A Hat Full Of Sky

Chapter Seven The Matter of Brian

Something that called itself Tiffany flew across the treetops.

It thought it was Tiffany. It could remember everything—nearly everything—about being Tiffany. It looked like Tiffany. It even thought like Tiffany, more or less. It had everything it needed to be Tiffany…

…except Tiffany. Except the tiny part of her that was… me.

It peered from her own eyes, tried to hear with her own ears, think with her own brain.

A hiver took over its victim not by force, exactly, but simply by moving into any space, like the hermit elephant7 It just took you over because that was what it did, until it was in all the places and there was no room left…

Except–

–it was having trouble. It had flowed through her like a dark tide but there was a place, tight and sealed, that was still closed. If it had the brains of a tree, it would have been puzzled.

If it had the brains of a human, it would have been frightened…

Tiffany brought the broomstick in low over the trees, and landed it neatly in Mrs Earwig’s garden. There really was nothing to it, she decided. You just had to want it to fly.

Then she was sick again or, at least, tried to be, but since she’d thrown up twice in the air there wasn’t much left to be sick with. It was ridiculous! She wasn’t frightened of flying any more, but her stupid stomach was!

She wiped her mouth carefully and looked around.

She’d landed on a lawn. She’d heard of them, but had never seen a real one before. There was grass all round Miss Level’s cottage, but that was just, well, the grass of the clearing. Every other garden she’d seen was used for growing vegetables, with perhaps just a little space for flowers if the wife had got tough about it. A lawn meant you were posh enough to afford to give up valuable potato space.

This lawn had stripes.

Tiffany turned to the stick and said, ‘Stay!’ and then marched across the lawn to the house. It was a lot grander than Miss Level’s cottage but, from what Tiffany had heard, Mrs Earwig was a more senior witch. She’d also married a wizard, although he didn’t do any wizarding these days. It was a funny thing, Miss Level said, but you didn’t often meet a poor wizard.

She knocked at the door and waited.

There was a curse-net hanging in the porch. You’d have thought that a witch wouldn’t need such a thing, but Tiffany supposed they used them as decoration. There was also a broomstick leaning against the wall, and a five-pointed silver star on the door. Mrs Earwig advertised.

Tiffany knocked on the door again, much harder.

It was instantly opened by a tall, thin woman, all in black. But it was a very decorative rich, deep black, all lacy and ruffled, and set off with more silver jewellery than Tiffany imagined could exist. She didn’t just have rings on her fingers. Some fingers had sort of silver finger gloves, designed to look like claws. She gleamed like the night sky.

And she was wearing her pointy hat, which Miss Level never did at home. It was taller than any hat that Tiffany had ever seen. It had stars on it, and silver hatpins glittered.

All of this should have added up to something pretty impressive. It didn’t. Partly it was because there was just too much of everything, but mostly it was because of Mrs Earwig. She had a long sharp face and looked very much as though she was about to complain about the cat from next door widdling on her lawn. And she looked like that all the time. Before she spoke, she very pointedly looked at the door to see if the heavy knocking had made a mark.

‘Well?’ she said, haughtily, or what she probably thought was haughtily. It sounded a bit strangled.

‘Bless all in this house,’ said Tiffany.

‘What? Oh, yes. Favourable runes shine on this our meeting,’ said Mrs Earwig hurriedly. ‘Well?’

‘I’ve come to see Annagramma,’ said Tiffany. There really was too much silver.

‘Oh, are you one of her girls?’ said Miss Earwig.

‘Not… exactly,’ said Tiffany. ‘I work with Miss Level.’

‘Oh, her,’ said Mrs Earwig, looking her up and down. ‘Green is a very dangerous colour. What is your name, child?’

‘Tiffany.’

‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Earwig, not approving at all. ‘Well, you had better come in.’ She glanced up and made a tch! sound. ‘Oh, will you look at that? I bought that at the craft fair over in Slice, too. It was very expensive!’

The curse-net was hanging in tatters.

‘You didn’t do that, did you?’ Mrs Earwig demanded.

‘It’s too high, Mrs Earwig,’ said Tiffany.

‘It’s pronounced Ah-wij,’ said Mrs Earwig coldly.

‘Sorry, Mrs Earwig.’

‘Come.’

