Yes. I am. There’s part of me still in it. I might be able to do something—

  But aren’t you just ever so slightly glad that Mistress Weatherwax and Miss Level won the argument and now you’re going off very bravely but you happen to be accompanied, completely against your will, by the most powerful witch alive?

  Tiffany sighed. It was dreadful when your own thoughts tried to gang up on you.

  The Feegles hadn’t objected to her going to find the hiver. They did object to not being allowed to come with her. They’d been insulted, she knew. But, as Mistress Weatherwax had said, this was true haggling and there was no place in it for Feegles. If the hiver came, out there, not in a dream but for real, it’d have nothing about it that could be kicked or head-butted.

  Tiffany had tried to make a little speech, thanking them for their help, but Rob Anybody had folded his arms and turned his back. It had all gone wrong. But the old witch had been right. They could get hurt. The trouble was, explaining to a Feegle how dangerous things were going to be only got them more enthusiastic.

  She left them arguing with one another. It had not gone well.

  But now that was all behind her, in more ways that one. The trees beside the track were less bushy and more pointy or, if Tiffany had known more about trees, she would have said that the oaks were giving way to evergreens.

  She could feel the hiver. It was following them, but a long way back.

  If you had to imagine a head witch, you wouldn’t imagine Mistress Weatherwax. You might imagine Mrs Earwig, who glided across the floor as though she was on wheels, and had a dress as black as the darkness in a deep cellar, but Mistress Weatherwax was just an old woman with a lined face and rough hands in a dress as black as night, which is never as black as people think. It was dusty and ragged round the hem, too.

  On the other hand, thought her Second Thoughts, you once bought Granny Aching a china shepherdess, remember? All blue and white and sparkly?

  Her First Thoughts thought: Well, yes, but I was a lot younger then.

  Her Second Thoughts thought: Yes, but which one was the real shepherdess? The shiny lady in the nice clean dress and buckled shoes, or the old woman who stumped around in the snow with boots filled with straw and a sack across her shoulders?

  At which point, Mistress Weatherwax stumbled. She caught her balance very quickly.

  ‘Dangerously loose stones on this path,’ she said. ‘Watch out for them.’

  Tiffany looked down. There weren’t that many stones and they didn’t seem very dangerous or particularly loose.

  How old was Mistress Weatherwax? That was another question she wished she hadn’t asked. She was skinny and wiry, just like Granny Aching, the kind of person who goes on and on—but one day Granny Aching had gone to bed and had never got up again, just like that…

  The sun was setting. Tiffany could feel the hiver in the same way that you can sense that someone is looking at you. It was still in the woods that hugged the mountain like a scarf.

  At last the witch stopped at a spot where rocks like pillars sprouted out of the turf. She sat down with her back to a big rock.

  ‘This’ll have to do,’ she said. ‘It’ll be dark soon and you could turn an ankle on all this loose stone.’

  There were huge boulders around them, house-sized, which had rolled down from the mountains in the past. The rock of the peaks began not far away, a wall of stone that seemed to hang above Tiffany like a wave. It was a desolate place. Every sound echoed.

  She sat down by Mistress Weatherwax and opened the bag that Miss Level had packed for the journey.

  Tiffany wasn’t very experienced at things like this but, according to the book of fairy tales, the typical food for taking on an adventure was bread and cheese. Hard cheese, too.

  Miss Level had made them ham sandwiches, with pickles, and she’d included napkins. That was kind of a strange thought to keep in your head: We’re trying to find a way of killing a terrible creature, but at least we won’t be covered in crumbs.

  There was a bottle of cold tea, too, and a bag of biscuits. Miss Level knew Mistress Weatherwax.

  ‘Shouldn’t we light a fire?’ Tiffany suggested.

  ‘Why? It’s a long way down to the tree line to get the firewood, and there’ll be a fine half-moon up in twenty minutes. Your friend’s keeping his distance and there nothing else that’ll attack us up here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I walk safely in my mountains,’ said Mistress Weatherwax.

  ‘But aren’t there trolls and wolves and things?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Lots.’

  ‘And they don’t try to attack you?’

