Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [40]
“Well, we don’t get witches like her these days,” said a man delivering four dozen eggs. “These days it’s all airy-fairy and dancin’ around without your drawers on.”
They all looked inquiringly at Tiffany.
“It’s wintertime,” she said coldly. “And I’ve got to get on with my work. The witches will be here soon. Thank you very much.”
While they were putting the eggs on to boil, she told Petulia about it. It didn’t come as a surprise.
“Um, they’re proud of her,” Petulia said. “I’ve heard them boasting about her up at the pig market in Lancre.”
“They boast?”
“Oh, yes. Like: You think old Mistress Weatherwax is tough? Ours has got skulls! And a demon! She’s gonna live forever ’cuz she’s got a clockwork heart she winds up every day! And she eats spiders, sure of it! How d’you like them poisoned apples, huh?”
Boffo works all by itself, Tiffany thought, once you get it started. Our Baron is bigger than your Baron, our witch is witchier than your witch….
CHAPTER FIVE
Miss Treason’s Big Day
The witches started arriving around four o’clock, and Tiffany went out into the clearing to do air traffic control. Annagramma arrived by herself, looking very pale and wearing more occult jewelry than you could imagine. And there was a difficult moment when Mrs. Earwig and Granny Weatherwax arrived at the same time, and circled in a ballet of careful politeness as each waited for the other to land. In the end, Tiffany directed them into different corners of the clearing and hurried away.
There was no sign of the Wintersmith, and she was sure she’d know if he was near. He’d gone far away, she hoped, arranging a gale or conducting a blizzard. The memory of that voice in her mouth remained, awkward and worrying. Like an oyster dealing with a piece of grit, Tiffany coated it with people and hard work.
Now the day was just another pale, dry, early winter’s day. Apart from the food, nothing else at the funeral had been arranged. Witches arrange themselves. Miss Treason sat in her big chair, greeting old friends and old enemies alike.* The cottage was far too small for them all, so they spilled out into the garden in gossiping groups, like a flock of old crows or, possibly, chickens. Tiffany didn’t have much time to talk, because she was kept too busy carrying trays.
But something was going on, she could tell. Witches would pause and turn to watch her as she staggered past, and then turn back to their group and the level of hubbub in the group would rise a bit. Groups would come together and separate again. Tiffany recognized this. The witches were making a Decision.
Lucy Warbeck sidled up to her while she was bringing out a tray of tea, and whispered, as if it were a guilty secret: “Mistress Weatherwax has suggested you, Tiff.”
“No!”
“It’s true! They’re talking about it! Annagramma’s having a fit!”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive! Best of luck!”
“But I don’t want the—” Tiffany pushed the tray into Lucy’s arms. “Look, can you take that around for me, please? They’ll just grab as you go past. I’ve got to get the, er, put the things in, er…got things to do….”
She hurried down the steps to the cellar, which was suspiciously empty of Feegles, and leaned against the wall.
Granny Weatherwax must be cackling, rules or no rules! But her Second Thoughts crept up to whisper: You could do it, though. She may be right. Annagramma annoys people. She talks to them as if they are children. She’s interested in magic (sorry, magik with a “K”), but people get on her nerves. She’ll make a mess of it, you know she will. She just happens to be tall and wears lots of occult jewelry and looks impressive in a pointy hat.
Why would Granny suggest Tiffany? Oh, she was good. She knew she was good. But didn’t everyone know she didn’t want to spend her life up here? Well, it had to be Annagramma, didn’t it? Witches tended to be cautious and traditional, and she was the oldest of the coven. Okay, a lot of witches didn’t like Mrs. Earwig, but Granny Weatherwax didn’t exactly have many friends either.
She went back upstairs