It was a strange house. You couldn’t doubt that a witch lived in it, and not just because every doorframe had a tall pointy bit cut out of the top of it to allow Mrs Earwig’s hat to pass through. Miss Level had nothing on her walls except circus posters, but Mrs Earwig had proper big paintings everywhere and they were all… witchy. There were lots of crescent moons and young women with quite frankly not enough clothes on, and big men with horns and, ooh, not just horns. There were suns and moon on the tiles of the floor, and the ceiling of the room Tiffany was led into was high, blue and painted with stars. Mrs Earwig (pronounced Ah-wij) pointed to a chair with gryphon’s feet and crescent-shaped cushions.

‘Sit there,’ she said. ‘I will tell Annagramma you are here. Do not kick the chairlegs, please.’

She went out via another door.

Tiffany looked around—

–the hiver looked around–

–and thought: I’ve got to be the strongest. When I am strongest, I shall be safe. That one is weak. She thinks you can buy magic.

‘Oh, it really is you,’ said a sharp voice behind her. ‘The cheese girl.’ Tiffany stood up.

–the hiver had been many things, including a number of wizards, because wizards sought power all the time and sometimes found, in their treacherous circles, not some demon who was so stupid that it could be tricked with threats and riddles, but the hiver, which was so stupid that it could not be tricked at all. And the hiver remembered–

Annagramma was drinking a glass of milk. Once you’d seen Mrs Earwig, you understood something about Annagramma. There was an air about her that she was taking notes about the world in order to draw up a list of suggestions for improvements.

‘Hello,’ said Tiffany.

‘I suppose you came along to beg to be allowed to join after all, have you? I suppose you might be fun.’

‘No, not really. But I might let you join me,’ said Tiffany. ‘Are you enjoying that milk?’

The glass of milk turned into a bunch of thistles and grass. Annagramma dropped it hurriedly. When it hit the floor, it became a glass of milk again, and shattered and splashed.

Tiffany pointed at the ceiling. The painted stars flared, filling the room with light. But Annagramma stared at the spilled milk. ‘You know they say the power comes?’ said Tiffany, walking around her. ‘Well, it’s come to me. Do you want to be my friend? Or do you want to be… in my way? I should clean up that milk, if I was you.’

She concentrated. She didn’t know where this was coming from, but it seemed to know exactly what to do.

Annagramma rose a few inches off the floor. She struggled and tried to run, but that only made her spin. To Tiffany’s dreadful delight, the girl started to cry.

‘You said we ought to use our power,’ said Tiffany, walking around her as Annagramma tried to break free. ‘You said if we had the gift, people ought to know about it. You’re a girl with her head screwed on right.’ Tiffany bent down a bit to look her in the eye. ‘Wouldn’t it be awful if it got screwed on wrong?’

She waved a hand and her prisoner dropped to the ground. But while Annagramma was unpleasant she wasn’t a coward, and she rose up with her mouth open to yell and a hand upraised—

‘Careful,’ said Tiffany. ‘I can do it again.’

Annagramma wasn’t stupid either. She lowered her hand and shrugged.

‘Well, you have been lucky,’ she said grudgingly.

‘But I still need your help,’ said Tiffany.

‘Why would you need my help?’ said Annagramma sulkily.

–We need allies, the hiver thought with Tiffany’s mind. They can help protect us. If necessary, we can sacrifice them. Other creatures will always want to be friends with the powerful, and this one loves power–

‘To start with,’ said Tiffany, ‘where can I get a dress like yours?’

Annagramma’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, you want Zakzak Stronginthearm, over in Sallett Without,’ she said. ‘He sells everything for the modern witch.’

‘Then I want everything,’ said Tiffany.

‘He’ll want paying,’ Annagramma went on. ‘He’s a dwarf. They know real gold from illusion gold. Everyone tries it out on him, of course. He just laughs. If you try it twice, he’ll make a complaint to your mistress.’

‘Miss Tick said a witch should have just enough money,’ said Tiffany.

‘That’s right,’ said Annagramma. ‘Just enough to buy everything she wants! Mrs Earwig says that just because we’re witches we don’t have to live like peasants. But Miss Level is old-fashioned, isn’t she? Probably hasn’t got any money in the house.’

And Tiffany said, ‘Oh, I know where I can get some money. I’ll meet you please help me! here this afternoon and you can show me where his place is.’

‘What was that?’ said Annagramma sharply.

‘I just said I’d stop me! meet you here this—’ Tiffany began.

‘There it was again! There was a sort of… odd echo in your voice,’ said Annagramma. ‘Like two people trying to talk at once.’

