Wintersmith

body waiting to be told what to do.
    The hand made of falling snow was reaching toward her now, but very slowly, as you would reach out toward an animal you do not want to frighten. There was…something, some strange sense of things unsaid because there was no voice to say them, a sense of striving, as if the thing were putting heart and soul into this moment, even if it did not know the meaning of heart or soul.
    The hand stopped about a foot away from her. It was formed into a fist, and now it turned over and the fingers opened.
    Something gleamed. It was the white horse, made of silver, on a fine silver chain.
    Tiffany’s hand flew to her throat. But she’d had it on last night! Before she went…to…watch…the…dance….
    It must have come off! And he’d found it!
    That’s interesting, said her Third Thoughts that busied themselves with the world in their own way. You can’t see what’s hidden inside an invisible fist. How does that work? And why are those little purple-gray blurs in the air where you’d expect to find eyes? Why aren’t they invisible?
    That’s Third Thoughts for you. When a huge rock is going to land on your head, they’re the thoughts that think: Is that an igneous rock, such as granite, or is it sandstone?
    That part of Tiffany’s brain that was a little less precise at the moment watched the silver horse dangle on its chain.
    Her First Thought was: Take it.
    Her Second Thought was: Don’t take it. It’s a trap.
    Her Third Thought was: Really don’t take it. It will be colder than you can imagine.
    And then the rest of her overruled the Thoughts entirely and said: Take it. It’s part of who you are. Take it. When you hold it, you think of home. Take it!
    She held out her right hand.
    The horse dropped into it. Instinctively she closed her fingers over it. It was indeed colder than she could have imagined, and it burned.
    She screamed. The Wintersmith’s snowy outline became a flurry of flakes. The snow around her feet erupted with a cry of “Crivens!” as a mass of Feegles grabbed her feet and carried her, upright, across the clearing and back in through the cottage’s doorway.
    Tiffany forced her hand open and, with trembling fingers, pulled the silver horse off her palm. It left a perfect print, a white horse on pink flesh. It wasn’t a burn, it was a…freeze.
    Miss Treason’s chair rumbled around on its wheels.
    “Come here, child,” she ordered.
    Still clasping her hand, trying to force back the tears, Tiffany walked over to her.
    “Stand right here by my chair, this instant!”
    Tiffany did so. This was no time to be disobedient.
    “I wish to look in your ear,” said Miss Treason. “Brush your hair aside.”
    Tiffany held back her hair, and winced when she heard the tickle of mouse whiskers. Then the creature was taken away.
    “Ah, I am surprised,” said Miss Treason. “I can see nothing.”
    “Er…what were you expecting to see?” Tiffany ventured.
    “Daylight!” snapped Miss Treason, so loudly that the mouse scuttled away. “Have you no brains at all, child?”
    “Ah dunno if anyone is interested,” said Rob Anybody, “but I think yon Wintersmith has offskied. An’ it’s stopped snowin’.”
    No one was listening. When witches row, they concentrate.
    “It was mine!”
    “A trinket!”
    “No!”
    “O’ course, this may not be the best time tae tell ye…” Rob went on, miserably.
    “You think you need it to be a witch?”
    “Yes!”
    “A witch needs no devices!”
    “You’ve used shambles!”
    “Used, yes! Don’t need. Not need !”
    “Ah mean, it’s quite meltin’ awa—” Rob said, smiling nervously.
    Anger grabbed Tiffany’s tongue. How dare this stupid old crone talk about not needing things!
    “Boffo!” she shouted. “Boffo, Boffo, Boffo!”
    Silence slammed down. After a while Miss Treason looked past Tiffany and said: “Ye wee Feegle schemies! Get oot o’ here right noo! Ah’ll ken it if ye don’t! This is hag business!”
    The room filled with a sort of whooshing noise, and the door to the kitchen slammed shut.
    “So,” said Miss Treason, “you know about Boffo, do you?”
    “Yes,” said Tiffany, breathing heavily. “I do.”
    “Very well. And have you told anyone—?” Miss Treason paused and raised a finger to her lips. Then she banged a stick on the floor. “Ah said get oot, ye scunners! Off intae the woods w’ ye! Check that he’s really gang awa’! I’ll see yer guilt through yer own een if