Wintersmith (9 page)

“But…but…you can’t die!” Tiffany burst out. “You’re a hundred and thirteen years old, Miss Treason!”

“You know, that is very probably the reason, child,” said Miss
Treason calmly. “Didn’t anyone tell you that witches have forewarning when they’re going to die? Anyway, I like a good funeral.”

“Oh aye, ye canna beat a good wake,” said Rob Anybody. “Wi’ lots o’ boozin’ an’ dancin’ an’ greetin’ an feastin’ an’ boozin’.”

“There may be some sweet sherry,” said Miss Treason. “As for feasting, I always say you cannot go far wrong with a ham roll.”

“But you can’t just—” Tiffany began, and stopped as Miss Treason turned her head fast, like a chicken does.

“—leave you like this?” she said. “Is that what you were going to say?”

“Er, no,” Tiffany lied.

“You’ll have to move in with someone else, of course,” said Miss Treason. “You’re not really senior enough to take on a cottage, not when there’s older girls waiting—”

“You know I don’t want to spend my life in the mountains, Miss Treason,” Tiffany said quickly.

“Oh yes, Miss Tick did tell me,” said the old witch. “You want to go back to your little chalk hills.”

“They’re not little!” Tiffany snapped, louder than she’d meant to.

“Yes, this has been a bit of a trying time all around,” said Miss Treason very calmly. “I shall write some letters, which you will take down to the village, and then you shall have your afternoon off. We shall hold the funeral tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sorry? You mean
before
you die?” said Tiffany.

“Why, of course! I don’t see why I shouldn’t have some fun!”

“Good thinkin’!” said Rob Anybody. “That’s the kind o’ sensible detail people usually fails tae consider.”

“We call it a going-away party,” said Miss Treason. “Just for witches, of course. Other people tend to get a bit nervous—I can’t think why. And on the bright side, we’ve got that splendid ham
that Mr. Armbinder gave us last week for settling the ownership of the chestnut tree, and I’d love to try it.”

An hour later Tiffany set out, with her pockets full of notes to butchers and bakers and farmers in the local villages.

She was a bit surprised at the reception she got. They seemed to think it was all a joke.

“Miss Treason’s not going to go dying at her time of life,” said a butcher, weighing out sausages. “I heard that Death’s come for her before and she slammed the door on him!”

“Thirteen dozen sausages, please,” said Tiffany. “Cooked and delivered.”

“Are you sure she’s going to die?” said the butcher, uncertainty clouding his face.

“No. But
she
is,” said Tiffany.

And the baker said, “Don’t you know about that clock of hers? She had it made when her heart died. It’s like a clockwork heart, see?”

“Really?” said Tiffany. “So if her heart died, and she had a new one made of clockwork, how did she stay alive while the new heart was being made?”

“Oh, that’d be by magic, obviously,” said the baker.

“But a heart pumps blood, and Miss Treason’s clock is outside her body,” Tiffany pointed out. “There’s no…tubes….”

“It pumps the blood by magic,” said the baker, speaking slowly. He gave her an odd look. “How can you be a witch if you don’t know this stuff?”

It was the same everywhere else. It was as if the idea of there being no Miss Treason was the wrong shape to put in anyone’s head. She was 113 years old, and they argued that it was practically
unheard of for anyone to die aged 113. It was a joke, they said, or she’d got a scroll signed in blood that meant she’d live forever, or you’d have to steal her clock before she’d die, or every time the Grim Reaper came for her she lied about her name or sent him to another person, or maybe she was just feeling a bit unwell….

By the time Tiffany was finished, she was wondering if it really
was
going to happen. Yet Miss Treason had seemed so certain. And if you were 113, the amazing thing wasn’t that you were going to die tomorrow but that you were still alive today.

With her head full of gloomy thoughts, she set out to the coven meeting.

Once or twice she thought she could feel Feegles watching her. She never knew how she could feel this; it was a talent you learned. And you learned to put up with it, most of the time.

All the other young witches were there by the time she arrived, and they had even got a fire lit.

Some people think that “coven” is a word for a group of witches, and it’s true that’s what the dictionary says. But the real word for a group of witches is an “argument.”

