Wintersmith

moment it sounded as if a scuffle were going on, and then a sound like “Crivens!” disappearing into the distance.
    The librarians were about to shut the door when they heard the terrified bellows of the oxen, getting louder very quickly.
    Two curling waves of snow came across the glittering moors. The creatures rode them like surfers, yelling at the moon. The snow settled down a few feet away from the wagon. There was a blue-and-red blur in the air, and the romantic book was whisked away.
    But what was really odd, the librarians agreed, was that when the oxen had come speeding toward them, they had appeared to be traveling backward .

    It was hard to be embarrassed by Nanny Ogg, because her laugh drove embarrassment away. She wasn’t embarrassed about anything.
    Today Tiffany, with extra pairs of socks on to avoid unfortunate floral incidents, went with her “around the houses,” as it was known to witches.
    “You did this for Miss Treason?” asked Nanny as they stepped out. There were big fat clouds massing around the mountains; there would be a lot more snow tonight.
    “Oh yes. And for Miss Level and Miss Pullunder.”
    “Enjoyed it, did you?” said Nanny, wrapping her cloak around her.
    “Sometimes. I mean, I know why we do it, but sometimes you get fed up with people being stupid. I quite like doing the medicine stuff.”
    “Good with the herbs, are you?”
    “No. I’m very good with the herbs.”
    “Oh, there’s a bit of swank, eh?” said Nanny.
    “If I didn’t know I was good with herbs, I’d be stupid, Mrs. Ogg.”
    “That’s right. Good. It’s good to be good at something. Now, our next little favor is—”
    —giving an old lady a bath, as much as was possible with a couple of tin basins and some washcloths. And that was witchcraft. Then they looked in on a woman who’d just had a baby, and that was witchcraft, and a man with a very nasty leg injury that Nanny Ogg said was doing very well, and that was witchcraft too, and then in an out-of-the-way group of huddled little cottages, they climbed the cramped wooden stairs to a tiny little bedroom where an old man shot at them with a crossbow.
    “You old devil, ain’t you dead yet?” said Nanny. “You’re looking well! I swear, the man with the scythe must’ve forgotten where you live!”
    “I’m a-waitin’ for him, Mrs. Ogg!” said the old man cheerfully. “If I’m gonna go, I’ll take ’im with me!”
    “This is my girl Tiff. She’s learnin’ the witchin’,” said Nanny, raising her voice. “This is Mr. Hogparsley, Tiff…Tiff?” She snapped her fingers in front of Tiffany’s eyes.
    “Huh?” said Tiffany. She was still staring in horror.
    The twang of the bow as Nanny opened the door had been bad enough, but for a fraction of a second, she would have sworn that an arrow had gone right through Nanny Ogg and stuck in the door frame.
    “Shame on you for firing at a young lady, Bill,” said Nanny severely, plumping up his pillows. “And Mrs. Dowser says you’ve been shootin’ at her when she comes up to see you,” she added, putting her basket down by the bed. “That’s no way to treat a respectable woman who brings you your meals, is it? For shame!”
    “Sorry, Nanny,” muttered Mr. Hogparsley. “It’s just that she’s skinny as a rake and wears black. ’Tis an easy mistake to make in poor light.”
    “Mr. Hogparsley here is lying in wait for Death, Tiff,” said Nanny. “Mistress Weatherwax helped you make the special traps and arrows, ain’t that right, Bill?”
    “Traps?” whispered Tiffany. Nanny just nudged her and pointed down. The floorboards were covered in ferociously spiked mantraps.
    They were all drawn in charcoal.
    “I said isn’t that right, Bill?” Nanny repeated, raising her voice. “She helped you with the traps!”
    “She did that!” said Mr. Hogparsley. “Hah! I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side o’ her!”
    “Right, so no shootin’ arrows at anyone except Death, right? Otherwise Mistress Weatherwax won’t make you any more,” said Nanny, putting a bottle on the old wooden box that was Mr. Hogparsley’s bedside table. “Here’s some of your jollop, freshly mixed up. Where did she tell you to keep the pain?”
    “It’s sitting up here on my shoulder, missus, being no trouble.”
    Nanny touched the shoulder, and seemed to think for a moment. “It’s a brown and white squiggle? Sort of oblong?”
    “That’s right, missus,” said Mr. Hogparsley,