‘Oh, that,’ said the hiver. ‘That’s nothing. It’ll stop soon.’

It was an interesting mind and the hiver enjoyed using it—but always there was that one place, that little place that was closed; it was annoying, like an itch that wouldn’t go away… It did not think. The mind of the hiver was just what remained of all the other minds it had once lived in. They were like echoes after the music is taken away. But even echoes, bouncing off one another, can produce new harmonies.

They clanged now. They rang out things like: Fit in. Not strong enough yet to make enemies. Have friends…

Zakzak’s low-ceilinged, dark shop had plenty to spend your money on. Zakzak was indeed a dwarf, and they’re not traditionally interested in using magic, but he certainly knew how to display merchandise, which is what they are very good at.

There were wands, mostly of metal, some of rare woods. Some had shiny crystals stuck on them, which of course made them more expensive. There were bottles of coloured glass in the ‘potions’ section and, oddly enough, the smaller the bottle, the more expensive it was.

‘That’s because there’s often very rare ingredients, like the tears of some rare snake or something,’ said Annagramma.

‘I didn’t know snakes cried,’ said Tiffany.

‘Don’t they? Oh, well, I expect that’s why it’s expensive.’

There was plenty of other stuff. Shambles hung from the ceiling, much prettier and more interesting than the working ones that Tiffany had seen. Since they were made up complete, then surely they were dead, just like the ones Miss Level kept for ornamentation. But they looked good—and looking good was important.

There were even stones for looking into.

‘Crystal balls,’ said Annagramma as Tiffany picked one up. ‘Careful! They’re very expensive!’ She pointed to a sign, which had been placed thoughtfully amongst the glittering globes. It said:

Tiffany held the biggest one in her hand and saw how Zakzak moved slightly away from his counter, ready to rush forward with a bill if she dropped it.

‘Miss Tick uses a saucer of water with a bit of ink poured into it,’ she said. ‘And she usually borrows the water and cadges the ink, at that.’

‘Oh, a fundamentalist,’ said Annagramma. ‘Letice—that’s Mrs Earwig—says they let us down terribly. Do we really want people to think witches are just a bunch of mad old women who look like crows? That’s so gingerbread-cottagey! We really ought to be professional about these things.’

‘Hmm,’ said Tiffany, throwing the crystal ball up into the air and catching it again with one hand. ‘People should be made to fear witches.’

‘Well, er, certainly they should respect us,’ said Annagramma. ‘Um… I should be careful with that, if I was you…’

‘Why?’ said Tiffany, tossing the ball over her shoulder.

‘That was finest quartz!’ shouted Zakzak, rushing around his counter.

‘Oh, Tiffany,’ said Annagramma, shocked but trying not to giggle.

Zakzak rushed past them to where the shattered ball lay in hundreds of very expensive fragmen—

–did not lie in very expensive fragments.

Both he and Annagramma turned to Tiffany.

She was spinning the crystal globe on the tip of her finger.

‘Quickness of the hand deceives the eye,’ she said.

‘But I heard it smash!’ said Zakzak.

‘Deceives the ear, too,’ said Tiffany, putting the ball back on its stand. ‘I don’t want this, but’—and she pointed a finger—I’ll take that necklace and that one and the one with the cats and that ring and a set of those and two, no, three of those and—what are these?’

‘Um, that’s a Book of Night,’ said Annagramma nervously. ‘It’s a sort of magical diary. You write down what you’ve been working on…’

Tiffany picked up the leather-bound book. It had an eye set in heavier leather on the cover. The eye rolled to look at her. This was a real witch’s diary, and much more impressive than some shamefully cheap old book bought off a pedlar.

‘Whose eye was it?’ said Tiffany. ‘Anyone interesting?’

‘Er, I get the books from the wizards at Unseen University,’ said Zakzak, still shaken. ‘They’re not real eyes, but they’re clever enough to swivel around until they see another eye.’

‘It just blinked,’ said Tiffany.

‘Very clever people, wizards,’ said the dwarf, who knew a sale when he saw one. ‘Shall I wrap it up for you?’

‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘Wrap everything up. And now can anyone hear me? show me the clothes department…’

…where there were hats. There are fashions in witchery, just like everything else. Some years the slightly concertina’d look is in, and you’ll even see the point twisting around so much it’s nearly pointing at the ground. There are varieties even in the most traditional hat (Upright Cone, Black), such as ‘the Countrywoman’ (inside pockets, waterproof), ‘the Cloudbuster’ (low drag coefficient for broomstick use), and, quite importantly, ‘the Safety’ (guaranteed to survive 80% of falling farmhouses).

