and don’t run ahead of the world. There is a saying, Don’t push the river. Although, of course, in Ankh-Morpork you can push very hard,’ she added with a cackle.fn3 More encouragingly, she continued, ‘Maybe in a year or two your young man can be a doctor in the same place where you are a witch. I had my Mr Proust. You can have your Preston. Just not yet.’
‘When I go around the houses,’ Tiffany said quietly, ‘I also see how some of the marriages, well, they’re not really . . .’ That hung in the air.
‘There are happy marriages,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘Think of your parents, maybe? Isn’t that a happy marriage? Now, let your Auntie Eunice give you some help. Go and see your boy and have a chat to him.’ She paused and added shrewdly, ‘He’s not interested in anyone else, is he?’
‘Oh no,’ said Tiffany. ‘He’s working with the Igorsfn4 and he said that he didn’t fancy the Igor girls because he likes a girl who stays the same shape every day. The Igorinas like to experiment.’
Geoffrey came back late with Derek, singing a song worthy of Nanny Ogg, but Tiffany got a good night’s sleep – a rare treat! – and then a breakfast of ham and eggs courtesy of Mrs Proust. While Geoffrey and Derek still slept, Tiffany decided to go and visit Preston. Mrs Proust’s words had got her thinking.
She headed for the Lady Sybil Hospital over in Goose Gate, but paused at the door, strangely uncertain. She hadn’t told Preston she would be in the city. Would her visit be a good one, or . . .?
It was a free hospital, so there was a queue of people waiting, all hoping for the happy result of seeing a doctor before old Boney turned up with his scythe. It looked like nobody would be moving for some time, so Tiffany did something she knew she shouldn’t.
She stepped outside her body, leaving it standing demurely by the gates. It was an easy trick for a witch, but still dangerous, and she had no real reason to take the risk. Except . . . the Igor girls? They were beautiful . . . once you looked past the discreet stitches, anyway.
She slid silently through the crowd, doing her best to ignore her First Thoughts, Second Thoughts and even her Third Thoughts, and drifted into the hospital itself, floating along the corridors until she found Preston.
He was in his element, his gaze focused on a patient with a rather unsettling hole in the stomach – and when Preston looked at anything, it knew it was being looked at and was liable to stand up and salute. This was especially true of some of the spare parts the Igors used – a most unsettling experience – and Preston was indeed surrounded by Igors. And yes, that included girls. But, happy sight, he was paying them no attention.
Tiffany sighed with relief, and then – allowing herself to listen to her Second Thoughts, which were telling her off in a style uncomfortably like the voice of Granny Weatherwax – whisked herself back into her body, which wobbled slightly as she took control again.
The queue had moved a few inches. But the pointy hat took her to its head and the porter let her through immediately. She waved away his offer of directions and marched confidently off down the corridor, leaving the porter to mutter, ‘I didn’t even need to tell her where he was. That’s a proper witch, that is.’ For at the hospital it was all too easy to set off confidently for one place but find yourself in the basement – which these days was home to goblins, who maintained the huge boilers and had set up a workshop manufacturing the very finest surgical instruments. Still, most people eventually made it out of the hospital and the record seemed to be improving.
Preston was very glad to see Tiffany, saying, ‘I heard about Granny Weatherwax. Well done for being the top witch, it couldn’t happen to a better person; are you allowed to tell all the other witches what to do now?’
‘What!’ Tiffany laughed. ‘It’s like herding goblins. No! Goblins are easier. Anyway, it works like this: I don’t tell them what to do, and they allow me to work hard – just as I like it.’
‘Just like me and the Igors,’ said Preston. ‘But I’ve got good news too. Doctor Lawn is getting on now and he has promoted me to be a surgeon; usually only Igors can be surgeons, so that’s a real feather in my hat.’
Tiffany kissed him, and said, ‘That is good news; I am so proud of you! But I do wish he would give you more time off – and you could come and see me. Letters can only say so much . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘Though I do so love the way you write.’
‘And I like your letters too,’ Preston said, ‘and I wish I could visit home more. But I do enjoy the work here, Tiffany. And people need me. Every day. I’ve got a talent and it would be criminal not to use it.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s the story of my life as well. Our skills, you will find, could be our gaolers.’ And it struck her that just as Preston was looking into people in one way – he knew the names of all the bones now, and could even say hello to a few of them – she was learning to look into people another way: into their heads, their minds. ‘But I couldn’t do anything else,’ she finished, a touch wistfully.
Preston said, ‘No. Me neither.’
Then the time for talking was over, and it was just Tiffany and Preston, together, snatching the moment and saying more with their eyes than any words could convey.
And it was magic; a different kind of magic.
Mrs Proust went with them to pick up Geoffrey’s broomstick – Granny Weatherwax’s stick had been a legend, and she was curious to see if the dwarfs had managed to make it work.
Dave greeted them and said, ‘Well, here it is. It’s a good stick, it really is. I reckon Mistress Weatherwax never took any care of it at all, no matter what we dwarfs did to fix it up.’
