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, pleaseV
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 no thin’,’ 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’