A Hat Full Of Sky

What she did add was: “But I think everyone has to find their own hat. The right hat for them, I mean.”
    “I see you’re now wearing a shop-bought one, then,” said Granny Weatherwax. “One of them Sky Scrapers. With stars ,” she added, and there was so much acid in the word “stars” that it would’ve melted copper and then dropped through the table and the floor and melted more copper in the cellar below. “Think that makes it more magical, do you? Stars? ”
    “I…did when I bought it. And it’ll do for now.”
    “Until you find the right hat,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “Yes.”
    “Which ain’t mine?”
    “No.”
    “Good.”
    The old witch walked across the room and tugged the cloth off the thing in the corner. It turned out to be a big wooden spike, just about the size of a pointy hat on a tall stand. A hat was being… constructed on it, with thin strips of willow and pins and stiff black cloth.
    “I make my own,” she said. “Every year. There’s no hat like the hat you make yourself. Take my advice. I stiffens the calico and makes it waterproof with special jollop. It’s amazing what you can put into a hat you make yourself. But you didn’t come to talk about hats.”
    Tiffany let the question out at last.
    “Was it real?”
    Granny Weatherwax poured the tea, picked up her cup and saucer, then carefully poured some of the tea out of the cup and into the saucer. She held this up and, with care, like someone dealing with an important and delicate task, blew gently on it. She did this slowly and calmly, while Tiffany tried hard to conceal her impatience.
    “The hiver’s not around anymore?” said Granny.
    “No. But—”
    “And how did it all feel? When it was happening? Did it feel real?”
    “No,” said Tiffany. “It felt more than real.”
    “Well, there you are, then,” said Granny Weatherwax, taking a sip from the saucer. “And the answer is: If it wasn’t real, it wasn’t false .”
    “It was like a dream where you’ve nearly woken up and can control it, you know?” said Tiffany. “If I was careful, it worked. It was like making myself rise up in the air by pulling hard on my bootlaces. It was like telling myself a story—”
    Granny nodded.
    “There’s always a story,” she said. “It’s all stories, really. The sun coming up every day is a story. Everything’s got a story in it. Change the story, change the world.”
    “And what was your plan to beat the hiver?” asked Tiffany. “Please? I’ve got to know!”
    “My plan?” said Granny Weatherwax innocently. “My plan was to let you deal with it.”
    “Really? So what would you have done if I’d lost?”
    “The best I can,” said Granny calmly. “I always do.”
    “Would you have killed me if I’d become the hiver again?”
    The saucer was steady in the old witch’s hand. She looked reflectively at the tea.
    “I would have spared you if I could,” she said. “But I didn’t have to, right? The Trials was the best place to be. Believe me, witches can act together if they must. It’s harder’n herding cats, but it can be done.”
    “It’s just that I think we…turned it all into a little show,” said Tiffany.
    “Hah, no. We made it into a big show!” said Granny Weatherwax with great satisfaction. “Thunder and lightning and white horses and wonderful rescues! Good value, eh, for a penny? And you’ll learn, my girl, that a bit of a show every now and again does no harm to your reputation. I daresay Miss Level’s findin’ that out already, now she can juggle balls and raise her hat at the same time! Depend upon what I say!”
    She delicately drank her tea out of the saucer, then nodded at the old hat on the table.
    “Your grandmother,” she said, “did she wear a hat?”
    “What? Oh…not usually,” said Tiffany, still thinking about the big show. “She used to wear an old sack as a kind of bonnet when the weather was really bad. She said hats only blow away up on the hill.”
    “She made the sky her hat, then,” said Granny Weatherwax. “And did she wear a coat?”
    “Hah, all the shepherds used to say that if you saw Granny Aching in a coat, it’d mean it was blowing rocks!” said Tiffany proudly.
    “Then she made the wind her coat, too,” said Granny Weatherwax. “It’s a skill. Rain don’t fall on a witch if she doesn’t want it to, although personally I prefer to get wet and be thankful.”
    “Thankful for what?” said Tiffany.
    “That I’ll get