Tiffany chose the tallest upright cone. It was more than two feet high and had big stars sewn on it.

‘Ah, the Sky Scraper. Very much your Look,’ said Zakzak, bustling around and opening drawers. ‘It’s for the witch on the way up, who knows what she wants and doesn’t care how many frogs it takes, aha. Incidentally, many ladies like a cloak with that. Now, we have the Midnight, pure wool, fine knit, very warm, but’—he gave Tiffany a knowing look—‘we currently have very limited supplies of the Zephyr Billow, just in, very rare, black as coal and thin as a shadow. Completely useless for keeping you warm or dry but it looks fabulous in even the slightest breeze. Observe—’

He held up the cloak and blew gently. It billowed out almost horizontally, flapping and twisting like a sheet in a gale.

‘Oh, yes,’ breathed Annagramma.

‘I’ll take it,’ said Tiffany. ‘I shall wear it to the Witch Trials on Saturday.’

‘Well, if you win, be sure to tell everyone you bought it here,’ said Zakzak.

‘When I win I shall tell them I got it at a considerable discount,’ said Tiffany.

‘Oh, I don’t do discounts,’ said Zakzak, as loftily as a dwarf can manage.

Tiffany stared at him, then picked up one of the most expensive wands from the display. It glittered.

‘That’s a Number Six,’ whispered Annagramma. ‘Mrs Earwig has one of those!’

‘I see it’s got runes on it,’ said Tiffany, and something about the way she said it made Zakzak go pale.

‘Well, of course,’ said Annagramma. ‘You’ve got to have runes.’

‘These are in Oggham,’ said Tiffany, smiling nastily at Zakzak. ‘It’s a very ancient language of the dwarfs. Shall I tell you what they say? They say “Oh What A Wally Is Waving This”.’

‘Don’t you take that nasty lying tone with me, young lady!’ said the dwarf. ‘Who’s your mistress? I know your type! Learn one spell and you think you’re Mistress Weatherwax! I’m not standing for this kind of behaviour! Brian!’

There was a rustling from the bead curtains that led to the back of the shop and a wizard appeared.

You could tell he was a wizard. Wizards never wanted you to have to guess. He had long flowing robes, with stars and magical symbols on them; there were even some sequins. His beard would have been long and flowing if indeed he’d been the kind of young man who could really grow a beard. Instead, it was ragged and wispy and not very clean. And the general effect was also spoiled by the fact that he was smoking a cigarette, had a mug of tea in his hand and a face that looked a bit like something that lives under damp logs.

The mug was chipped and on it were the jolly words ‘You Don’t Have to Be Magic to Work Here But It Helps!!!!!’

‘Yeah?’ he said, adding reproachfully, ‘I was on my tea break, you know.’

‘This young… lady is being awkward,’ said Zakzak. ‘Throwing magic about. Talking back and being smart at me. The usual stuff.’

Brian looked at Tiffany. She smiled.

‘Brian’s been to Unseen University,’ said Zakzak with a ‘so there’ smirk. ‘Got a degree. What he doesn’t know about magic could fill a book! These ladies need showing the way out, Brian.’

‘Now then, ladies,’ said Brian nervously, putting down his mug. ‘Do what Mr Stronginthearm says and push off, right? We don’t want trouble, do we? Go on, there’s good kids.’

‘Why do you need a wizard to protect you, with all these magical amulets around the place, Mr Stronginthearm?’ said Tiffany sweetly.

Zakzak turned to Brian. ‘What’re you standing there for?’ he demanded. ‘She’s doing it again! I pay you, don’t I? Put a ‘fluence on ‘em, or something!’

‘Well, er… that one could be a bit of an awkward customer…’ Brian said, nodding towards Tiffany.

‘If you studied wizardry, Brian, then you know about conservation of mass, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I mean, you know what really happens when you try to turn someone into a frog?’

‘Well, er…’ the wizard began.

‘Ha! That’s just a figure of speech!’ snapped Zakzak. ‘I’d like to see you turn someone into a frog!’

‘Wish granted,’ said Tiffany, and waved the wand.

Brian started to say, ‘Look, when I said I’d been to Unseen University I meant—’

But he ended up saying, ‘Erk.’

