"You are her!" the Wintersmith shouted, pulling her toward him. Tiffany hadn't known where the shout came from, but the slap came from her hand, thinking for itself. It caught the figure on the cheek so hard that for a moment the face blurred, as if she'd smeared a painting. "Don't come near me! Don't touch me!" she screamed. There was a flicker behind the Wintersmith. Tiffany couldn't see it clearly because of the icy haze and her own anger and terror, but something blurred and dark was moving toward them across the clearing, wavering and distorted like a figure seen through ice. It loomed behind the transparent figure for one dark moment, and then became Granny Weatherwax, in the same space as the Wintersmith…inside him. He screamed for a second, and exploded into a mist. Granny stumbled forward, blinking. "Urrrgh. It'll take a while to get the taste of that out of my head," she said. "Shut your mouth, girl— something might fly into it." Tiffany shut her mouth. Something might fly into it. "What…what did you do to him?" she managed. "It!" snapped Granny, rubbing her forehead. "It's an it, not a he! An it that thinks it's a he! Now give me your necklace!"
"What! But it's mine!"
"Do you think I want an argument?" Granny Weatherwax demanded. "Does it say on my face I want an argument? Give it to me now! Don't you dare defy me!"
"I won't just—" Granny Weatherwax lowered her voice and, in a piercing hiss much worse than a scream, said: "It's how it finds you. Do you want it to find you again? It's just a fog now. How solid do you think it will become?" Tiffany thought about that strange face, not moving like a real one should, and that strange voice, putting words together as if they were bricks…. She undid the little silver clasp and held up the necklace. It's just Boffo, she told herself. Every stick is a wand, every puddle is a crystal ball. This is just a…a thing. I don't need it to be me. Yes, I do. "You must give it to me," said Granny softly. "I can't take it." She held out her hand, palm up. Tiffany dropped the horse into it and tried not to see Granny Weatherwax's fingers as a closing claw. "Very well," said Granny, satisfied. "Now we must go."
"You were watching me," said Tiffany sullenly. "All morning. You could have seen me if you'd thought to look," said Granny. "But you didn't do a bad job at the burial, I'll say that."
"I did a good job!"
"That's what I said."
"No," said Tiffany, still trembling. "You didn't."
"I've never held with skulls and suchlike," said Granny, ignoring this. "Artificial ones, at any rate. But Miss Treason—" She stopped, and Tiffany saw her stare at the treetops. "Is that him again?" she asked. "No," said Granny, as if this were something to be disappointed about. "No, that's young Miss Hawkin. And Mrs. Letice Earwig. Didn't hang about, I see. And Miss Treason hardly cooled down." She sniffed. "Some people might have had the common decency not to snatch." The two broomsticks landed a little way off. Annagramma looked nervous. Mrs. Earwig looked like she always did: tall, pale, very well dressed, wearing lots of occult jewelry and an expression that said you were slightly annoying her but she was being gracious enough not to let it show. And she always looked at Tiffany, when she ever bothered to look at her at all, as if Tiffany were some kind of strange creature that she didn't quite understand. Mrs. Earwig was always polite to Granny, in a formal and chilly way. It made Granny Weatherwax mad, but that was the way of witches. When they really disliked one another, they were as polite as duchesses. As the other two approached, Granny bowed low and removed her hat. Mrs. Earwig did the same thing, only the bow was a little lower. Tiffany saw Granny glance up and then bow lower still, by about an inch. Mrs. Earwig managed to go half an inch farther down. Tiffany and Annagramma exchanged a hopeless glance over the straining backs. Sometimes this sort of thing could go on for hours. Granny Weatherwax gave a grunt and straightened up. So did Mrs. Earwig, red in the face. "Blessin's be upon our meetin'," said Granny in a calm voice. Tiffany winced. This was a declaration of hostilities. Yelling and prodding with the fingers was perfectly ordinary witch arguing, but speaking carefully and calmly was open warfare. "How kind of you to greet us," said Mrs. Earwig. "I hopes I sees you in good health?"
"I keep well, Miss Weatherwax." Annagramma shut her eyes. That was a kick in the stomach, by witch standards. "It's Mistress Weatherwax, Mrs. Earwig," said Granny. "As I believes you know?"
"Why, yes. Of course it is. I am so sorry." These vicious blows having been exchanged, Granny went on: "I trust Miss Hawkin will find everything to her likin'."
"I'm sure that—" Mrs. Earwig stared at Tiffany, her face a question. "Tiffany," said Tiffany helpfully. "Tiffany. Of course. What a lovely name…. I'm sure that Tiffany has done her very best," said Mrs. Earwig. "However, we shall shrive and consecrate the cottage, in case of…influences." I already scrubbed and scrubbed everything! Tiffany thought. "Influences?" said Granny Weatherwax. Even the Wintersmith could not have managed a voice so icy. "And disquieting vibrations," said Mrs. Earwig. "Oh, I know about those," said Tiffany. "It's the loose floorboard in the kitchen. If you tread on it, it makes the dresser wobble."
"There has been talk of a demon," said Mrs. Earwig, gravely ignoring this. "And…skulls."
"But—" Tiffany began, and Granny's hand squeezed her shoulder so hard she stopped. "Deary, deary me," said Granny, still holding on tightly. "Skulls, eh?"