In any case, most of the witches Tiffany had met never used the word. Mrs. Earwig did, though, almost all the time. She was tall and thin and rather chilly, and wore silver spectacles on a little chain, and used words like “avatar” and “sigil.” And Annagramma, who ran the coven because she’d invented it and had the tallest hat and sharpest voice, was her star pupil (and her only one).

Granny Weatherwax always said that what Mrs. Earwig did was wizard magic with a dress on, and Annagramma certainly dragged a lot of books and wands along to the meetings. Mostly, the girls did a few ceremonies to keep her quiet, because for them the real purpose of the coven was to see friends, even if they were friends
simply because they were, really, the only people you could talk to freely because they had the same problems and would understand what you were moaning about.

They always met out in the woods, even in the snow. There was always enough wood lying around for a fire, and they all dressed up warm as a matter of course. Even in the summer, comfort on a broomstick at any height meant more layers of underclothing than anyone would dare guess at, and sometimes a couple of hot-water bottles held on with string.

At the moment three small fireballs circled the fire. Annagramma had made them. You could slay enemies with them, she’d said. They made the others uneasy. It was wizard magic, showy and dangerous. Witches preferred to cut enemies dead with a look. There was no sense in killing your enemy. How would she know you’d won?

Dimity Hubbub had brought a huge tray of inside-out cake. It was just the thing to put a coating on your ribs against the cold.

Tiffany said: “Miss Treason told me she’s going to die on Friday morning. She said she just knows.”

“That’s a shame,” said Annagramma in a that’s-not-really-a-shame tone of voice. “She was very old, though.”

“She still is,” said Tiffany.

“Um, it’s called The Call,” said Petulia Gristle. “Old witches know when they’re going to die. No one knows how it works. They just do.”

“Has she still got those skulls?” said Lucy Warbeck, who had her hair piled up on her head with a knife and fork stuck in it. “I couldn’t stand them. They seemed to be, like, looking at me all the time!”

“It was her using me as a mirror that made me leave,” said Lulu
Darling. “Does she still do that?”

Tiffany sighed. “Yes.”

“I said flatly that I wouldn’t go,” said Gertruder Tiring, poking the fire. “Did you know that if you leave a witch without permission, no other witch will take you on, but if you leave Miss Treason even after only one night, no one says anything about it and they just find you another place?”

“Mrs. Earwig says things like skulls and ravens is going far too far,” said Annagramma. “Everyone around there is literally frightened out of their lives!”

“Um, what’s going to happen to you?” said Petulia to Tiffany.

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll go somewhere else.”

“Poor you,” said Annagramma. “Miss Treason didn’t say who’ll take over the cottage, by any chance?” she added, as if she’d only just thought of the question.

The sound that followed was the silence made by half a dozen pairs of ears listening so hard they were nearly creaking. There were not a lot of young witches coming up, it was true, but witches lived a long time, and getting your own cottage was the prize. That’s when you started getting respect.

“No,” said Tiffany.

“Not even a hint?”

“No.”

“She didn’t say it was going to be
you
, did she?” said Annagramma sharply. Her voice could be really annoying. It could make “hello” sound like an accusation.

“No!”

“Anyway, you’re too young.”

“Actually, there’s no, you know, actual age limit,” said Lucy Warbeck. “Nothing written down, anyway.”

“How do you know that?” Annagramma snapped.

“I asked Old Mrs. Pewmire,” said Lucy.

Annagramma’s eyes narrowed. “You
asked
her? Why?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Because I wanted to know, that’s all. Look, everyone knows you’re the oldest and the…you know, most trained. Of course you’ll get the cottage.”

“Yes,” said Annagramma, watching Tiffany. “Of course.”

“That’s, um, sorted out, then,” said Petulia, more loudly than necessary. “Did you have a lot of snow last night? Old Mother Blackcap said it was unusual.”

Tiffany thought: Oh dear, here we go….

“We often get it this early up here,” said Lucy.

“I thought it was a bit fluffier than usual,” said Petulia. “Quite pretty, if you like that sort of thing.”

“It was just snow,” said Annagramma. “Hey, did any of you hear what happened to the new girl who started with Miss Tumult? Ran away screaming after an hour?” She smiled, not very sympathetically.

“Um, was it the frog?” Petulia asked.

“No, not the frog. She didn’t mind the frog. It was Unlucky Charlie.”

