A Hat Full Of Sky - Terry Pratchett [52]
Tiffany knocked on the door again, much harder.
It was instantly opened by a tall, thin woman, all in black. But it was a very decorative, rich, deep black, all lacy and ruffled, and set off with more silver jewelry than Tiffany imagined could exist. She didn’t just have rings on her fingers. Some fingers had sort of silver finger gloves, designed to look like claws. She gleamed like the night sky.
And she was wearing her pointy hat, which Miss Level never did at home. It was taller than any hat that Tiffany had ever seen. It had stars on it, and silver hatpins glittered.
All of this should have added up to something pretty impressive. It didn’t. Partly it was because there was just too much of everything, but mostly it was because of Mrs. Earwig. She had a long, sharp face and looked very much as though she was about to complain about the cat from next door widdling on her lawn. And she looked like that all the time. Before she spoke, she very pointedly looked at the door to see if the heavy knocking had made a mark.
“Well?” she said, haughtily, or what she probably thought was haughtily. It sounded a bit strangled.
“Bless all in this house,” said Tiffany.
“What? Oh, yes. Favorable runes shine on this our meeting,” said Mrs. Earwig hurriedly. “Well?”
“I’ve come to see Annagramma,” said Tiffany. There really was too much silver.
“Oh, are you one of her girls?” said Mrs. Earwig.
“Not…exactly,” said Tiffany. “I work with Miss Level.”
“Oh, her,” said Mrs. Earwig, looking her up and down. “Green is a very dangerous color. What is your name, child?”
“Tiffany.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Earwig, not approving at all. “Well, you had better come in.” She glanced up and made a tch! sound. “Oh, will you look at that? I bought that at the craft fair over in Slice, too. It was very expensive!”
The curse net was hanging in tatters.
“You didn’t do that, did you?” Mrs. Earwig demanded.
“It’s too high, Mrs. Earwig,” said Tiffany.
“It’s pronounced Ah-wij,” said Mrs. Earwig coldly.
“Sorry, Mrs. Earwig.”
“Come.”
It was a strange house. You couldn’t doubt that a witch lived in it, and not just because every doorframe had a tall pointy bit cut out of the top of it to allow Mrs. Earwig’s hat to pass through. Miss Level had nothing on her walls except circus posters, but Mrs. Earwig had proper big paintings everywhere and they were all…witchy. There were lots of crescent moons and young women with quite frankly not enough clothes on, and big men with horns and, ooh, not just horns. There were suns and moons on the tiles of the floor, and the ceiling of the room Tiffany was led into was high, blue, and painted with stars. Mrs. Earwig (pronounced Ah-wij) pointed to a chair with gryphon feet and crescent-shaped cushions.
“Sit there,” she said. “I will tell Annagramma you are here. Do not kick the chair legs, please.”
She went out via another door.
Tiffany looked around—
—the hiver looked around—
—and thought: I’ve got to be the strongest. When I am strongest, I shall be safe. That one is weak. She thinks you can buy magic.
“Oh, it really is you,” said a sharp voice behind her. “The cheese girl.”
Tiffany stood up.
—the hiver had been many things, including a number of wizards, because wizards sought power all the time and sometimes found, in their treacherous circles, not some demon that was so stupid that it could be tricked with threats and riddles, but the hiver, which was so stupid that it could not be tricked at all. And the hiver remembered—
Annagramma was drinking a glass of milk. Once you’d seen Mrs. Earwig, you understood something about Annagramma. There was an air about her that she was taking notes on the world in order to draw up a list of suggestions for improvements.
“Hello,” said Tiffany.
“I suppose you came along to beg to be allowed to join after