A Hat Full Of Sky

laugh at her. That’s too cruel. She’s just foolish, that’s all. I told you the old woman messes with people’s heads!”
    Tiffany’s First Thoughts were running around in circles. Her Second Thoughts were caught up in the storm. Only her Third Thoughts, which were very weak, came up with: Even though your world is completely and utterly ruined and can never be made better, no matter what, and you’re completely inconsolable, it would be nice if you heard someone bringing some soup upstairs….
    The Third Thoughts got Tiffany off the bed and over to the door, where they guided her hand to slide the bolt back. Then they let her fling herself on the bed again.
    A few minutes later there was a creak of footsteps on the landing. It’s nice to be right.
    Miss Level knocked, then came in after a decent pause. Tiffany heard the tray go down on the table, then felt the bed move as a body sat down on it.
    “Petulia is a capable girl, I’ve always thought,” said Miss Level after a while. “She’ll make some village a very serviceable witch one day.”
    Tiffany stayed silent.
    “She told me all about it,” said Miss Level. “Miss Tick never mentioned the hat, but if I was you, I wouldn’t have told her about it anyway. It sounds the sort of thing Mistress Weatherwax would do. You know, sometimes it helps to talk about these things.”
    More silence from Tiffany.
    “Actually, that’s not true,” Miss Level added. “But as a witch I am incredibly inquisitive and would love to know more.”
    That had no effect either. Miss Level sighed and stood up. “I’ll leave the soup, but if you let it get too cold, Oswald will try to take it away.”
    She went downstairs.
    Nothing stirred in the room for about five minutes. Then there was faintest of tinkles as the soup began to move.
    Tiffany’s hand shot out and gripped the tray firmly. That’s the job of Third Thoughts: First and Second Thoughts might understand your current tragedy, but something has to remember that you haven’t eaten since lunchtime.
    Afterward, and after Oswald had speedily taken the empty bowl away, Tiffany lay in the dark, staring at nothing.
    The novelty of this new country had taken all her attention in the past few days, but now that had drained away in the storm of laughter, and homesickness rushed to fill in the empty spaces.
    She missed the sounds and the sheep and the silences of the Chalk. She missed seeing the blackness of the hills from her bedroom window, outlined against the stars. She missed…part of herself….
    But they’d laughed at her. They’d said “What hat?” and they’d laughed even more when she’d raised her hand to touch the invisible brim and hadn’t found it ….
    She’d touched it every day for eighteen months, and now it had gone. And she couldn’t make a shamble. And she just had a green dress, while all the other girls wore black ones. Annagramma had a lot of jewelry, too, in black and silver. All the other girls had shambles, too, beautiful ones. Who cared if they were just for show?
    Perhaps she wasn’t a witch at all. Oh, she’d defeated the Queen, with the help of the little men and the memory of Granny Aching, but she hadn’t used magic. She wasn’t sure, now, what she had used. She’d felt something go down through the soles of her boots, down through the hills and through the years, and come back loud and roaring in a rage that shook the sky:
    …How dare you invade my world , my land , my life…
    But what had the virtual hat done for her? Perhaps the old woman had tricked her, had just made her think there was a hat there. Perhaps she was a bit cracked, like Annagramma had said, and had just got things wrong. Perhaps Tiffany should go home and make Soft Nellies for the rest of her life.
    Tiffany turned around and crawled down the bed and opened her suitcase. She pulled out the rough box, opened it in the dark, and closed a hand around the lucky stone.
    She’d hoped that there’d be some kind of spark, some kind of friendliness in it. There was none. There was just the roughness of the outside of the stone, the smoothness on the face where it had split, and the sharpness between the two. And the piece of sheep’s wool did nothing but make her fingers smell of sheep, and this made her long for home and feel even more upset. The silver Horse was cold.
    Only someone quite close would have heard the sob. It was quite faint, but it was carried on the dark red wings of misery. She wanted,