Wintersmith

was in ’em.”
    “We ne’er tell a soul what’s in yer diary, after all,” said Daft Wullie. “Not e’en the bits wi’ the flowers ye draw aroound them.”
    Miss Treason is grinning to herself behind me, Tiffany thought. I just know she is. But she’d run out of nasty tones of voice. You did that after talking to the Feegles for any length of time.
    You were their Kelda, her Second Thoughts reminded her. They think they have a solemn duty to protect you. It doesn’t matter what you think. They’re going to make your life sooo complicated.
    “Don’t read my letters,” she said, “and don’t read my diary, either.”
    “Okay,” said Rob Anybody.
    “Promise?”
    “Oh, aye.”
    “But you promised last time!”
    “Oh, aye.”
    “Cross your heart and hope to die?”
    “Oh, aye, nae problemo.”
    “And that’s the promise of an untrustworthy, lying, stealing Feegle, is it?” said Miss Treason. “Because ye believe ye’re deid already, do ye no’? That’s what ye people think, right?”
    “Oh, aye, mistress,” said Rob Anybody. “Thank ye for drawin’ ma attention tae that.”
    “In fact, Rob Anybody, ye ha’ nae intention o’ keepin’ any promise at all!”
    “Aye, mistress,” said Rob proudly. “Not puir wee weak promises like that. Becuz, ye see, ’tis oor solemn destiny to guard the big wee hag. We mus’ lay doon oor lives for her if it comes to it.”
    “How can ye do that when ye’re deid already?” said Miss Treason sharply.
    “That’s a bit o’ a puzzler, right enough,” said Rob, “so probably we’ll lay doon the lives o’ any scunners who do wrong by her.”
    Tiffany gave up and sighed. “I’m almost thirteen,” she said. “I can look after myself.”
    “Hark at Miss Self-Reliant,” said Miss Treason, but not in a particularly nasty way. “Against the Wintersmith?”
    “What does he want?” said Tiffany.
    “I told you. Perhaps he wants to find out what kind of girl was so forward as to dance with him?” said Miss Treason.
    “It was my feet! I said I didn’t mean to!”
    Miss Treason turned around in her chair. How many eyes is she using? Tiffany’s Second Thoughts wondered. The Feegles? The ravens? The mice? All of them? How many of me is she seeing? Is she watching me with mice, or insects with dozens of glittery eyes?
    “Oh, that’s all right then,” said Miss Treason. “Once again, you didn’t mean it. A witch takes responsibility! Have you learned nothing , child?”
    Child. That was a terrible thing to say to anyone who was almost thirteen. Tiffany felt herself going red again. The horrible hotness spread inside her head.
    That was why she walked across the room, opened the front door, and stepped outside.
    A fluffy snow was falling, very gently. When Tiffany looked into the pale-gray sky, she saw the flakes drifting down in soft, feathery clusters; it was the kind of snow that people back home on the Chalk called “Granny Aching shearing her sheep.”
    Tiffany felt the flakes melting on her hair as she walked away from the cottage. Miss Treason was shouting from the doorway, but she walked on, letting the snow cool her blushes.
    Of course this is stupid, she told herself. But being a witch is stupid. Why do we do it? It’s hard work for not much reward. What’s a good day for Miss Treason? When someone brings her a secondhand pair of old boots that fit properly! What does she know about anything?
    Where is the Wintersmith, then? Is he here? I’ve only got Miss Treason’s word for it! That and a made-up picture in a book!
    “Wintersmith!” she shouted.
    You could hear the snow falling. It made a strange little noise, like a faint, cold sizzle.
    “Wintersmith!”
    There was no reply.
    Well, what had she expected? A big booming voice? Mr. Spiky the icicle man? There was nothing but the softness of white snow falling patiently among dark trees.
    She felt a bit silly now, but satisfied, too. This was what a witch did! She faced what she was afraid of, and then it held no more fear! She was good at this!
    She turned—and saw the Wintersmith.
    Remember this, said her Third Thoughts, cutting in. Every little detail is important.
    The Wintersmith was……nothing. But the snow outlined him. It flowed around him in lines, as if traveling on an invisible skin. He was just a shape, and nothing more, except perhaps for two tiny pale purple-gray dots in the air, where you might expect to find eyes.
    Tiffany stood still, her mind frozen, her