Hogfather

she was. The last piece clicked into place and the knowledge bloomed inside her. She knew if she saw a house just how its windows would be placed, and just how the smoke would come out of the chimney.
    There would almost certainly be apples on the trees. And they would be red, because everyone knew that apples were red. And the sun was yellow. And the sky was blue. And the grass was green.
    But there was another world, called the real world by the people who believed in it, where the sky could be anything from off-white to sunset red to thunderstorm yellow. And the trees would be anything from bare branches, mere scribbles against the sky, to red flames before the frost. And the sun was white or yellow or orange. And water was brown and gray and green…
    The colors here were springtime colors, and not the springtime of the world. They were the colors of the springtime of the eye.
    “This is a child’s painting,” she said.
    The oh god slumped onto the green.
    “Every time I look at the gap my eyes water,” he mumbled. “I feel awful.”
    “I said this is a child’s painting,” said Susan.
    “Oh, me …I think the wizards’ potion is wearing off…”
    “I’ve seen dozens of pictures of it,” said Susan, ignoring him. “You put the sky overhead because the sky’s above you and when you are a couple of feet high there’s not a lot of sideways to the sky in any case. And everyone tells you grass is green and water is blue. This is the landscape you paint. Twyla paints like that. I painted like that. Grandfather saved some of—”
    She stopped.
    “All children do it, anyway,” she muttered. “Come on, let’s find the house.”
    “What house?” the oh god moaned. “And can you speak quieter, please?”
    “There’ll be a house,” said Susan, standing up. “There’s always a house. With four windows. And the smoke coming out of the chimney all curly like a spring. Look, this is a place like Gr—Death’s country. It’s not really geography.”
    The oh god walked over to the nearest tree and banged his head on it as if he hoped it was going to hurt.
    “Feels like geo’fy,” he muttered.
    “But have you ever seen a tree like that? A big green blob on a brown stick? It looks like a lollipop!” said Susan, pulling him along.
    “Dunno. Firs’ time I ever saw a tree. Arrgh. Somethin’ dropped on m’head.” He blinked owlishly at the ground. “’s red.”
    “It’s an apple,” she said. She sighed. “Everyone knows apples are red.”
    There were no bushes. But there were flowers, each with a couple of green leaves. They grew individually, dotted around the rolling green.
    And then they were out of the trees and there, by a bend in the river, was the house.
    It didn’t look very big. There were four windows and a door. Corkscrew smoke curled out of the chimney.
    “You know, it’s a funny thing,” said Susan, staring at it. “Twyla draws houses like that. And she practically lives in a mansion. I drew houses like that. And I was born in a palace. Why?”
    “P’raps it’s all this house,” muttered the oh god miserably.
    “What? You really think so? Kids’ paintings are all of this place? It’s in our heads?”
    “Don’t ask me, I was just making conversation,” said the oh god.
    Susan hesitated. The words What Now? loomed. Should she just go and knock?
    And she realized that was normal thinking…

    In the glittering, clattering, chattering atmosphere a head waiter was having a difficult time. There were a lot of people in, and the staff should have been fully stretched, putting bicarbonate of soda in the white wine to make very expensive bubbles and cutting the vegetables very small to make them cost more.
    Instead they were standing in a dejected group in the kitchen.
    “Where did it all go?” screamed the manager. “Someone’s been through the cellar, too!”
    “William said he felt a cold wind,” said the waiter. He’d been backed up against a hot plate, and now knew why it was called a hot plate in a way he hadn’t fully comprehended before.
    “I’ll give him a cold wind! Haven’t we got anything ?”
    “There’s odds and ends…”
    “You don’t mean odds and ends, you mean des curieux et des bouts ,” corrected the manager.
    “Yeah, right, yeah. And, er, and, er…”
    “There’s nothing else?”
    “Er…old boots. Muddy old boots.”
    “Old—?”
    “Boots. Lots of ’em,” said the waiter. He felt he was beginning to singe.
    “How come