Take the eye away from Tiffany, up through the shop, high, high about the village until the landscape spreads out in a patchwork of field, woods and mountains.

The magic spreads out like the ripples made when a stone is dropped in water. Within a few miles of the place it makes shambles spin and breaks the threads of curse-nets. As the ripples widen the magic gets fainter, although it never dies, and still can be felt by things far more sensitive than any shamble…

Let the eye move and fall now on this wood, this clearing, this cottage…

There is nothing on the walls but whitewash, nothing on the floor but cold stone. The huge fireplace doesn’t even have a cooking stove. A black tea kettle hangs on a black hook over what can hardly be called a fire at all; it’s just a few little sticks huddling together.

This is the house of a life peeled to the core.

Upstairs, an old woman, all in faded black, is lying on a narrow bed. But you wouldn’t think she was dead, because there is a big card on a string around her neck which reads:

…and you have to believe it when it’s written down like that.

Her eyes are shut, her hands are crossed on her chest, her mouth is open.

And bees crawl into her mouth, and over her ears, and all over her pillow. They fill the room, flying in and out of the open window, where someone has put a row of saucers filled with sugary water on the sill.

None of the saucers match, of course. A witch never has matching crockery. But the bees work on, coming and going… busy as bees.

When the ripple of magic passes through, the buzz rises to a roar. Bees pour in though the window urgently, as though driven by a gale. They land on the still old woman until her head and shoulders are a boiling mass of tiny brown bodies.

And then, as one insect, they rise in a storm and pour away into the outside air, which is full of whirling seeds from the sycamore trees outside.

Mistress Weatherwax sat bolt upright and said: ‘Bzzzt!’ Then she stuck a finger into her mouth, rootled around a bit and pulled out a struggling bee. She blew on it and shooed it out of the window.

For a moment her eyes seemed to have many facets, just like a bee.

‘So,’ she said. ‘She’s learned how to Borrow, has she? Or she’s been Borrowed!’

Annagramma fainted. Zakzak stared, too afraid to faint.

‘You see,’ said Tiffany, while something in the air went gloop, gloop above them, ‘a frog weighs only a few ounces but Brian weighs, oh, about a hundred and twenty pounds, yes? So, to turn someone big into a frog you’ve got to find something to do with all the bits you can’t fit into a frog, right?’

She bent down and lifted up the pointy wizard’s hat on the floor.

‘Happy, Brian?’ she said.

A small frog, squatting on a heap of clothes, looked up and said, ‘Erk!’

Zakzak didn’t look at the frog. He was looking at the thing that went gloop, gloop. It was like a large pink balloon full of water, quite pretty really, wobbling gently against the ceiling.

‘You’ve killed him!’ he mumbled.

‘What? Oh, no. That’s just the stuff he doesn’t need right now. It’s sort of… spare Brian.’

‘Erk,’ said Brian. Gloop went the rest of him.

‘About this discount—’ Zakzak began hurriedly. ‘Ten per cent would be—’

Tiffany waved the wand. Behind her, the whole display of crystals rose in the air and began to orbit one another in a glittering and above all fragile way.

‘That wand shouldn’t do that!’ he said.

‘Of course it can’t. It’s rubbish. But I can,’ said Tiffany. ‘Ninety per cent discount, did I hear you say? Think quickly, I’m getting tired. And the spare Brian is getting… heavy.’

‘You can keep it all!’ Zakzak screamed. ‘For free! Just don’t let him splash! Please!’

‘No, no, I’d like you to stay in business,’ said Tiffany. ‘A ninety per cent discount would be fine. I’d like you to think of me as… a friend…’

‘Yes! Yes! I am your friend! I’m a very friendly person! Now please put him baaack! Please!’ Zakzak dropped to his knees, which wasn’t very far. ‘Please! He’s not really a wizard! He just did evening classes there in fretwork! They hire out classrooms, that sort of thing. He thinks I don’t know! But he read a few of the magic books on the quiet and he pinched the robes and he can talk wizard lingo so’s you’d hardly know the difference! Please! I’d never get a real wizard for the money I pay him! Don’t hurt him, please!’

Tiffany waved a hand. There was a moment even more unpleasant than the one which had ended up with the spare Brian bumping against the ceiling, and then the whole Brian stood there, blinking.

‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’ gasped Zakzak.

Brian blinked. ‘What just happened?’ he said.

