Wintersmith

don’t know,” she lied. “Anyway, you have to cut through quite a lot of a person before anything falls out. And skin is quite tough. I don’t think it’s possible.”
    Petulia looked alarmed. “You tried?”
    “I practiced with my thumbnail on a big ham this morning, if that’s what you mean,” said Tiffany. You have to check things, she thought. I heard the story that Miss Treason has wolf’s teeth, and people tell that to one another even though they’ve seen her.
    “Um…I’ll come and help tomorrow, of course,” said Petulia, nervously looking at Tiffany’s hands in case there were going to be any more thumbnail experiments. “Going-away parties can be quite jolly, really. But, um, if I was you, I’d tell Mr. Wintersmith to go away. That’s what I did when Davey Lummock started getting, um, too romantic. And I told him that I was, um, walking out with Makky Weaver— don’t tell the others !”
    “Isn’t he the one who talks about pigs all the time?”
    “Well, pigs are very interesting,” said Petulia reproachfully. “And his father, um, has got the biggest pig-breeding farm in the mountains.”
    “That’s something worth thinking about, definitely,” said Tiffany. “Ouch.”
    “What happened?” said Petulia.
    “Oh, nothing. My hand really twinged there for a moment.” Tiffany rubbed it. “Part of the healing, I suppose. See you tomorrow.”
    Tiffany went indoors. Petulia carried on through the forest.
    From up near the roof came the sounds of a conversation.
    “Didja hear what the fat girl said?”
    “Aye, but pigs are no’ that interestin’.”
    “Oh, I dinna ken aboot that. A verra useful animal is the pig. You can eat every part o’ it, ye ken, except for the squeal.”
    “Ach, ye’re wrong there. Ye can use the squeal.”
    “Dinna be daft!”
    “Aye, ye can so! Ye make up a pie crust, right, an’ ye put in a lot o’ ham, right, an’ then ye catch the squeal, put the top on the pie before he can escape, right, an’ bung it straight in the oven.”
    “I ne’er heard o’ such a thing as that!”
    “Have ye no’? It’s called squeal-and-ham pie.”
    “There’s nae such thing!”
    “Why not? There’s bubble-and-squeak, right? An’ a squeak is wee compared tae a squeal. I reckon you could—”
    “If youse mudlins dinna listen, I’ll put ye inna pie!” yelled Rob Anybody. The Feegles muttered into silence
    And on the other side of the clearing the Wintersmith watched with purple-gray eyes. He watched until a candle was lit in an upstairs room, and watched the orange glow until it went out.
    Then, walking unsteadily on new legs, he went toward the flower patch where, in the summer, roses had grown.

    If you went to Zakzak Stronginthearm’s Magical Emporium, you’d see crystal balls of all sizes but more or less only one price, which was A Great Deal Of Money. Since most witches, and particularly the good ones, had Not Much Money At All, they made use of other things, like the glass floats off old fishing nets or a saucer of black ink.
    There was a puddle of black ink on Granny Weatherwax’s table now. It had been in the saucer, but things had wobbled a bit when Granny and Miss Tick had banged their heads together trying to look in the saucer at the same time.
    “Did you hear that?” said Granny Weatherwax. “Petulia Gristle asked the important question, and she just didn’t think about it!”
    “I’m sorry to say I missed it too,” said Miss Tick. You, the white kitten, jumped up onto the table, walked carefully through the puddle of ink, and dropped into Miss Tick’s lap.
    “Stop that, You,” said Granny Weatherwax in a vague sort of way, as Miss Tick stared down at her dress.
    “It hardly shows up,” said Miss Tick, but in fact four perfect cat footprints were very clear. Witches’ dresses start out black but soon fade to shades of gray because of frequent washings or, in the case of Miss Tick, regular dips in various ponds and streams. They got threadbare and ragged, too, and their owners liked that. It showed you were a working witch, not a witch for show. Four black kitten footprints in the middle of your dress suggested you were a bit wussy, though. She lowered the cat to the floor, where it trotted over to Granny Weatherwax, rubbed up against her, and tried to meep more chicken into existence.
    “What was the important thing?” said Miss Tick.
    “I’m asking you as one witch to another, Perspicacia Tick: Has the Wintersmith