A Hat Full Of Sky

wives, because that would be bigamy, would it not?” said Jeannie, her voice dangerously sweet.
    “Ach, it wasna that big,” said Rob Anybody, desperately looking around for a way of escape. “And it wuz only temp’ry, an’ she’s but a lass, an’ she wuz good at thinkin’—”
    “ I’m good at thinking, Rob Anybody, and I am the kelda o’ this clan, am I no’? There can only be one, is that not so? And I am thinking that there will be no more chasin’ after this big wee girl. Shame on ye, anyway. She’ll no’ want the like o’ Big Yan a-gawpin’ at her all the time, I’m sure.”
    Rob Anybody hung his head.
    “Aye…but,” he said.
    “But what?”
    “A hiver’s chasin’ the puir wee lass.”
    There was a long pause before Jeannie said, “Are ye sure?”
    “Aye, kelda,” said Big Yan. “Once you hear that buzzin’, ye never forget it.”
    Jeannie bit her lip. Then, looking a little pale, she said, “Ye said she’s got the makin’s o’ a powerful hag, Rob?”
    “Aye, but nae one in his’try has survived a hiver! Ye canna kill it, ye canna stop it, ye canna—”
    “But wuz ye no’ tellin’ me how the big wee girl even fought the Quin and won?” said Jeannie. “Wanged her wi’ a skillet, ye said. That means she’s good, aye? If she is a true hag, she’ll find a way hersel’. We all ha’ to dree our weird. Whatever’s out there, she’s got to face it. If she canna, she’s no true hag.”
    “Aye, but a hiver’s worse than—” Rob began.
    “She’s off to learn hagglin’ from other hags,” said Jeannie. “An’ I must learn keldarin’ all by myself. Ye must hope she learns as fast as me, Rob Anybody.”

CHAPTER 2
    Twoshirts and Two Noses
    T woshirts was just a bend in the road with a name. There was nothing there but an inn for the coaches, a blacksmith’s shop, and a small store with the word SOUVENIRS written optimistically on a scrap of cardboard in the window. And that was it. Around the place, separated by fields and scraps of woodland, were the houses of people for whom Twoshirts was, presumably, the big city. Every world is full of places like Twoshirts. They are places for people to come from, not go to.
    It sat and baked silently in the hot afternoon sunlight. Right in the middle of the road an elderly spaniel, mottled brown and white, dozed in the dust.
    Twoshirts was bigger than the village back home, and Tiffany had never seen souvenirs before. She went into the store and spent half a penny on a small wood carving of two shirts on a washing line, and two postcards entitled “View of Twoshirts,” which showed the souvenir shop and what was quite probably the same dog sleeping in the road. The little old lady behind the counter called her “young lady” and said that Twoshirts was very popular later in the year, when people came from up to a mile around for the Cabbage Macerating Festival.
    When Tiffany came out, she found Miss Tick standing next to the sleeping dog, frowning back the way they’d come.
    “Is there something the matter?” said Tiffany.
    “What?” said Miss Tick, as if she’d forgotten that Tiffany existed. “Oh…no. I just…I thought I…look, shall we go and have something to eat?”
    It took a while to find someone in the inn, but Miss Tick wandered into the kitchens and found a woman who promised them some scones and a cup of tea. She was actually quite surprised she’d promised that, since she hadn’t intended to, it strictly speaking being her afternoon free until the coach came, but Miss Tick had a way of asking questions that got the answers she wanted.
    Miss Tick also asked for a fresh egg, not cooked, in its shell. Witches were also good at asking questions that weren’t followed by the other person saying, “Why?”
    They sat and ate in the sun, on the bench outside the inn. Then Tiffany took out her diary.
    She had one in the dairy too, but that was for cheese and butter records. This one was personal. She’d bought it off a peddler, cheap, because it was last year’s. But, as he said, it had the same number of days.
    It also had a lock, a little brass thing on a leather flap. It had its own tiny key. It was the lock that had attracted Tiffany. At a certain age you see the point of locks.
    She wrote down “Twoshirts,” and spent some time thinking before adding “a bend in the road.”
    Miss Tick kept staring at the road.
    “Is there something wrong, Miss Tick?” Tiffany asked again, looking