“He can be scary,” Lucy agreed.

And that was it, Tiffany realized, as the gossip ran on. Someone who was practically a kind of god had made billions of snowflakes that looked like her—and they hadn’t noticed!…which was a good thing, obviously…

Of course it was. The last thing she wanted was teasing and stupid questions, of course. Well, of course…

…but…well…it would have been nice if they’d known, if they’d said “Wow,” if they’d been jealous or frightened or
impressed. And she couldn’t tell them, or at least she couldn’t tell Annagramma, who’d make a joke of it and almost but not exactly say that she was making it up.

The Wintersmith had visited her and been…impressed. It was a bit sad if the only people who knew about this were Miss Treason and hundreds of Feegles, especially since—she shuddered—by Friday morning it would only be known by hundreds of little blue men.

To put it another way: If she didn’t tell someone else who was at least the same size as her and alive, she would burst.

So she told Petulia, on the way home. They had to go the same way, and they both flew so slowly that at night it was easier to walk, since you didn’t hit so many trees.

Petulia was plump and reliable and already the best pig witch in the mountains, a fact that means a lot where every family owns a pig. And Miss Treason had said that soon the boys would be running after her, because a girl who knows her pigs would never want for a husband.

The only problem with Petulia was that she always agreed with you and always said what she thought you wanted to hear. But Tiffany was a bit cruel and just told her all the facts. She got a few wows, which she was pleased with.

After a while Petulia said: “That must have been very, um, interesting.” And that was Petulia for you.

“What shall I do?”

“Um…do you need to do anything?” said Petulia.

“Well, sooner or later people are going to notice that all snowflakes are shaped like me!”

“Um, are you worried that they won’t?” said Petulia, so innocently that Tiffany laughed.

“But I’ve got this feeling that it’s not going to stop with snowflakes! I mean, he is everything to do with wintertime!”

“And he ran away when you screamed…” said Petulia thoughtfully.

“That’s right.”

“And then he did something sort of…silly.”

“What?”

“The snowflakes,” said Petulia helpfully.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” said Tiffany, a bit hurt. “Not exactly
silly
.”

“Then it’s all obvious,” said Petulia. “He’s a boy.”

“What?”

“A boy. You know what they are?” said Petulia. “Blush, grunt, mumble, wibble? They’re pretty much all the same.”

“But he’s millions of years old and he acts like he’s never seen a girl before!”

“Um, I don’t know.
Has
he ever seen a girl before?”

“He must have! What about Summer?” said Tiffany. “She’s a girl. Well, a woman. According to a book I’ve seen, anyway.”

“I suppose all you can do is wait to see what he does next, then. Sorry. I’ve never had snowflakes made in my honor…. Er, we’re here….”

They’d reached the clearing where Miss Treason lived, and Petulia began to look a bit nervous.

“Um…all these stories about her…” she said, looking at the cottage. “Are you all right there?”

“Was one of them about what she can do with her thumbnail?” asked Tiffany.

“Yes!” said Petulia, shuddering.

“She made that one up. Don’t tell anyone, though.”

“Why would anyone make up a story like that about themselves?”

Tiffany hesitated. Pigs couldn’t be fooled by Boffo, so Petulia hadn’t run across it. And she was amazingly honest, which Tiffany was coming to learn was a bit of a drawback in a witch. It wasn’t that witches were actually
dishonest
, but they were careful about what kind of truth they told.

“I don’t know,” she lied. “Anyway, you have to cut through quite a lot of a person before anything falls out. And skin is quite tough. I don’t think it’s possible.”

Petulia looked alarmed. “You tried?”

“I practiced with my thumbnail on a big ham this morning, if that’s what you mean,” said Tiffany. You have to check things, she thought. I heard the story that Miss Treason has wolf’s teeth, and people tell that to one another even though they’ve seen her.

“Um…I’ll come and help tomorrow, of course,” said Petulia, nervously looking at Tiffany’s hands in case there were going to be any more thumbnail experiments. “Going-away parties can be quite jolly, really. But, um, if I was you, I’d tell Mr. Wintersmith to go away. That’s what I did when Davey Lummock started getting, um, too romantic. And I told him that I was, um, walking out with Makky Weaver—
don’t tell the others
!”