I Shall Wear Midnight

sensitive about it.’
    Preston nodded. ‘That might explain why his latest poem is entitled “What Good Is The Sky Without Stars”?’
    ‘You wouldn’t know it from looking at the man, would you?’
    Preston looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Excuse me, Tiffany,’ he said, ‘but you don’t look well. In fact, no offence meant, you look absolutely dreadful. If you were somebody else and took a look at you, you would say that you were very ill indeed. You don’t look as if you’ve had any sleep.’
    ‘I had at least an hour’s worth last night. And a nap the day before!’ said Tiffany.
    ‘Really?’ said Preston, looking stern. ‘And apart from breakfast this morning, when did you last have a proper meal?’
    For some reason Tiffany still felt full of light inside. ‘I think I might have had a snack yesterday …’
    ‘Oh really?’ said Preston. ‘Snacks and naps? That’s not how somebody is supposed to live; it’s how people die!’
    He was right. She knew he was. But that only made things worse.
    ‘Look, I’m being tracked by a horrible creature who can take over somebody else completely, and it’s up to me to deal with it!’
    Preston looked around with interest. ‘Could it take me over?’
    Poison goes where poison’s welcome , thought Tiffany. Thank you for that useful phrase, Mrs Proust. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think you have to be the right kind of person – which is to say, the wrong kind of person. You know, somebody with a touch of evil.’
    For the first time, Preston looked worried. ‘I have done a few bad things in my time, I’m sorry to say.’
    Despite her sudden tiredness, Tiffany smiled. ‘What was the worst one?’
    ‘I once stole a packet of coloured pencils off a market stall.’ He looked at her defiantly, as if expecting her to scream or point the finger of scorn.
    Instead, she shook her head and said, ‘How old were you then?’
    ‘Six.’
    ‘Preston, I don’t think this creature could ever find its way into your head. Quite apart from anything else, it seems pretty crowded and complicated to me.’
    ‘Miss Tiffany, you need a rest, a proper rest in a proper bed. What kind of witch can look after everybody if she’s not sensible enough to look after herself? Quis custodiet ipsos custodes . That means: Who guards the guards, that does,’ Preston went on. ‘So who watches the witches? Who cares for the people who care for the people? Right now, it looks like it needs to be me.’
    She gave in.
    * * *
    The fog of the city was as thick as curtains when Mrs Proust hurried towards the dark, brooding shape of the Tanty, but the billows obediently separated as she approached and closed again after her.
    The warden was waiting at the main gate, a lantern in his hand. ‘Sorry, missus, but we thought you ought to see this one before it gets all official. I know witches seem a bit unpopular right now, but we’ve always thought of you as family, if you know what I mean. Everyone remembers your dad. What a craftsman! He could hang a man in seven and a quarter seconds! Never been beat. We shall never see his likes again.’ He went solemn. ‘And may I say, missus, I hope I never see again the like of what you will be seeing now. It’s got us rattled, and no mistake. It’s right up your street, I reckon.’
    Mrs Proust shook the water droplets off her cloak in the prison office and could smell the fear in the air. There was the general clanging and distant yelling that you always got when things were going bad in a prison: a prison, by definition, being a lot of people all crammed together and every fear and hatred and worry and dread and rumour all sitting on top of one another, choking for space. She hung the cloak on a nail by the door and rubbed her hands together. ‘The lad you sent said something about a breakout?’
    ‘D wing,’ said the warder. ‘Macintosh. You remember? Been in here about a year.’
    ‘Oh yes, I recall,’ said the witch. ‘They had to stop the trial because the jury kept throwing up. Very nasty indeed. But no one has ever escaped from D wing, right? The window bars are steel?’
    ‘Bent,’ said the warder flatly. ‘You’d better come and see. It’s giving us the heebie-jeebies, I don’t mind telling you.’
    ‘Macintosh wasn’t a particularly big man, as I recall,’ said the witch as they hurried along the dank corridors.
    ‘That’s right, Mrs Proust. Short and nasty, that was him. Due to hang next week too. Tore out