"Ach, this is no' a proper wake," said Rob Anybody. "There should be singin' an' boozin' an' the flexin' o' the knees, no' all this standin' aroond gossipin'."
"Well, gossiping's part of witchcraft," said Tiffany. "They're checking to see if they've gone batty yet. What is the flexin' o' the knees?"
"The dancin', ye ken," said Rob. "The jigs an' reels. 'Tis no' a good wake unless the hands is flingin' an' the feets is twinklin' an' the knees is flexin' an' the kilts is flyin'." Tiffany had never seen the Feegles dance, but she had heard them. It sounded like warfare, which was probably how it ended up. The flyin' o' the kilts sounded a bit worrying, though, and reminded her of a question she had never quite dared to ask up until now. "Tell me…is there anything worn under the kilt?" From the way the Feegles went quiet again, she got the feeling that this was not a question they liked being asked. Rob Anybody narrowed his eyes. The Feegles held their breath. "Not necessarily," he said. At last the funeral was over, possibly because there was nothing left to eat and drink. Many of the departing witches were carrying small packages. That was another tradition. A lot of things in the cottage were the property of the cottage, and would pass on to the next witch, but everything else got passed on to the soon-to-be-late witch's friends. Since the old witch would be alive when this happened, it saved squabbling. That was the thing about witches. They were, according to Granny Weatherwax, "people what looks up." She didn't explain. She seldom explained. She didn't mean people who looked at the sky; everyone did that. She probably meant that they looked up above the everyday chores and wondered, "What's all this about? How does it work? What should I do? What am I for?" And possibly even: "Is there anything worn under the kilt?" Perhaps that was why odd, in a witch, was normal… …but they'd squabble like polecats over a silver spoon that wasn't even silver. As it was, several were waiting impatiently by the sink for Tiffany to wash some big dishes that Miss Treason had promised to them, and which had held the funeral roast potatoes and sausage rolls. At least there was no problem with leftovers. Nanny Ogg, a witch who'd invented Leftover Sandwiches Soup, was waiting in the scullery with her big string bag and a bigger grin. "We were going to have the rest and potatoes for supper," said Tiffany angrily, but with a certain amount of interest. She'd met Nanny Ogg before and quite liked her, but Miss Treason had said, darkly, that Nanny Ogg was "a disgusting old baggage." That sort of comment attracts your attention. "Fair enough," said Nanny Ogg as Tiffany placed her hand on the meat. "You did a good job here today, Tiff. People notice that." She was gone before Tiffany could recover. One of them had very nearly said thank you! Amazing! Petulia helped her bring the big table indoors and finish the tidying up. She hesitated, though, before she left. "Um…you will be all right, will you?" she said. "It's all a bit…strange."
"We're supposed to be no strangers to strangeness," said Tiffany primly. "Anyway, you've sat up with the dead and dying, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes. Mostly pigs, though. Some humans. Um…I don't mind staying, if you like," Petulia added in a leaving-as-soon-as-possible voice. "Thank you. But after all, what's the worst that can happen?" Petulia stared at her and then said, "Well, let me think…a thousand vampire demons, each one with enormous—"
"I'll be fine," said Tiffany quickly. "Don't you worry at all. Good night." Tiffany shut the door and then leaned on it with her hand over her mouth until she heard the gate click. She counted to ten to make sure that Petulia had got some distance and then risked taking her hand away. By then the scream that had been patiently waiting to come out had dwindled to something like "Unk!" This was going to be a very strange night. People died. It was sad, but they did. What did you do next? People expected the local witch to know. So you washed the body and did a few secret and squelchy things and dressed them in their best clothes and laid them out with bowls of earth and salt beside them (no one knew why you did this bit, not even Miss Treason, but it had always been done) and you put two pennies on their eyes "for the ferryman" and you sat with them the night before they were buried, because they shouldn't be left alone. Exactly why was never properly explained, although everyone got told the story of the old man who was slightly less dead than everybody thought and got up off the spare bed in the middle of the night and got back into bed with his wife. The real reason was probably a lot darker than that. The start and finish of things was always dangerous, lives most of all. But Miss Treason was a wicked ol' witch. Who knew what might happen? Hang on, Tiffany told herself; don't you believe the Boffo. She's really just a clever old lady with a catalogue! In the other room Miss Treason's loom stopped. It often did. But this evening the sudden silence it made was louder than usual. Miss Treason called out: "What do we have in the larder that needs eating up?" Yes, this is going to be a very odd night, Tiffany told herself. Miss Treason went to bed early. It was the first time Tiffany had ever known her not to sleep in a chair. She'd put on a long white nightdress, too, the first time Tiffany had seen her not in black. There was a lot still to do. It was traditional that the cottage should be left sparkling clean for the next witch, and although it was hard to make black sparkle, Tiffany did her best. Actually, the cottage was always pretty clean, but Tiffany scraped and scrubbed and polished because it put off the moment when she'd have to go and talk to Miss Treason. She even took down the fake spiderwebs and threw them on the fire, where they burned with a nasty blue flame. She wasn't sure what to do with the skulls. Finally, she wrote down everything she could remember about the local villages: when babies were due, who was very ill and what with, who was feuding, who was "difficult," and just about every other local detail she thought might be helpful to Annagramma. Anything to just put off the moment…. At last there was nothing for it but to climb the narrow stairs and say: "Is everything all right, Miss Treason?" The old woman was sitting up in bed, scribbling. The ravens were perched on the bedposts. "I'm just writing a few thank-you letters," she said. "Some of those ladies today came quite a long way and will be having a chilly ride back."
