A Hat Full Of Sky - Terry Pratchett [97]
“And 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’s 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 along marvelously 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 toward her, some toward 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