I Shall Wear Midnight

man who interferes in the arguin’ of women is gonnae find both of them jumping up and doon on him in a matter o’ seconds. I’m nae talkin’ about the foldin’ of the arms, the pursin’ of the lips and the tappin’ of the feets. I’m talking about the smacking around with the copper stick.’
    The witches stared at one another. Tiffany felt suddenly disorientated, as if she had gone from A to Z without passing through the rest of the alphabet.
    ‘Did that just happen, my girl?’ said Mrs Proust.
    ‘Yes, it did,’ said Tiffany sharply. ‘It still stings.’ Mrs Proust said, ‘Why did we do it?’
    ‘To tell the truth, I hated you,’ said Tiffany. ‘Just for a moment. It frightened me. I just wanted to be rid of you. You were just—’
    ‘All wrong?’ said Mrs Proust.
    ‘That’s right!’
    ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Discord. Turning on the witch. Always blame the witch. Where does it start? Perhaps we have found out.’ Her ugly face stared at Tiffany, then she said, ‘When did you become a witch, my girl?’
    ‘I think it was when I was about eight,’ said Tiffany. And she told Mrs Proust the story about Mrs Snapperly, the witch in the hazel woods.
    The woman listened carefully and settled down on the straw. ‘We know it happens sometimes,’ she said. ‘Every few hundred years or so, suddenly everyone thinks witches are bad. No one knows why it is. It just seems to happen. Have you been doing anything lately that might attract attention? Any especially important piece of magic or something?’
    Tiffany thought back and then said, ‘Well, there was the hiver. But he wasn’t all that bad. And before that there was the Queen of the Fairies, but that was ages ago. It was pretty awful too, but generally speaking, I think hitting her over the head with a frying pan was the best thing I could have done at the time. And, well, I suppose I’d better say that a couple of years ago, I did kiss the winter …’
    Mrs Proust had been listening to this with her mouth open, and now she said, ‘That was you ?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany.
    ‘Are you sure?’ said Mrs Proust.
    ‘Yes. It was me. I was there.’
    ‘What was it like?’
    ‘Chilly, and then damp. I didn’t want to have to do it. I’m sorry, OK?’
    ‘About two years ago?’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s interesting. The trouble seemed to start around then, you know. Nothing particularly major; it was just as though people didn’t respect us any more. Just something in the air, you might say. I mean, that kid with the stone this morning. Well, he would never have dared try that a year ago. People always gave me a nod when I passed by in those days. And now they frown. Or they make some little sign, just in case I bring bad luck. The others have told me about this too. What’s it been like where you are?’
    ‘Can’t really say,’ said Tiffany. ‘People were a bit nervous of me, but on the whole I suppose I was related to a lot of them. But everything felt odd. And I thought that was how it had to feel. I’d kissed the winter, and everybody knew it. Honestly, they do go on about it. I mean, it was only once .’
    ‘Well, people are packed a little more closely together around here. And witches have long memories. I mean, not individual witches, but all the witches put together can remember the really bad times. When wearing a pointy hat got a stone thrown at you, if not something worse. And when you go back further than that … It’s like a disease,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘It sort of creeps up. It’s in the wind, as if it goes from person to person. Poison goes where poison’s welcome. And there’s always an excuse, isn’t there, to throw a stone at the old lady who looks funny. It’s always easier to blame somebody. And once you’ve called someone a witch, then you’d be amazed how many things you can blame her for.’
    ‘They stoned her cat to death,’ said Tiffany, almost to herself.
    ‘And now there’s a man without a soul who’s following you. And the stink of him makes even witches hate witches. You don’t feel inclined to set fire to me, by any chance, Miss Tiffany Aching?’
    ‘No, of course not,’ said Tiffany.
    ‘Or press me flat on the ground with lots of stones on me?’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘It wasn’t just stones,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘You hear people talk about witches being burned, but I don’t reckon many real witches ever did get burned unless they were tricked in some