"'Thank you for coming to my funeral' letters?" asked Tiffany weakly. "Indeed. And they're not often written, you may be sure of that. You know the girl Annagramma Hawkin will be the new witch here? I am sure she would like you to stay on. At least for a while."
"I don't think that would be a good idea," said Tiffany. "Quite," said Miss Treason smiling. "I suspect the girl Weatherwax has arrangements in mind. It will be interesting to see how Mrs. Earwig's brand of witchcraft suits my silly people, although it may be best to observe events from behind a rock. Or, in my case, under it." She put the letters aside, and both the ravens turned to look at Tiffany. "You have been here with me only three months."
"That's right, Miss Treason."
"We have not talked, woman to woman. I should have taught you more."
"I've learned a lot, Miss Treason." And that was true. "You have a young man, Tiffany. He sends you letters and packages. You go into Lancre Town every week to send letters to him. I fear you live not where you love." Tiffany said nothing. They'd been through this before. Roland seemed to fascinate Miss Treason. "I was always too busy to pay attention to young men," said Miss Treason. "They were always for later and then later was too late. Pay attention to your young man."
"Erm…I did say he's not actually my—" Tiffany began, feeling herself start to blush. "But do not become a strumpet like Mrs. Ogg," said Miss Treason. "I'm not very musical," said Tiffany uncertainly. Miss Treason laughed. "You have a dictionary, I believe," she said. "A strange but useful thing for a girl to have."
"Yes, Miss Treason."
"On my bookshelf you will find a rather larger dictionary. An Unexpurgated Dictionary. A useful thing for a young woman to have. You may take it, and one other book. The others will remain with the cottage. You may also have my broomstick. Everything else, of course, belongs to the cottage."
"Thank you very much, Miss Treason. I'd like to take that book about mythology."
"Ah, yes. Chaffinch. A very good choice. It has been a great help to me and will, I suspect, be of particular assistance to you. The loom must stay, of course. Annagramma Hawkin will find it useful." Tiffany doubted this. Annagramma wasn't very practical at all. But it was probably not the time to say so. Miss Treason leaned back against the cushions. "They think you wove names into your cloth," said Tiffany. "That? Oh, it's true. There's nothing magical about it. It's a very old trick. Any weaver can do it. You won't be able to read it, though, without knowing how it was done." Miss Treason sighed. "Oh, my silly people. Anything they don't understand is magic. They think I can see into their hearts, but no witch can do that. Not without surgery, at least. No magic is needed to read their little minds, though. I've known them since they were babes. I remember when their grandparents were babes! They think they're so grown-up! But they're still no better than babies in the sandpit, squabbling over mud pies. I see their lies and excuses and fears. They never grow up, not really. They never look up and open their eyes. They stay children their whole lives."
"I'm sure they'll miss you," said Tiffany. "Ha! I'm the wicked ol' witch, girl. They feared me, and did what they were told! They feared joke skulls and silly stories. I chose fear. I knew they'd never love me for telling 'em the truth, so I made certain of their fear. No, they'll be relieved to hear the witch is dead. And now I shall tell you something vitally important. It is the secret of my long life." Ah, thought Tiffany, and she leaned forward. "The important thing," said Miss Treason, "is to stay the passage of the wind. You should avoid rumbustious fruits and vegetables. Beans are the worst, take it from me."
"I don't think I understand—" Tiffany began. "Try not to fart, in a nutshell."
"In a nutshell I imagine it would be pretty unpleasant!" said Tiffany nervously. She couldn't believe she was being told this. "This is no joking matter," said Miss Treason. "The human body only has so much air in it. You have to make it last. One plate of beans can take a year off your life. I have avoided rumbustiousness all my days. I am an old person and that means what I say is wisdom!" She gave the bewildered Tiffany a stern look. "Do you understand, child?" Tiffany's mind raced. Everything is a test! "No," she said. "I'm not a child and that's nonsense, not wisdom!" The stern look cracked into a smile. "Yes," said Miss Treason. "Total gibberish. But you've got to admit it's a corker, all the same, right? You definitely believed it, just for a moment? The villagers did last year. You should have seen the way they walked about for a few weeks! The strained looks on their faces quite cheered me up! How are things with the Wintersmith? All gone quiet, has it?" The question was like a sharp knife in a slice of cake, and arrived so suddenly that Tiffany gasped. "I woke up early and wondered where you were," said Miss Treason. It was so easy to forget that she used other people's ears and eyes all the time, in an absentminded sort of way. "Did you see the roses?" asked Tiffany. She hadn't felt the telltale tickle, but she hadn't exactly had much time for anything but worry. "Yes. Fine things," said Miss Treason. "I wish I could help you, Tiffany, but I'm going to be otherwise occupied. And romance is an area where I cannot offer much advice."