Wintersmith

Teeth, and Hairy Warts (supplied loose, stick them where you like!!!). Miss Treason had obviously stopped short of buying one of these, possibly because the nose looked like a carrot but probably because the skin was bright green. She could also have bought Scary Witch Hands ($8 a pair, with green skin and black fingernails) and Smelly Witch Feet ($9).
    Tiffany tucked the catalogue back into the book. She couldn’t leave it for Annagramma to find, or the secret of Miss Treason’s Boffo would be out.
    And that was it: one life, ended and neatly tidied away. One cottage, clean and empty. One girl, wondering what was going to happen next. “Arrangements” would be made.
    Clonk-clank.
    She didn’t move, didn’t look around. I’m not going to be Boffo’d, she told herself. There’s an explanation for that noise that has nothing to do with Miss Treason. Let’s see…I cleaned the fireplace, right? And I leaned the poker next to it. But unless you get it just right, it always falls over sooner or later in a sneaky kind of way. That’s it. When I turn and look behind me, I’ll see that the poker has fallen over and is lying in the grate and therefore the noise wasn’t caused by any kind of ghostly clock at all.
    She turned around slowly. The poker was lying in the grate.
    And now, she thought, it would be a good idea to go outside into the fresh air. It’s a bit sad and stuffy in here. That’s why I want to go out, because it’s sad and stuffy. It’s not at all because I’m afraid of any imaginary noises. I’m not superstitious. I’m a witch. Witches aren’t superstitious. We are what people are superstitious of. I just don’t want to stay. I felt safe here when she was alive—it was like sheltering under a huge tree—but I don’t think it is safe anymore. If the Wintersmith makes the trees shout my name, well, I’ll cover my ears. The house feels like it’s dying and I’m going outside.
    There was no point in locking the door. The local people were nervous enough about going inside even when Miss Treason was alive. They certainly wouldn’t set foot inside now, not until another witch had made the place her own.
    A weak, runny-egg kind of sun was showing through the clouds, and the wind had blown the frost away. But a brief autumn turned to winter quickly up here; from now on there would always be the smell of snow in the air. Up in the mountains the winter never ended. Even in the summer, the water in the streams was ice cold from the melting snow.
    Tiffany sat down on the old stump with her ancient suitcase and a sack and waited for the Arrangements. Annagramma would be here pretty soon, you could bet on that.
    The cottage already looked abandoned. It seemed like—
    It was her birthday . The thought pushed itself to the front. Yes, it would be today. Death had got it right. The one big day in the year that was totally hers, and she had forgotten about it in all the excitement, and now it was already two thirds over.
    Had she ever told Petulia and the others when her birthday was? She couldn’t remember.
    Thirteen years old. But she’d been thinking of herself as “nearly thirteen” for months now. Pretty soon she’d be “nearly fourteen.”
    She was just about to enjoy a bit of self-pity when there was a stealthy rustling behind her. She turned so quickly that Horace the cheese leaped backward.
    “Oh, it’s you,” said Tiffany. “Where have you been, you naughty bo—cheese? I was worried sick!”
    Horace looked ashamed, but it was quite hard to see how he managed it.
    “Are you going to come with me?” she asked.
    Horace was immediately surrounded by a feeling of yesness.
    “All right. You must get in the sack.” Tiffany opened it, but Horace backed away.
    “Well, if you are going to be a naughty chee—” she began, and stopped. Her hand was itching. She looked up…at the Wintersmith.
    It had to be him. At first he was just swirling snow in the air, but as he strode across the clearing, he seemed to come together, become human, become a young man with a cloak billowing out behind him and snow on his hair and shoulders. He wasn’t transparent this time, not entirely, but something like ripples ran across him, and Tiffany thought she could see the trees behind him, like shadows.
    She took a few hurried steps backward, but the Wintersmith was crossing the dead grass with the speed of a skater. She could turn and run, but that would mean she was, well, turning and running, and