‘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. 1 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 orna-
mentation. 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:
Lovely to look at
Nice to hold
If you drop it
You get torn apart by wild horses
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