Zakzak, beside himself with horror and relief, patted him frantically. ‘You’re all there?’ he said. ‘You’re not a balloon?’

‘Here, get off!’ said Brian, pushing him away.

There was a groan from Annagramma. She opened her eyes, saw Tiffany and tried to scramble to her feet and back away, which meant that she went backwards like a spider.

‘Please don’t do that to me! Please don’t!’ she shouted.

Tiffany ran after her and pulled her to her feet. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to you, Annagramma,’ she said happily. ‘You’re my friend! We’re all friends! Isn’t that nice please please stop me…’

You had to remember that pictsies weren’t brownies. In theory, brownies would do the housework for you if you left them a saucer of milk.

The Nac Mac Feegle… wouldn’t.

Oh, they’d try, if they liked you and you didn’t insult them with milk in the saucer. They were helpful. They just weren’t good at it. For example, you shouldn’t try to remove a stubborn stain from a plate by repeatedly hitting it with your head.

And you didn’t want to see a sink full of them and your best china. Or a precious pot rolling backwards and forwards across the floor while the Feegles inside simultaneously fought the ground-in dirt and each other.

But Miss Level, once she’d got the better china out of the way, found she rather liked the Feegles. There was something unsquashable about them. And they were entirely unamazed by a woman with two bodies, too.

‘Ach, that’s nothin’,’ Rob Anybody had said. ‘When we wuz raidin’ for the Quin, we once found a world where there wuz people wi’ five bodies each. All sizes, ye ken, for doin’ a’ kinds of jobs.’

‘Really?’ said both of Miss Level.

‘Aye, and the biggest body had a huge left hand, just for openin’ pickle jars.’

‘Those lids can get very tight, it’s true,’ Miss Level had agreed.

‘Oh, we saw some muckle eldritch places when we wuz raiding for the Quin,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘But we gave that up for she wuz a schemin’, greedy, ill-fared carlin, that she was!’

‘Aye, and it wuz no’ because she threw us oot o’ Fairyland for being completely pished at two in the afternoon, whatever any scunner might mphf mphf…’ said Daft Wullie.

‘Pished?’ said Miss Level.

‘Aye… oh, aye, it means… tired. Aye. Tired. That’s whut it means,’ said Rob Anybody, holding his hands firmly over his brother’s mouth. ‘An’ ye dinnae ken how to talk in front o’ a lady, yah shammerin’ wee scunner!’

‘Er… thank you for doing the washing up,’ said Miss Level. ‘You really didn’t need to…’

‘Ach, it wasnae any trouble,’ said Rob Anybody cheerfully, letting Daft Wullie go. ‘An’ I’m sure all them plates an’ stuff will mend fine wi’ a bit o’ glue.’

Miss Level looked up at the clock with no hands. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said. ‘What exactly is it you propose to do, Mr Anybody?’

‘Whut?’

‘Do you have a plan?’

‘Oh, aye!’

Rob Anybody rummaged around in his spog, which is a leather bag most Feegles have hanging from their belt. The contents are usually a mystery, but sometimes include interesting teeth.

He flourished a much-folded piece of paper.

Miss Level carefully unfolded it.

‘ “PLN”?’ she said.

‘Aye,’ said Rob proudly. ‘We came prepared! Look, it’s written doon. Pee El Ner. Plan.’

‘Er… how can I put this… ?’ Miss Level mused. ‘Ah, yes. You came rushing all this way to save Tiffany from a creature that can’t be seen, touched, smelled or killed. What did you intend to do when you found it?’

Rob Anybody scratched his head, to a general shower of objects.

‘I think mebbe you’ve put yer finger on the one weak spot, mistress,’ he admitted.

‘Do you mean you charge in regardless?’

‘Oh, aye. That’s the plan, sure enough,’ said Rob Anybody, brightening up.

‘And then what happens?’

‘Weel, gen’raly people are tryin’ tae wallop us by then, so we just mak’ it up as we gae along.’

‘Yes, Robert, but the creature is inside her head!’

Rob Anybody gave Billy a questioning look.

‘Robert is a heich-heidit way o’ sayin’ Rob,’ said the gonnagle, and to save time he said to Miss Level: ‘That means kinda posh.’

‘Ach, we can get inside her heid, if we have to,’ said Rob. ‘I’d hoped tae get here afore the thing got to her, but we can chase it.’

Miss Level’s face was a picture. Two pictures.

‘Inside her head?’ she said.

