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. ‘Urn . . . 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:
I Ain’t Dead
. . . 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