A Hat Full Of Sky

said the passenger as the carter’s wagon caught up to them.
    “Stop! Stop, for pity’s sake, stop !” yelled the carter as he sailed past.
    But there was no stopping Henry. He’d spent years pulling the carrier’s cart around the villages, very slowly, and he’d always had this idea in his big horse head that he was cut out for faster things. He’d plodded along, being overtaken by coaches and carts and three-legged dogs, and now he was having the time of his life.
    Besides, the cart was a lot lighter than usual, and the road was slightly downhill here. All he was really having to do was gallop fast enough to stay in front. And finally he’d nearly overtaken the stagecoach. Him, Henry!
    He only stopped because the stagecoach driver stopped first. Besides, the blood was pumping through Henry now, and there were a couple of mares in the team of horses pulling the coach who he felt he’d really like to get to know—find out when was their day off, what kind of hay they liked, that kind of thing.
    The carter, white in the face, got down carefully and then lay on the ground and held on tight to the dirt.
    His one passenger, who looked to the coach driver like some sort of scarecrow, climbed unsteadily down from the back and lurched toward the coach.
    “I’m sorry, we’re full up,” the driver lied. They weren’t full, but there was certainly no room for a thing that looked like that.
    “Ach, and there wuz me willin’ to pay wi’ gold,” said the creature. “Gold such as this here,” it added, waving a ragged glove in the air.
    Suddenly there was plenty of space for an eccentric millionaire. Within a few seconds he was seated inside, and to the annoyance of Henry, the coach set off again.

    Outside Miss Level’s cottage a broomstick was heading through the trees. A young witch—or at least, someone dressed as a witch; it never paid to jump to conclusions—was sitting on it sidesaddle.
    She wasn’t flying it very well. It jerked sometimes, and it was clear the girl was no good at making it turn corners, because sometimes she stopped, jumped off, and pointed the stick in a new direction by hand. When she reached the garden gate, she got off again quickly and tethered the stick to it with string.
    “Nicely done, Petulia!” said Miss Level, clapping with all four hands. “You’re getting quite good!”
    “Um, thank you, Miss Level,” said the girl, bowing. She stayed bowed, and said, “Um, oh dear…”
    Half of Miss Level stepped forward.
    “Oh, I can see the problem,” she said, peering down. “Your amulet with the little owls on it is tangled up with your necklace of silver bats, and they’ve both got caught around a button. Just hold still, will you?”
    “Um, I’ve come to see if your new girl would like come to the sabbat tonight,” said the bent Petulia, her voice a bit muffled.
    Tiffany couldn’t help noticing that Petulia had jewelry everywhere; later she found that it was hard to be around Petulia for any length of time without having to unhook a bangle from a necklace or, once, an earring from an ankle bracelet (nobody ever found out how that one happened). Petulia couldn’t resist occult jewelry. Most of the stuff was to magically protect her from things, but she hadn’t found anything to protect her from looking a bit silly.
    She was short and plump and permanently red-faced and slightly worried.
    “Sabbat? Oh, one of your meetings,” said Miss Level. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Tiffany?”
    “Yes?” said Tiffany, not quite sure yet.
    “Some of the girls meet up in the woods in the evenings,” said Miss Level. “For some reason the craft is getting popular again. That’s very welcome, of course.”
    She said it as if she wasn’t quite sure. Then she added: “Petulia here works for Old Mother Blackcap, over in Sidling Without. Specializes in animals. Very good woman with pig diseases. I mean, with pigs that’ve got diseases, I don’t mean she has pig diseases. It’ll be nice for you to have friends here. Why don’t you go? There, everything’s unhooked.”
    Petulia stood up and gave Tiffany a worried smile.
    “Um, Petulia Gristle,” she said, holding out a hand.
    “Tiffany Aching,” said Tiffany, shaking it gingerly in case the sound of all the bangles and bracelets jangling together deafened everyone.
    “Um, you can ride with me on the broomstick, if you like,” said Petulia.
    “I’d rather not,” said Tiffany. Petulia looked relieved