‘Oh, aye,’ said Rob, as if that sort of thing happened every day. ‘No problemo. We can get in or oot o’ anywhere. Except maybe pubs, which for some reason we ha’ trouble leavin’. A heid? Easy.’

‘Sorry, we’re talking about a real head here, are we?’ said Miss Level, horrified. ‘What do you do, go in through the ears?’

Once again, Rob stared at Billy, who looked puzzled.

‘No, mistress. They’d be too small,’ he said, patiently. ‘But we can move between worlds, ye ken. We’re fairy folk.’

Miss Level nodded both heads. It was true, but it was hard to look at the assembled ranks of the Nac Mac Feegle and remember that they were, technically, fairies. It was like watching penguins swimming underwater and having to remember that they were birds.

‘And?’ she said.

‘We can get intae dreams, ye see… And what’s a mind but another world o’ dreamin’?’

‘No, I must forbid that!’ said Miss Level. ‘I can’t have you running around inside a young girl’s head! I mean, look at you! You’re fully-grow… well, you’re men! It’d be like, like… well, it’d be like you looking at her diary!’

Rob Anybody looked puzzled. ‘Oh, aye?’ he said. ‘We looked at her diary loads o’ times. Nae harm done.’

‘You looked at her diary?’ said Miss Level, horrified. ‘Why?’

Really, she thought later, she should have expected the answer.

‘ ‘Cuz it wuz locked,’ said Daft Wullie. ‘If she didnae want anyone tae look at it, why’d she keep it at the back o’ her sock drawer? Anyway, all there wuz wuz a load o’ words we couldnae unnerstan’ an’ wee drawings o’ hearts and flowers an’ that.’

‘Hearts? Tiffany?’ said Miss Level. ‘Really?’ She shook herself. ‘But you shouldn’t have done that! And going into someone’s mind is even worse!’

‘The hiver is in there, mistress,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy meekly.

‘But you said you can’t do anything about it!’

‘She might. If we can track her doon,’ said the gonnagle. ‘If we can find the wee bitty bit o’ her that’s still her. She’s a bonny fighter when she’s roused. Ye see, mistress, a mind’s like a world itself. She’ll be hidin’ in it somewhere, lookin’ oot through her own eyes, listenin’ wi’ her own ears, tryin’ to make people hear, tryin’ no’ to let yon beast find her… and it’ll be hunting her all the time, trying tae break her doon…’

Miss Level began to look hunted herself. Fifty small faces, full of worry and hope and broken noses, looked up at her. And she knew she didn’t have a better plan. Or even a PLN.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘But at least you ought to have a bath. I know that’s silly, but it will make me feel better about the whole thing.’

There was a general groan.

‘A bath? But we a’ had one no’ a year ago,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Up at the big dew pond for the ships!’

‘Ach, crivens!’ said Big Yan. ‘Ye cannae ask a man tae take a bath again this soon, mistress! There’ll be nothin’ left o’ us!’

‘With hot water and soap!’ said Miss Level. ‘I mean it! I’ll run the water and I… I’ll put some rope over the edge so you can climb in and out, but you will get clean. I’m a wi—a hag, and you’d better do what I say!’

‘Oh, all reet!’ said Rob. ‘We’ll do it for the big wee hag. But ye’re no’ tae peek, OK?’

‘Peek?’ said Miss Level. She pointed a trembling finger. ‘Get into that bathroom now!’

Miss Level did, however, listen at the door. It’s the sort of thing a witch does.

There was nothing to hear at first but the gentle splash of water, and then:

‘This is no’ as bad as I thought!’

‘Aye, very pleasiri.’

‘Hey, there’s a big yellow duck here. Who’re ye pointin’ that beak at, yer scunner–’

There was a wet quack and some bubbling noises as the rubber duck sank.

‘Rob, we oughtae get one o’ these put in back in the mound. Verra warmin’ in the winter time.’

‘Aye, it’s no’ that good for the ship, havin’ tae drink oot o’ that pond after we’ve been bathin’. It’s terrible, hearin’ a ship try tae spit.’

‘Ach, it’ll make us softies! It’s nae a guid wash if ye dinnae ha’ the ice formin’ on yer heid!’

‘Who’re you callin’ a softie?’

There followed a lot more splashing and water started to seep under the door.

Miss Level knocked. ‘Come on out now, and dry yourselves off!’ she commanded. ‘She could be back at any minute!’

