I Shall Wear Midnight

into oblivion before you can do any more harm. Do you understand? This is important ! You have to help yourself.’
    ‘The other witches will kill me?’ said Tiffany, aghast.
    ‘Of course. You are a witch and you know what Granny Weatherwax always says: We do right, we don’t do nice . It will be you or him, Tiffany Aching. The loser will die. In his case, I regret to say we might see him again in a few centuries; in your case, I don’t propose to guess.’
    ‘But hold on a moment,’ said Tiffany. ‘If they are prepared to fight him and me, why don’t we all band together to fight him now?’
    ‘Of course. Would you like them to? What is it you really want, Tiffany Aching, here and now? It’s your choice. The other witches will not, I am sure, think any the worse of you.’ Eskarina hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Well, I expect they will be very kind about it.’
    The witch who faced the trial and ran away? thought Tiffany. The witch they were kind to, because they knew she wasn’t good enough? And if you think you’re not good enough, then you are already no kind of witch. Aloud she said, ‘I’d rather die trying to be a witch, than be the girl they were all kind to.’
    ‘Miss Aching, you are showing an almost sinful self-assurance and overwhelming pride and certainty, and may I say that I wouldn’t expect anything less of a witch.’
    * * *
    The world wobbled a bit and then changed. Eskarina vanished, even as her words were still sinking into Tiffany’s mind. The tapestry was back in front of her again and she was still raising the burning log, but this time she raised it confidently. She felt as if she was full of air, lifting her up. The world had gone strange, but at least she knew that fire would burn dry tapestry like tinder the moment it touched it.
    ‘I would burn this old sheet in an instant, mister, trust me. Back to where you came from, mister!’
    To her astonishment the dark figure retreated. There was a momentary hiss and Tiffany felt as if a weight had dropped away, dragging the stench with it.
    ‘That was all very interesting.’ Tiffany spun round and looked into Preston’s cheerful grin. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I was really worried when you went so stiff for a few moments. I thought you were dead. When I touched your arm – very respectfully, no hanky-panky – it felt like the air on a thundery day. So I thought, This is witch business, and decided to keep an eye on you, and then you threatened an innocent tapestry with fiery death!’
    She stared at the boy’s eyes as if they were a mirror. Fire, she thought. Fire killed him once, and he knows it. He won’t go anywhere near fire. Fire is the secret. The hare runs into the fire . Hmm.
    ‘Actually, I quite like fire,’ said Preston. ‘I don’t think it’s my enemy at all.’
    ‘What?’ said Tiffany.
    ‘I’m afraid you were speaking just under your breath,’ said Preston. ‘I’m not going to ask what it was about. My granny said: Don’t meddle in the affairs of witches because they clout you around the ear .’
    Tiffany stared at him and made an instant decision. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
    Preston nodded. ‘Certainly! I have never told anybody that the sergeant writes poetry, for example.’
    ‘Preston, you have just told me !’
    Preston grinned at her. ‘Ah, but a witch isn’t anybody . My granny told me that telling your secret to a witch is like whispering to a wall.’
    ‘Well, yes,’ Tiffany began and then paused. ‘How do you know he writes poetry?’
    ‘It was hard not to know,’ said Preston. ‘But, you see, he writes it on pages of the events ledger in the guard house, probably when he’s on night duty. He carefully tears out the pages, and does it so neatly that you wouldn’t guess, but he presses so hard with his pencil that it’s quite easy to read the impression on the paper underneath.’
    ‘Surely the other men notice?’ said Tiffany.
    Preston shook his head, which caused his oversized helmet to spin a little. ‘Oh no, miss, you know them: they think reading is cissy stuff for girls. Anyway, if I get in early I tear out the paper underneath so that they don’t laugh at him. I have to say, for a self-taught man he is a pretty good poet – good grasp of the metaphor. They are all written to somebody called Millie.’
    ‘That would be his wife,’ said Tiffany. ‘You must have seen her in the village – more freckles than anyone I’ve ever seen. She is very