Wintersmith

chorus of “A Good Smoke!” and “Crivens!”
    Now the Wintersmith wants to marry me, Tiffany thought. Oh, dear.
    She’d sometimes wondered if she’d get married one day, but she was definite that now was too soon for “one day.” Yes, her mother had been married when she was still fourteen, but that was the sort of thing that happened in the olden days. There were a lot of things to be done before Tiffany ever got married, she was very clear about that.
    Besides, when you thought about it…yuk. He wasn’t even a person. He’d be too—
    Thud! went the wind in the sails. The ship creaked and leaned over, and everyone was shouting at her. Mostly they shouted, “The wheel! Grab the wheel right noo!” although there was also a desperate “A Good Smoke in Any Weather!” in there too.
    Tiffany turned to see the wheel spinning in a blur. She made a snatch at it and got thumped across the fingers by the spokes, but there was a length of rope coiled nearby and she managed to lasso the wheel with a loop and jerk it to a halt without sliding along the deck too much. Then she grabbed the wheel and tried to turn it the other way. It was like pushing a house, but it did move, very slowly at first and then faster as she put her back into it.
    The ship came around. She could feel it moving, beginning to head a little bit away from the iceberg, not directly for it. Good! Things were going right at last! She spun the wheel some more, and now the huge cold wall was sliding past, filling the air with mist. Everything was going to be all right after—
    The ship hit the iceberg.
    It started with a simple crack! as a spar caught on an outcrop, but then others smashed as the ship scraped along the side of the ice. Then there were some sharp splintering noises as the ship ground onward, and bits of plank shot up on columns of foaming water. The top of a mast broke off, dragging sails and rigging with it. A lump of ice smashed onto the deck a few feet away from Tiffany, showering her with needles.
    “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go!” she panted, hanging on to the wheel.
    Marry me , said the Wintersmith.
    Churning white water roared across the foundering ship. Tiffany held on for a moment longer; then the cold surf covered her…except that it was suddenly not cold, but warm. But it was still stopping her from breathing. In the darkness she tried to fight her way to the surface, until the blackness was suddenly pulled aside, her eyes filled with light, and a voice said: “I’m sure these mattresses are far too soft, but you can’t tell Mrs. Ogg a thing.”
    Tiffany blinked. She was in bed, and a skinny woman with worried hair and a rather red nose was standing by it.
    “You were tossing and turning like a mad thing,” the woman said, putting a steaming mug on the small table by the bed. “One day someone will suffikate, mark my words.”
    Tiffany blinked again. I’m supposed to think: Oh, it was just a dream. But it wasn’t just a dream. Not my dream.
    “What time is it?” she managed.
    “About seven,” said the woman.
    “Seven!” Tiffany pushed the sheets back. “I’ve got to get up! Mrs. Ogg will be wanting her breakfast!”
    “I shouldn’t think so. I took it to her in bed not ten minutes ago,” said the woman, giving Tiffany a Look. “And I’m off home.” She sniffed. “Drink your tea before it gets cold.” And with that she marched toward the door.
    “Is Mrs. Ogg ill?” asked Tiffany, looking everywhere for her socks. She’d never heard of anyone who wasn’t really old or very ill having a meal in bed.
    “Ill? I don’t think she’s had a day’s illness in her life,” said the woman, managing to suggest that in her opinion this was unfair. She shut the door.
    Even the bedroom floor was smooth—not made smooth by centuries of feet that had worn down the planks and taken all the splinters out, but because someone had sanded and varnished it. Tiffany’s bare feet stuck to it slightly. There was no dust to be seen, no spiderwebs anywhere. The room was bright and fresh and exactly unlike any room in a witch’s cottage ought to be.
    “I’m going to get dressed,” she said to the air. “Are there any Feegles in here?”
    “Ach, no,” said a voice from under the bed.
    There was some frantic whispering and the voice said: “That is tae say, there’s hardly any o’ us here at a’.”
    “Then shut your eyes,” said Tiffany.
    She got dressed, taking occasional sips of the tea as