Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [72]
Tiffany sighed. “All right, I’ll sit up with you, just this once,” she said. Annagramma beamed.
“And as for skulls,” said Tiffany, “just wait a moment.” She went upstairs and got the Boffo catalogue, which she’d hidden in her old suitcase. She came back with it carefully rolled up and handed it over. “Don’t look at it now,” she said. “Wait until you’re alone. You might find it gives you ideas. Okay? I’ll come and meet you around seven tonight.”
When Annagramma had gone, Tiffany sat and counted under her breath. When she’d got to five, Nanny Ogg came and vigorously dusted a few ornaments before saying: “Oh, has your little friend gone?”
“Do you think I’m being silly?” said Tiffany.
Nanny stopped pretending to do housework. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, not havin’ listened,” she said, “but if I had been listenin’, I’d think you won’t get any thanks, that’s what I’d think.”
“Granny shouldn’t have meddled,” said Tiffany.
“Shouldn’t have, eh?” said Nanny, her face blank.
“I’m not stupid, Nanny,” said Tiffany. “I’ve worked it out.”
“Worked it out, have you? There’s a clever girl,” said Nanny Ogg, sitting down in her chair. “And what is it you’ve worked out then?”
This was going to get difficult. Nanny was usually cheerful all the time. When she went solemn, like she was now, it could make you nervous. But Tiffany pressed on.
“I couldn’t take on a cottage,” she said. “Oh, I can do most of the everyday stuff, but you need to be older to run a steading. There’s things people won’t tell you if you’re thirteen, hat or not. But Granny put it about that she was suggesting me, and so everyone saw it as a contest between me and Annagramma, right? And they chose her because she’s older and sounds really competent. And now it’s all falling apart. It’s not her fault she was taught magic instead of witchcraft. Granny just wants her to fail so that everyone will know that Mrs. Earwig is a bad teacher. And I don’t think that’s good.”
“I wouldn’t be too quick to decide what it is Esme Weatherwax wants, if I was you,” said Nanny Ogg. “I won’t say a word, mind you. You go off and help your friend if you want, but you’ve still got to work for me, okay? That’s only fair. How’s the feet?”
“They feel fine, Nanny. Thank you for asking.”
More than a hundred miles away, Mr. Fusel Johnson knew nothing about Tiffany, Nanny Ogg, or indeed anything very much except for clocks and watches, which he made for a living. He also knew how to lime-wash a kitchen, which was an easy and cheap way to get a nice white look even if the stuff was a bit runny. And therefore he had no idea why several handfuls of the white powder fountained up out of the mixing bowl before he could add the water, hung in the air for a moment like a ghost, and vanished up the chimney. In the end he put it down to too many trolls moving into the area. This wasn’t very logical, but such beliefs generally aren’t.
And the Wintersmith thought: Lime enough to make a man!
That night Tiffany sat up with Annagramma and old Mr. Tissot, except that he was lying down because he was dead. Tiffany had never liked watching over the dead. It wasn’t exactly something you could like. It was always a relief when the sky turned gray and the birds started to sing.
Sometimes, in the night, Mr. Tissot made little noises. Except, of course, it wasn’t Mr. Tissot, who’d met Death hours ago. It was just the body he’d left behind, and the sounds it made were really no different from the noises made by an old house as it cooled down.
It was important to remember these things around two o’clock in the morning. Vitally important, when the candle flickered.
Annagramma snored. No one with a nose that small should be able to make a snore that loud. It was like ripping planks. Whatever evil spirits might be around on this night, that sound would probably scare them away.
It wasn’t the gnh gnh gnh part that was so bad, and Tiffany could live with the bloooooorrrrt! It was the gap between them, after the gnh gnh gnh had wound