Wintersmith

looked at the snowflakes and smiled in her not-exactly-nice way.
    “Come back in, You,” she said, and shut the door.
    Miss Tick was shivering by the fire. It wasn’t very big—just big enough. However, there was the smell of bacon and pease pudding coming from a small pot on the embers, and beside the small pot was a much larger one from which came the smell of chicken. Miss Tick didn’t often get chicken, so she lived in hope.
    It had to be said that Granny Weatherwax and Miss Tick did not get on well with each other. Senior witches often don’t. You could tell that they didn’t by the way they were extremely polite all the time.
    “The snow is early this year, Mistress Weatherwax,” said Miss Tick.
    “Indeed it is, Miss Tick,” said Granny Weatherwax. “And so…interesting. Have you looked at it?”
    “I’ve seen snow before, Mistress Weatherwax,” said Miss Tick. “It was snowing all the way up here. I had to help push the mail coach! I saw altogether too much snow! But what are we going to do about Tiffany Aching?”
    “Nothing, Miss Tick. More tea?”
    “She is rather our responsibility.”
    “No. She’s hers, first and last. She’s a witch. She danced the Winter Dance. I saw her do it.”
    “I’m sure she didn’t mean to,” said Miss Tick.
    “How can you dance and not mean it?”
    “She’s young. The excitement probably ran away with her feet. She didn’t know what was going on.”
    “She should have found out,” said Granny Weatherwax. “She should have listened.”
    “I’m sure you always did what you were told when you were almost thirteen, Mistress Weatherwax,” said Miss Tick with just a hint of sarcasm.
    Granny Weatherwax stared at the wall for a moment. “No,” she said. “I made mistakes. But I didn’t make excuses.”
    “I thought you wanted to help the child?”
    “I’ll help her to help herself. That is my way. She’s danced into the oldest Story there is, and the only way out is through the other end. The only way, Miss Tick.”
    Miss Tick sighed. Stories, she thought. Granny Weatherwax believes the world is all about stories. Oh well, we all have our funny little ways. Except me, obviously.
    “Of course. It’s just that she’s so…normal,” Miss Tick said aloud. “When you consider what she’s done, I mean. And she thinks so much. And now that she’s come to the attention of the Wintersmith, well…”
    “She fascinates him,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “That’s going to be a big problem.”
    “Which she will have to solve.”
    “And if she can’t?”
    “Then she’s not Tiffany Aching,” said Granny Weatherwax firmly. “Ah, yes, she’s in the Story now, but she don’t know it! Look at the snow, Miss Tick. They say that no two snowflakes are alike. How could they know something like that? Oh, they thinks they’re so smart! I’ve always wanted to catch ’em out. An’ I have done! Go outside now, and look at the snow. Look at the snow, Miss Tick! Every flake the same!”

    Tiffany heard the knocking and opened the tiny bedroom window with difficulty. Snow had built up on the sill, soft and fluffy.
    “We didna want tae wake ye,” said Rob Anybody, “but Awf’ly Wee Billy said you ought tae see this.”
    Tiffany yawned. “What am I looking for?” she muttered.
    “Catch some o’ yon flakes,” said Rob. “No, not on yer hand—they’ll melt tae soon.”
    In the gloom Tiffany felt around for her diary. It wasn’t there. She looked on the floor, in case she’d knocked it off. Then a match flared as Rob Anybody lit a candle, and there was the diary, looking as though it had always been there but, she noticed, also being suspiciously cold to the touch. Rob looked innocent, a sure sign of guilt.
    Tiffany saved the questions for later and poked the diary out of the window. Flakes settled on it, and she lifted it closer to her eyes.
    “They look just like any ordin—” she began, and then stopped, and then said, “Oh, no…this must be a trick!”
    “Aye? Well, ye could call it that,” said Rob. “But it’s his trick, ye ken.”
    Tiffany stared at falling flakes drifting in the light of the candle.
    Every one of them was Tiffany Aching. A little, frozen, sparkling Tiffany Aching.
    Downstairs, Miss Treason burst out laughing.

    The doorknob on the door to the tower bedroom was rattled angrily. Roland de Chumsfanleigh (pronounced Chuffley; it wasn’t his fault) carefully paid it no attention.
    “What are you doing in there,