Wintersmith

warmth.
    “Remember, don’t let the fire go out,” she said.
    “I’ve got men bringing up wood from all over,” said her father. “I told ’em to bring all the coal from the forge, too. It won’t run out of feeding, I promise you!”
    The flame danced and curved toward Tiffany’s hands. The trick was, the trick, the trick…was to fold the heat somewhere close, draw it with you and…balance. Forget everything else!
    “I’ll come with—” her father began.
    “No! Watch the fire!” Tiffany shouted, too loud, frantic with fear. “You will do what I say!”
    I am not your daughter today! her mind screamed. I am your witch! I will protect you !
    She turned before he could see her face and ran through the flakes, along the track that had been cut toward the lower paddocks. The snow had been trodden down into a lumpy, hummocky path, made slippery with fresh snow. Exhausted men with shovels pressed themselves into the snowbanks on either side rather than get in her way.
    She reached the wider area where other shepherds were digging into the wall of snow. It tumbled in lumps around them.
    “Stop! Get back!” her voice shouted, while her mind wept.
    The men obeyed quickly. The mouth that had given that order had a pointy hat above it. You didn’t argue with that.
    Remember the heat, the heat, remember the heat, balance, balance…
    This was witching cut to the bone. No toys, no wands, no Boffo, no headology, no tricks. All that mattered was how good you were.
    But sometimes you had to trick yourself. She wasn’t the Summer Lady and she wasn’t Granny Weatherwax. She needed to give herself all the help she could.
    She pulled the little silver horse out of her pocket. It was greasy and stained, and she’d meant to clean it, but there had been no time, no time….
    Like a knight putting on his helmet, she fastened the silver chain around her neck.
    She should have practiced more. She should have listened to people. She should have listened to herself.
    She took a deep breath and held out her hands on either side of her, palms up. On her right hand a white scar glowed.
    “Thunder on my right hand,” she said. “Lightning in my left hand. Fire behind me. Frost in front of me.”
    She stepped forward until she was only a few inches away from the snowbank. She could feel its coldness already pulling the heat out of her. Well, so be it. She took a few deep breaths. This I choose to do….
    “Frost to fire,” she whispered.
    In the yard, the fire went white and roared like a furnace.
    The snow wall spluttered and then exploded into steam, sending chunks of snow into the air. Tiffany walked forward slowly. Snow pulled back from her hands like mist at sunrise. It melted in the heat of her, becoming a tunnel in the deep drift, fleeing from her, writhing around her in clouds of cold fog.
    Yes! She smiled desperately. It was true. If you had the perfect center, if you got your mind right, you could balance. In the middle of the seesaw is a place that never moves….
    Her boots squelched over warm water. There was fresh green grass under the snow, because the awful storm had been so late in the year. She walked on, heading to where the lambing pens were buried.
    Her father stared at the fire. It was burning white-hot, like a furnace, eating through the wood as if driven by a gale. It was collapsing into ashes in front of his eyes….
    Water was pouring around Tiffany’s boots now.
    Yes! But don’t think about it! Hold the balance! More heat! Frost to fire!
    There was a bleat.
    Sheep could live under the snow, at least for a while. But as Granny Aching used to say, when the gods made sheep, they must’ve left their brains in their other coat. In a panic, and sheep were always just an inch from panicking, they’d trample their own lambs.
    Now ewes and lambs appeared, steaming and bewildered as the snow melted around them, as if they were sculptures left behind.
    Tiffany moved on, staring straight ahead of her, only just aware of the excited cries of the men behind her. They were following her, pulling the ewes free, cradling the lambs….
    Her father yelled at the other men. Some of them were hacking at a farm cart, throwing the wood down into the white-hot flames. Others were dragging furniture up from the house. Wheels, tables, straw bales, chairs—the fire took everything, gulped it down, and roared for more. And there wasn’t any more.
    No red coat. No red coat! Balance, balance. Tiffany waded on, water