  ‘Not any more,’ said a self-satisfied voice in the dark. ‘Pass me the biscuits, will you?’

  ‘Here you are. Would you like some pickles?’

  ‘Pickles gives me the wind something awful.’

  ‘In that case—’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t saying no,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, taking two large pickled cucumbers.

  Oh, good, Tiffany thought.

  She’d brought three fresh eggs with her. Getting the hang of a shamble was taking too long. It was stupid. All the other girls were able to use them. She was sure she was doing everything right.

  She’d filled her pocket with random things. Now she pulled them out without looking, wove the thread around the egg like she’d done a hundred times before, grasped the pieces of wood and moved them so that…

  Poc!

  The egg cracked, and oozed.

  ‘I told you,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, who’d opened one eye. ‘They’re toys. Sticks and stones.’

  ‘Have you ever used one?’ said Tiffany.

  ‘No. Couldn’t get the hang of them. They got in the way.’ Mistress Weatherwax yawned, wrapped the blanket around her, made a couple of mnup, mnup noises as she tried to get comfortable against the rock and, after a while, her breathing became deeper.

  Tiffany waited in silence, her blanket around her, until the moon came up. She’d expected that to make things better, but it didn’t. Before, there had just been darkness. Now there were shadows.

  There was a snore beside her. It was one of those good solid ones, like ripping canvas.

  Silence happened. It came across the night on silver wings, noiseless as the fall of a feather, silence made into a bird, which alighted on a rock close by. It swivelled its head to look at Tiffany.

  There was more than just the curiosity of a bird in that look.

  The old woman snored again. Tiffany reached out, still staring at the owl, and shook her gently. When that didn’t work, she shook her hardly.

  There was a sound like three pigs colliding and Mistress Weatherwax opened one eye and said, ‘Whoo?’

  ‘There’s an owl watching us! It’s right up close!’

  Suddenly the owl blinked, looked at Tiffany as if amazed to see her, spread its wings and glided off into the night.

  Mistress Weatherwax gripped her throat, coughed once or twice, and then said hoarsely, ‘Of course it was an owl, child! It took me ten minutes to lure it this close! Now just you be quiet while I starts again, otherwise I shall have to make do with a bat, and when I goes out on a bat for any time at all I ends up thinkin’ I can see with my ears, which is no way for a decent woman to behave!’

  ‘But you were snoring!’

  ‘I was not snoring! I was just resting gently while I tickled an owl closer! If you hadn’t shaken me and scared it away, I’d have been up there with this entire moor under my eye.’

  ‘You… take over its mind?’ said Tiffany nervously.

  ‘No! I’m not one of your hivers! I just… borrows a lift from it, I just… nudges it now and again, it don’t even know I’m there. Now try to rest!’

  ‘But what if the hiver—?’

  ‘If it comes anywhere near it’ll be me that tells you!’ Mistress Weatherwax hissed, and lay back. Then her head jerked up one more time. ‘And I do not snore!’ she added.

  After half a minute, she started to snore again.

  Minutes after that the owl came back, or perhaps it was a different owl. It glided onto the same rock, settled there for a while and then sped away. The witch stopped snoring. In fact, she stopped breathing.

  Tiffany leaned closer and finally lowered an ear to the skinny chest to see if there was a heartbeat.

  Her own heart felt as if it was clenched like a fist—

  –because of the day she’d found Granny Aching in the hut. She was lying peacefully on the narrow iron bed, but Tiffany had known something was wrong as soon as she had stepped inside–

  Boom.

  Tiffany counted to three.

  Boom.

  Well, it was a heartbeat.

  Very slowly, like a twig growing, a stiff hand moved. It slid like a glacier into a pocket, and came up holding a large piece of card on which was written:

  I ATEN’T

  DEAD

  Tiffany decided she wasn’t going to argue. But she pulled the blanket over the old woman and wrapped her own around herself.

  By moonlight, she tried again with her shamble.

  Surely she should be able to make it do something. Maybe if—

  By moonlight, she very, very carefully—

  Poc!

  The egg cracked. The egg always cracked, and now there was only one left. Tiffany didn’t dare try it with a beetle, even if she could find one. It would be too cruel.

