Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [21]
Tiffany felt the flakes melting on her hair as she walked away from the cottage. Miss Treason was shouting from the doorway, but she walked on, letting the snow cool her blushes.
Of course this is stupid, she told herself. But being a witch is stupid. Why do we do it? It’s hard work for not much reward. What’s a good day for Miss Treason? When someone brings her a secondhand pair of old boots that fit properly! What does she know about anything?
Where is the Wintersmith, then? Is he here? I’ve only got Miss Treason’s word for it! That and a made-up picture in a book!
“Wintersmith!” she shouted.
You could hear the snow falling. It made a strange little noise, like a faint, cold sizzle.
“Wintersmith!”
There was no reply.
Well, what had she expected? A big booming voice? Mr. Spiky the icicle man? There was nothing but the softness of white snow falling patiently among dark trees.
She felt a bit silly now, but satisfied, too. This was what a witch did! She faced what she was afraid of, and then it held no more fear! She was good at this!
She turned—and saw the Wintersmith.
Remember this, said her Third Thoughts, cutting in. Every little detail is important.
The Wintersmith was……nothing. But the snow outlined him. It flowed around him in lines, as if traveling on an invisible skin. He was just a shape, and nothing more, except perhaps for two tiny pale purple-gray dots in the air, where you might expect to find eyes.
Tiffany stood still, her mind frozen, her body waiting to be told what to do.
The hand made of falling snow was reaching toward her now, but very slowly, as you would reach out toward an animal you do not want to frighten. There was…something, some strange sense of things unsaid because there was no voice to say them, a sense of striving, as if the thing were putting heart and soul into this moment, even if it did not know the meaning of heart or soul.
The hand stopped about a foot away from her. It was formed into a fist, and now it turned over and the fingers opened.
Something gleamed. It was the white horse, made of silver, on a fine silver chain.
Tiffany’s hand flew to her throat. But she’d had it on last night! Before she went…to…watch…the…dance….
It must have come off! And he’d found it!
That’s interesting, said her Third Thoughts that busied themselves with the world in their own way. You can’t see what’s hidden inside an invisible fist. How does that work? And why are those little purple-gray blurs in the air where you’d expect to find eyes? Why aren’t they invisible?
That’s Third Thoughts for you. When a huge rock is going to land on your head, they’re the thoughts that think: Is that an igneous rock, such as granite, or is it sandstone?
That part of Tiffany’s brain that was a little less precise at the moment watched the silver horse dangle on its chain.
Her First Thought was: Take it.
Her Second Thought was: Don’t take it. It’s a trap.
Her Third Thought was: Really don’t take it. It will be colder than you can imagine.
And then the rest of her overruled the Thoughts entirely and said: Take it. It’s part of who you are. Take it. When you hold it, you think of home. Take it!
She held out her right hand.
The horse dropped into it. Instinctively she closed her fingers over it. It was indeed colder than she could have imagined, and it burned.
She screamed. The Wintersmith’s snowy outline became a flurry of flakes. The snow around her feet erupted with a cry of “Crivens!” as a mass of Feegles grabbed her feet and carried her, upright, across the clearing and back in through the cottage’s doorway.
Tiffany forced her hand open and, with trembling fingers, pulled the silver horse off her palm. It left a perfect print, a white horse on pink flesh. It wasn’t a burn, it was a…freeze.
Miss Treason’s chair rumbled around on its wheels.
“Come here, child,” she ordered.
Still clasping her hand, trying to force back the tears, Tiffany walked over to her.
“Stand right here by my chair, this instant!