"What young man is that, Miss Treason?" said Tiffany, as stonily as she could manage. "He writes you letters, girl!" And I expect you read them with my eyes, Tiffany thought. "Roland? He's just a friend…sort of," she said. "A sort of friend?" I'm not going into this, Tiffany thought. I bet she's grinning. It's not her business, anyway. "Yes," she said, "that's right, Miss Treason. A sort of friend." There was a long silence, which Tiffany used to scrub out the bottom of an iron saucepan. "It is important to have friends," said Miss Treason, in a voice that was somehow smaller than it had been. It sounded as though Tiffany had won. "When you have finished, dear, please be kind enough to fetch me my shamble bag." Tiffany did so, and hurried off into the dairy. It was always good to get in there. It reminded her of home, and she could think better. She— There was a cheese-shaped hole in the bottom of the door, but Horace was back in his broken cage, making a very faint mnmnmnmn noise that may have been cheese snores. She left him alone and dealt with the morning's milk. At least it wasn't snowing. She felt herself blushing, and tried to stop herself from even thinking about it. And there was going to be a coven meeting tonight. Would the other girls know? Hah! Of course they would. Witches paid attention to snow, especially if it was going to be embarrassing for somebody. "Tiffany? I wish to speak with you," Miss Treason called out. Miss Treason had hardly ever called her Tiffany before. It was quite worrying to hear her say the name. Miss Treason was holding up a shamble. Her seeing-eye mouse was dangling awkwardly among the bits of bone and ribbon. "This is so inconvenient," she said, and raised her voice. "Ach, ye mudlins! C'mon oot! I ken ye're there! I can see ye lookin' at me!" Feegle heads appeared from behind very nearly everything. "Good! Tiffany Aching, sit down!" Tiffany sat down quickly. "At a time like this, too," said Miss Treason, laying down the shamble. "This is so inconvenient. But there is no doubt." She paused for a moment and said: "I will die the day after tomorrow. On Friday, just before half past six in the morning." It was an impressive statement, and did not deserve this reply: "Oh, that's a shame, tae be missin' the weekend like that," said Rob Anybody. "Are ye goin' somewhere nice?"
"But…but…you can't die!" Tiffany burst out. "You're a hundred and thirteen years old, Miss Treason!"
"You know, that is very probably the reason, child," said Miss Treason calmly. "Didn't anyone tell you that witches have forewarning when they're going to die? Anyway, I like a good funeral."
"Oh aye, ye canna beat a good wake," said Rob Anybody. "Wi' lots o' boozin' an' dancin' an' greetin' an feastin' an' boozin'."
"There may be some sweet sherry," said Miss Treason. "As for feasting, I always say you cannot go far wrong with a ham roll."
"But you can't just—" Tiffany began, and stopped as Miss Treason turned her head fast, like a chicken does. "—leave you like this?" she said. "Is that what you were going to say?"
"Er, no," Tiffany lied. "You'll have to move in with someone else, of course," said Miss Treason. "You're not really senior enough to take on a cottage, not when there's older girls waiting—"
"You know I don't want to spend my life in the mountains, Miss Treason," Tiffany said quickly. "Oh yes, Miss Tick did tell me," said the old witch. "You want to go back to your little chalk hills."
"They're not little!" Tiffany snapped, louder than she'd meant to. "Yes, this has been a bit of a trying time all around," said Miss Treason very calmly. "I shall write some letters, which you will take down to the village, and then you shall have your afternoon off. We shall hold the funeral tomorrow afternoon."
"Sorry? You mean before you die?" said Tiffany. "Why, of course! I don't see why I shouldn't have some fun!"
"Good thinkin'!" said Rob Anybody. "That's the kind o' sensible detail people usually fails tae consider."
"We call it a going-away party," said Miss Treason. "Just for witches, of course. Other people tend to get a bit nervous—I can't think why. And on the bright side, we've got that splendid ham that Mr. Armbinder gave us last week for settling the ownership of the chestnut tree, and I'd love to try it." An hour later Tiffany set out, with her pockets full of notes to butchers and bakers and farmers in the local villages. She was a bit surprised at the reception she got. They seemed to think it was all a joke. "Miss Treason's not going to go dying at her time of life," said a butcher, weighing out sausages. "I heard that Death's come for her before and she slammed the door on him!"
"Thirteen dozen sausages, please," said Tiffany. "Cooked and delivered."
"Are you sure she's going to die?" said the butcher, uncertainty clouding his face. "No. But she is," said Tiffany. And the baker said, "Don't you know about that clock of hers? She had it made when her heart died. It's like a clockwork heart, see?"
"Really?" said Tiffany. "So if her heart died, and she had a new one made of clockwork, how did she stay alive while the new heart was being made?"
"Oh, that'd be by magic, obviously," said the baker. "But a heart pumps blood, and Miss Treason's clock is outside her body," Tiffany pointed out. "There's no…tubes…."