  She sat back and looked across the landscape of silver and black, and her Third Thoughts thought: It’s not going to come near.

  Why?

  She thought, I’m not sure why I know. But I know. It’s keeping away. It knows Mistress Weatherwax is with me.

  She thought: How can it know that? It’s not got a mind. It doesn’t know what a Mistress Weatherwax is!

  Still thinking, thought her Third Thoughts.

  Tiffany slumped against the rock.

  Sometimes her head was too… crowded…

  And then it was morning, and sunlight, and dew on her hair, and mist coming off the ground like smoke… and an eagle sitting on the rock where the owl had been, eating something furry. She could see every feather on its wing.

  It swallowed, glared at Tiffany with its mad bird eyes and flapped away, making the mist swirl.

  Beside her, Mistress Weatherwax began to snore again, which Tiffany took to mean that she was in her body. She gave the old woman a nudge, and the sound that had been a regular gnaaaargrgrgrgrg suddenly became blort.

  The old woman sat up, coughing, and waved a hand irritably at Tiffany to pass her the tea bottle. She didn’t speak until she’d gulped half of it.

  ‘Ah, say what you like, but rabbit tastes a lot better cooked,’ she gasped, shoving the cork back in. ‘And without the fur on!’

  ‘You took—borrowed the eagle?’ said Tiffany.

  ‘O’course. I couldn’t expect the poor ol’ owl to fly around after daybreak, just to see who’s about. It was hunting voles all night and, believe me, raw rabbit’s better’n voles. Don’t eat voles.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Tiffany, and meant it. ‘Mistress Weatherwax, I think I know what the hiver’s doing. It’s thinking.’

  ‘I thought it had no brains!’

  Tiffany let her thoughts speak for themselves.

  ‘But there’s an echo of me in it, isn’t there? There must be. It has an echo of everyone it’s… been. There must be a bit of me in it. I know it’s out there, and it knows I’m here with you. And it’s keeping away.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that, then?’

  ‘Because it’s frightened of you, I think.’

  ‘Huh! And why’s that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany simply. ‘It’s because I am. A bit.’

  ‘Oh dear. Are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany again. ‘It’s like a dog that’s been beaten but won’t run away. It doesn’t understand what it’s done wrong. But… there’s something about it that… there’s a thought that I’m nearly having…’

  Mistress Weatherwax said nothing. Her face went blank.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Tiffany.

  ‘I was just leavin’ you time to have that thought,’ said Mistress Weatherwax.

  ‘Sorry. It’s gone now. But… we’re thinking about the hiver in the wrong way.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And why’s that?’

  ‘Because…’ Tiffany struggled with the idea. ‘I think it’s because we don’t want to think about it the right way. It’s something to do with… the third wish. And I don’t know what that means.’

  The witch said, ‘Keep picking at that thought,’ and then looked up and added, ‘We’ve got company.’

  It took Tiffany several seconds to spot what Mistress Weatherwax had seen—a shape at the edge of the woods, small and dark. It was coming closer, but rather uncertainly.

  It resolved itself into the figure of Petulia, flying slowly and nervously a few feet above the heather. Sometimes she jumped down and wrenched the stick in a slightly different direction.

  She got off again when she reached Tiffany and Mistress Weatherwax, grabbed the broom hastily and aimed it at a big rock. It hit it gently and hung there, trying to fly through stone.

  ‘Um, sorry,’ she panted. ‘But I can’t always stop it, and this is better than having an anchor… Um.’

  She started to bob a curtsy to Mistress Weatherwax, remembered she was a witch and tried to turn it into a bow halfway down, which was an event you’d pay money to see. She ended up bent double, and from somewhere in there came the little voice, ‘Um, can someone help, please? I think my Octogram of Trimontane has got caught up on my Pouch of Nine Herbs…’

  There was a tricky minute while they untangled her, with Mistress Weatherwax muttering ‘Toys, just toys’ as they unhooked bangles and necklaces.

  Petulia stood upright, red in the face. She saw Mistress Weatherwax’s expression, whipped off her pointy hat and held it in front on her. This was a mark of respect, but it did mean that a two-foot, sharp, pointy thing was being aimed at them.

