A Hat Full Of Sky

something to do with…the third wish. And I don’t know what that means.”
    The witch said, “Keep picking at that thought,” and then looked up and added, “We’ve got company.”
    It took Tiffany several seconds to spot what Mistress Weatherwax had seen—a shape at the edge of the woods, small and dark. It was coming closer, but rather uncertainly.
    It resolved itself into the figure of Petulia, flying slowly and nervously a few feet above the heather. Sometimes she jumped down and wrenched the stick in a slightly different direction.
    She got off again when she reached Tiffany and Mistress Weatherwax, grabbed the broom hastily, and aimed it at a big rock. It hit it gently and hung there, trying to fly through stone.
    “Um, sorry,” she panted. “But I can’t always stop it, and this is better than having an anchor…um.”
    She started to bob a curtsy to Mistress Weatherwax, remembered she was a witch, and tried to turn it into a bow halfway down, which was an event you’d pay money to see. She ended up bent double, and from somewhere in there came the little voice, “Um, can someone help, please? I think my Octogram of Trimontane has got caught up on my Pouch of Nine Herbs….”
    There was a tricky minute while they untangled her, with Mistress Weatherwax muttering, “Toys, just toys,” as they unhooked bangles and necklaces.
    Petulia stood upright, red in the face. She saw Mistress Weatherwax’s expression, whipped off her pointy hat, and held it in front on her. This was a mark of respect, but it did mean that a two-foot, sharp, pointy thing was being aimed at them.
    “Um…I went to see Miss Level and she said you’d come up here after some horrible thing,” she said. “Um…so I thought I’d better see how you were.”
    “Um…that was very kind of you,” said Tiffany, but her treacherous Second Thoughts thought: And what would you have done if it had attacked us? She had a momentary picture of Petulia standing in front of some horrible raging thing, but it wasn’t as funny as she’d first thought. Petulia would stand in front of it, shaking with terror, her useless amulets clattering, scared almost out of her mind…but not backing away. She’d thought there might be people facing something horrible here, and she’d come anyway .
    “What’s your name, my girl?” said Mistress Weatherwax.
    “Um, Petulia Gristle, mistress. I’m learning with Gwinifer Blackcap.”
    “Old Mother Blackcap?” said Mistress Weatherwax. “Very sound. A good woman with pigs. You did well to come here.”
    Petulia looked nervously at Tiffany.
    “Um, are you all right? Miss Level said you’d been…ill.”
    “I’m much better now, but thank you very much for asking anyway,” said Tiffany wretchedly. “Look, I’m sorry about—”
    “Well, you were ill,” said Petulia.
    And that was another thing about Petulia. She always wanted to think the best of everybody. This was sort of worrying if you knew that the person she was doing her best to think nice thoughts about was you.
    “Are you going to go back to the cottage before the Trials?” Petulia went on.
    “Trials?” said Tiffany, suddenly lost.
    “The Witch Trials,” said Mistress Weatherwax.
    “Today,” said Petulia.
    “I’d forgotten all about them!” said Tiffany.
    “I hadn’t,” said the old witch calmly. “I never miss a Trial. Never missed a Trial in sixty years. Would you do a poor old lady a favor, Miss Gristle, and ride that stick of yours back to Miss Level’s place and tell her that Mistress Weatherwax presents her compliments and intends to head directly to the Trials. Was she well?”
    “Um, she was juggling balls without using her hands !” said Petulia in wonderment. “And d’you know what? I saw a fairy in her garden! A blue one!”
    “Really?” said Tiffany, her heart sinking.
    “Yes! It was rather scruffy, though. And when I asked it if it really was a fairy, it said it was…um…‘the big stinky horrible spiky iron stinging nettle fairy from the Land o’ Tinkle,’ and called me a ‘scunner.’ Do you know what that means?”
    Tiffany looked into that round, hopeful face. She opened her mouth to say, “It means someone who likes fairies,” but stopped in time. That just wouldn’t be fair. She sighed.
    “Petulia, you saw a Nac Mac Feegle,” she said. “It is a kind of fairy, but they’re not the sweet kind. I’m sorry. They’re good…well, more or less…but they’re not entirely nice.