In fact it wasn’t for another two hours, by which time Miss Level had got so nervous that her necklaces jingled all the time.

She’d come to witching later than most, being naturally qualified by reason of the two bodies, but she’d never been very happy about magic. In truth, most witches could get through their whole life without having to do serious, undeniable magic (making shambles and curse-nets and dreamcatchers didn’t really count, being rather more like arts-and-crafts, and most of the rest of it was practical medicine, common sense and the ability to look stern in a pointy hat). But being a witch and wearing the big black hat was like being a policeman. People saw the uniform, not you. When the mad axeman was running down the street you weren’t allowed to back away muttering, ‘Could you find someone else? Actually, I mostly just do, you know, stray dogs and road safety…’ You were there, you had the hat, you did the job. That was a basic rule of witchery: It’s up to you.

She was two bags of nerves when Tiffany arrived back, and stood side by side holding hands with herself to give herself confidence.

‘Where have you been, dear?’

‘Out,’ said Tiffany.

‘And what have you been doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I see you’ve been shopping.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who with?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Miss Level trilled, completely adrift. ‘I remember when I used to go out and do nothing. Sometimes you can be your own worst company. Believe me, I know—’

But Tiffany had already swept upstairs.

Without anyone actually seeming to move, Feegles started to appear everywhere in the room.

‘Well, that could ha’ gone better,’ said Rob Anybody.

‘She looked so different!’ Miss Level burst out. ‘She moved differently! I just didn’t know what to do! And those clothes!’

‘Aye. Sparklin’ like a young raven,’ said Rob.

‘Did you see all those bags? Where could she have got the money? ‘I certainly don’t have that kind of—’

She stopped, and both of Miss Level spoke at once.

‘Oh, no—’

‘—surely not! She wouldn’t—’

‘—have, would she?’

‘I dinnae ken whut ye’re talkin’ aboot,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy, ‘but whut she would dae isnae the point. That’s the hiver doin’ the thinkin’!’

Miss Level clasped all four hands together in distress. ‘Oh dear… I must go down to the village and check!’

One of her ran towards the door.

‘Well, at least she’s brought the broomstick back,’ muttered the Miss Level who stayed. She started to wear the slightly unfocused expression she got when both her bodies weren’t in the same place.

They could hear noises from upstairs.

‘I vote we just tap her gently on the heid,’ said Big Yan. ‘It cannae give us any trouble if it’s gone sleepies, aye?’

Miss Level clenched and unclenched her fists nervously. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll go up there and have a serious talk with her!’

‘I told yez, mistress, it’s not her,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy, wearily.

‘Well, at least I’ll wait until I’ve visited Mr Weavall,’ said Miss Level, standing in her kitchen. I’m nearly there… ah… he’s asleep. I’ll just eease the box out quietly… if she’s taken his money I’m going to be so angry—’

It was a good hat, Tiffany thought. It was at least as tall as Mrs Earwig’s hat, and it shone darkly. The stars gleamed.

The other packages covered the floor and the bed. She pulled out another one of the black dresses, the one covered in lace, and the cloak, which spread out in the air. She really liked the cloak. In anything but a complete dead calm, it floated and billowed as if whipped by a gale. If you were going to be a witch, you had to start by looking like one.

She twirled in it once or twice, and then said something without thinking, so that the hiver part of her was caught unawares.

‘See me.’

The hiver was suddenly thrust outside her body, Tiffany was free. She hadn’t expected it…

She felt herself to the tips of her fingers. She dived towards the bed, grabbed one of Zakzak’s best wands and waved it desperately in front of her like a weapon.

‘You stay out!’ she said. ‘Stay away! It’s my body, not yours! You’ve made it do dreadful things! You stole Mr Weavall’s money! Look at these stupid clothes! And don’t you know about eating and drinking? You stay away! You’re not coming back! Don’t you dare! I’ve got power, you know!’

So have we, said her own voice, in her own head. Yours.

They fought. A watcher would have seen only a girl in a black dress, spinning around the room and flailing her arms as if she’d been stung, but Tiffany fought for every toe, every finger. She bounced off a wall, banged against the chest of drawers, slammed into another wall—

–and the door was flung open.

One of Miss Level was there, no longer nervous, but trembling with rage. She pointed a shaking finger.

‘Listen to me, whoever you are! Did you steal Mr Weav—?’ she began.

The hiver turned.

The hiver struck.

The hiver… killed.