  ‘Um… I went to see Miss Level and she said you’d come up here after some horrible thing,’ she said. ‘Um… so I thought I’d better see how you were.’

  ‘Um… that was very kind of you,’ said Tiffany, but her treacherous Second Thoughts thought: And what would you have done if it had attacked us? She had a momentary picture of Petulia standing in front of some horrible raging thing, but it wasn’t as funny as she’d first thought. Petulia would stand in front of it, shaking with terror, her useless amulets clattering, scared almost out of her mind… but not backing away. She’d thought there might be people facing something horrible here, and she’d come anyway.

  ‘What’s your name, my girl?’ said Mistress Weatherwax.

  ‘Um, Petulia Gristle, mistress. I’m learning with Gwinifer Blackcap.’

  ‘Old Mother Blackcap?’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Very sound. A good woman with pigs. You did well to come here.’

  Petulia looked nervously at Tiffany. ‘Um, are you all right? Miss Level said you’d been… ill.’

  ‘I’m much better now, but thank you very much for asking, anyway,’ said Tiffany wretchedly. ‘Look, I’m sorry about—’

  ‘Well, you were ill,’ said Petulia.

  And that was another thing about Petulia. She always wanted to think the best of everybody. This was sort of worrying if you knew that the person she was doing her best to think nice thoughts about was you.

  ‘Are you going to go back to the cottage before the Trials?’ Petulia went on.

  ‘Trials?’ said Tiffany, suddenly lost.

  ‘The Witch Trials,’ said Mistress Weatherwax.

  ‘Today,’ said Petulia.

  ‘I’d forgotten all about them!’ said Tiffany.

  ‘I hadn’t,’ said the old witch calmly. ‘I never miss a Trial. Never missed a Trial in sixty years. Would you do a poor old lady a favour, Miss Gristle, and ride that stick of yours back to Miss Level’s place and tell her that Mistress Weatherwax presents her compliments and intends to head directly to the Trials. Was she well?’

  ‘Um, she was juggling balls without using her hands!’ said Petulia in wonderment. ‘And, d’you know what? I saw a fairy in her garden! A blue one!’

  ‘Really?’ said Tiffany, her heart sinking.

  ‘Yes! It was rather scruffy, though. And when I asked it if it really was a fairy, it said it was… um… “the big stinky horrible spiky iron stinging nettle fairy from the Land o’ Tinkle”, and called me a “scunner”. Do you know what that means?’

  Tiffany looked into that round, hopeful face. She opened her mouth to say, ‘It means someone who likes fairies,’ but stopped in time. That just wouldn’t be fair. She sighed.

  ‘Petulia, you saw a Nac Mac Feegle,’ she said. ‘It is a kind of fairy, but they’re not the sweet kind. I’m sorry. They’re good… well, more or less… but they’re not entirely nice. And “scunner” is a kind of swearword. I don’t think it’s a particularly bad one though.’

  Petulia’s expression didn’t change for a while. Then she said: ‘So it was a fairy, then?’

  ‘Well, yes. Technically.’

  The round pink face smiled. ‘Good, I did wonder, because it was, um, you know… having a wee up against one of Miss Level’s garden gnomes?’

  ‘Definitely a Feegle,’ said Tiffany.

  ‘Oh well, I suppose the big stinky horrible spiky iron stinging nettle needs a fairy, just like every other plant,’ said Petulia.

  Chapter Eleven

  Arthur

  When Petulia had gone, Mistress Weatherwax stamped her feet and said, ‘Let’s go, young lady. It’s about eight miles to Sheercliff. They’ll have started before we get there.’

  ‘What about the hiver?’

  ‘Oh, it can come if it likes.’ Mistress Weatherwax smiled. ‘Oh, don’t frown like that. There’ll be more’n three hundred witches at the Trials, and they’re right out in the country. It’ll be as safe as anything. Or do you want to meet the hiver now? We could probably do that. It don’t seem to move fast.’

  ‘No!’ said Tiffany, louder than she’d intended. ‘No, because… things aren’t what they seem. We’d do things wrong. Er… I can’t explain it. It’s because of the third wish.’