A Hat Full Of Sky

Tick tomorrow, I’ll tell her it’s about time them wandering teachers started coming up here.”
    “All right,” said Tiffany reluctantly, “but you told Mr. Umbril the shoemaker that his chest pains will clear up if he walks to the waterfall at Tumble Crag every day for a month and throws three shiny pebbles into the pool for the water sprites! That’s not doctoring!”
    “No, but he thinks it is. The man spends too much time sitting hunched up. A five-mile walk in the fresh air every day for a month will see him as right as rain,” said Mistress Weatherwax.
    “Oh,” said Tiffany. “Another story?”
    “If you like,” said Mistress Weatherwax, her eyes twinkling. “And you never know, maybe the water sprites will be grateful for the pebbles.”
    She glanced sidelong at Tiffany’s expression and patted her on the shoulder.
    “Never mind, miss,” she said. “Look at it this way. Tomorrow, your job is to change the world into a better place. Today, my job is to see that everyone gets there.”
    “Well, I think—” Tiffany began, then stopped. She looked up at the line of woods between the small fields of the valleys and the steep meadows of the mountains.
    “It’s still there,” she said.
    “I know,” said Mistress Weatherwax.
    “It’s moving around, but it’s keeping away from us.”
    “I know,” said Mistress Weatherwax.
    “What does it think it’s doing?”
    “It’s got a bit of you in it. What do you think it’s doing?”
    Tiffany tried to think. Why wouldn’t it attack? Oh, she’d be better prepared this time, but it was strong.
    “Maybe it’s waiting until I’m upset again,” she said. “But I keep having a thought. It makes no sense. I keep thinking about…three wishes.”
    “Wishes for what?”
    “I don’t know. It sounds silly.”
    Mistress Weatherwax stopped. “No, it’s not,” she said. “It’s a deep part of you trying to send yourself a message. Just remember it. Because now—”
    Tiffany sighed. “Yes, I know. Mr. Weavall.”

    No dragon’s cave was ever approached as carefully as the cottage in the overgrown garden.
    Tiffany paused at the gate and looked back, but Mistress Weatherwax had diplomatically vanished. Probably she’s found someone to give her a cup of tea and a sweet biscuit, she thought. She lives on them!
    She opened the gate and walked up the path.
    You couldn’t say: It’s not my fault. You couldn’t say: It’s not my responsibility.
    You could say: I will deal with this.
    You didn’t have to want to. But you had to do it.
    Tiffany took a deep breath and stepped into the dark cottage.
    Mr. Weavall, in his chair, was just inside the door and fast asleep, showing the world an open mouth full of yellow teeth.
    “Um…hello, Mr. Weavall,” Tiffany quavered, but perhaps not quite loudly enough. “Just, er, here to see that you, that everything is…is all right….”
    There was a snort nonetheless, and he woke, smacking his lips to get the sleep out of his mouth.
    “Oh, ’tis you,” he said. “Good afternoon to ye.” He eased himself more upright and started to stare out of the doorway, ignoring her.
    Maybe he won’t ask, she thought as she did the dishes and dusted and plumped the cushions and, not to put too fine a point on it, emptied the commode. But she nearly yelped when the arm shot out and grabbed her wrist and the old man gave her his pleading look.
    “Just check the box, Mary, will you? Before you go? Only I heard clinking noises last night, see. Could be one o’ the sneaky thieves got in.”
    “Yes, Mr. Weavall,” said Tiffany, all the while thinking: Idon’twanttobehereIdon’twanttobehere!
    She pulled out the box. There was no choice.
    It felt heavy. She stood up and lifted the lid.
    After the creak of the hinges, there was silence.
    “Are you all right, girl?” said Mr. Weavall.
    “Um…” said Tiffany.
    “It’s all there, ain’t it?” said the old man anxiously.
    Tiffany’s mind was a puddle of goo.
    “Um…it’s all here,” she managed. “Um…and now it’s all gold , Mr. Weavall.”
    “Gold? Hah! Don’t you pull my leg, girl. No gold ever came my way!”
    Tiffany put the box on the old man’s lap, as gently as she could, and he stared into it.
    Tiffany recognized the worn coins. The pictsies ate off them in the mound. There had been pictures on them, but they were too worn to make out now.
    But gold was gold, pictures or not.
    She turned her head sharply and was certain she saw