A Hat Full Of Sky

everyone had seen before but still appreciated. That broke the ice. This year it was old Goodie Trample and her collection of singing mice.
    But Tiffany wasn’t paying attention. On the other side of the roped-off square, sitting on a chair and surrounded by older witches like a queen on her throne, was Granny Weatherwax.
    The whispering went on. Maybe opening her eyes had opened her ears, too, because Tiffany felt she could hear the whispers all around the square.
    “…Din’t have no trainin’, just did it…. Did you see that horse?…I never saw no horse!…Din’t just open the door, she stepped right in!…Yeah, but who was it fetched her back? Esme Weatherwax, that’s who!…Yes, that’s what I’m sayin’, any little fool could’ve opened the door by luck, but it takes a real witch to bring her back, that’s a winner, that is…. Fought the thing, left it there!…I didn’t see you doing anything, Violet Pulsimone! That child…Was there a horse or not?…Was going to do my dancing broom trick, but that’d be wasted now, of course…. Why did Mistress Weatherwax give the girl her hat, eh? What’s she want us to think? She never takes off her hat to no one!”
    You could feel the tension, crackling from pointy hat to pointy hat like summer lighting.
    The mice did their best with “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,” but it was easy to see that their minds weren’t on it. Mice are high-strung and very temperamental.
    Now people were leaning down beside Granny Weatherwax. Tiffany could see some animated conversations going on.
    “You know, Tiffany,” said Lucy Warbeck, behind her, “all you’ve got to do is, like, stand up and admit it. Everyone knows you did it. I mean no one’s ever, like, done something like that at the Trials!”
    “And it’s about time the old bully lost,” said Annagramma.
    But she’s not a bully, Tiffany thought. She’s tough, and she expects other witches to be tough, because the edge is no place for people who break. Everything with her is a kind of test. And her Third Thoughts handed over the thought that had not quite made it back in the tent: Granny Weatherwax, you knew the hiver would only come for me, didn’t you? You talked to Dr. Bustle, you told me. Did you just turn me into your trick for today? How much did you guess? Or know?
    “You’d win,” said Dimity Hubbub. “Even some of the older ones would like to see her taken down a peg. They know big magic happened. There’s not a whole shamble for miles .”
    So I’d win because some people don’t like somebody else? Tiffany thought. Oh, yes , that’s really be something to be proud of….
    “You can bet she’ll stand up,” said Annagramma. “You watch. She’ll explain how the poor child got dragged into the Next World by a monster, and she brought her back. That’s what I’d do, if I was her.”
    I expect you would, Tiffany thought. But you’re not, and you’re not me, either.
    She stared at Granny Weatherwax, who was waving away a couple of elderly witches.
    I wonder, she thought, if they’ve been saying things like “This girl needs taking down a peg, Mistress Weatherwax.” And as she thought that, Granny turned back and caught her eye—
    The mice stopped singing, mostly in embarrassment. There was a pause, and then people started to clap, because it was the sort of thing you had to do.
    A witch, someone Tiffany didn’t know, stepped out into the square, still clapping in that fluttery, hands-held-close-together-at-shoulder-height way that people use when they want to encourage the audience to go on applauding just that little bit longer.
    “Very well done, Doris, excellent work, as ever,” she trilled. “They’ve come along marvelously since last year, thank you very much, wonderful, well done…ahem…”
    The woman hesitated, while behind her Doris Trample crawled around on hands and knees trying to urge her mice back into their box. One of them was having hysterics.
    “And now, perhaps…some lady would like to, er…take the, er…stage?” said the mistress of ceremonies, as brightly as a glass ball about to shatter. “Anyone?”
    There was stillness, and silence.
    “Don’t be shy, ladies!” The voice of the mistress of ceremonies was getting more strained by the second. It’s no fun trying to organize a field full of born organizers. “Modesty does not become us! Anyone?”
    Tiffany felt the pointy hats turning, some toward her, some toward Granny Weatherwax. Away