"It pumps the blood by magic," said the baker, speaking slowly. He gave her an odd look. "How can you be a witch if you don't know this stuff?" It was the same everywhere else. It was as if the idea of there being no Miss Treason was the wrong shape to put in anyone's head. She was 113 years old, and they argued that it was practically unheard of for anyone to die aged 113. It was a joke, they said, or she'd got a scroll signed in blood that meant she'd live forever, or you'd have to steal her clock before she'd die, or every time the Grim Reaper came for her she lied about her name or sent him to another person, or maybe she was just feeling a bit unwell…. By the time Tiffany was finished, she was wondering if it really was going to happen. Yet Miss Treason had seemed so certain. And if you were 113, the amazing thing wasn't that you were going to die tomorrow but that you were still alive today. With her head full of gloomy thoughts, she set out to the coven meeting. Once or twice she thought she could feel Feegles watching her. She never knew how she could feel this; it was a talent you learned. And you learned to put up with it, most of the time. All the other young witches were there by the time she arrived, and they had even got a fire lit. Some people think that "coven" is a word for a group of witches, and it's true that's what the dictionary says. But the real word for a group of witches is an "argument." In any case, most of the witches Tiffany had met never used the word. Mrs. Earwig did, though, almost all the time. She was tall and thin and rather chilly, and wore silver spectacles on a little chain, and used words like "avatar" and "sigil." And Annagramma, who ran the coven because she'd invented it and had the tallest hat and sharpest voice, was her star pupil (and her only one). Granny Weatherwax always said that what Mrs. Earwig did was wizard magic with a dress on, and Annagramma certainly dragged a lot of books and wands along to the meetings. Mostly, the girls did a few ceremonies to keep her quiet, because for them the real purpose of the coven was to see friends, even if they were friends simply because they were, really, the only people you could talk to freely because they had the same problems and would understand what you were moaning about. They always met out in the woods, even in the snow. There was always enough wood lying around for a fire, and they all dressed up warm as a matter of course. Even in the summer, comfort on a broomstick at any height meant more layers of underclothing than anyone would dare guess at, and sometimes a couple of hot-water bottles held on with string. At the moment three small fireballs circled the fire. Annagramma had made them. You could slay enemies with them, she'd said. They made the others uneasy. It was wizard magic, showy and dangerous. Witches preferred to cut enemies dead with a look. There was no sense in killing your enemy. How would she know you'd won? Dimity Hubbub had brought a huge tray of inside-out cake. It was just the thing to put a coating on your ribs against the cold. Tiffany said: "Miss Treason told me she's going to die on Friday morning. She said she just knows."
"That's a shame," said Annagramma in a that's-not-really-a-shame tone of voice. "She was very old, though."
"She still is," said Tiffany. "Um, it's called The Call," said Petulia Gristle. "Old witches know when they're going to die. No one knows how it works. They just do."
"Has she still got those skulls?" said Lucy Warbeck, who had her hair piled up on her head with a knife and fork stuck in it. "I couldn't stand them. They seemed to be, like, looking at me all the time!"
"It was her using me as a mirror that made me leave," said Lulu Darling. "Does she still do that?" Tiffany sighed. "Yes."
"I said flatly that I wouldn't go," said Gertruder Tiring, poking the fire. "Did you know that if you leave a witch without permission, no other witch will take you on, but if you leave Miss Treason even after only one night, no one says anything about it and they just find you another place?"
"Mrs. Earwig says things like skulls and ravens is going far too far," said Annagramma. "Everyone around there is literally frightened out of their lives!"
"Um, what's going to happen to you?" said Petulia to Tiffany. "I don't know. I suppose I'll go somewhere else."
"Poor you," said Annagramma. "Miss Treason didn't say who'll take over the cottage, by any chance?" she added, as if she'd only just thought of the question. The sound that followed was the silence made by half a dozen pairs of ears listening so hard they were nearly creaking. There were not a lot of young witches coming up, it was true, but witches lived a long time, and getting your own cottage was the prize. That's when you started getting respect. "No," said Tiffany. "Not even a hint?"
"No."
"She didn't say it was going to be you, did she?" said Annagramma sharply. Her voice could be really annoying. It could make "hello" sound like an accusation. "No!" file:///F|/MUSIC/Pratchett,%20Terry%20-%20[Discworld...]%20-%20Wintersmith%20[html,%20jpg]/wintersmith.html (78 of 269)26/12/2006 19:25:36
Wintersmith "Anyway, you're too young."
"Actually, there's no, you know, actual age limit," said Lucy Warbeck. "Nothing written down, anyway."
"How do you know that?" Annagramma snapped. "I asked Old Mrs. Pewmire," said Lucy. Annagramma's eyes narrowed. "You asked her? Why?" Lucy rolled her eyes. "Because I wanted to know, that's all. Look, everyone knows you're the oldest and the…you know, most trained. Of course you'll get the cottage."
