Wintersmith

would surely have mentioned it.
    And the scene in chapter five, where Megs left the sheep to fend for themselves while she went gathering nuts with Roger…well, how stupid was that? They could have wandered anywhere, and they were really stupid to think they’d find nuts in June.
    She read on a bit further, and thought: Oh. I see. Hmm. Hah. Not nuts at all, then. On the Chalk, that sort of thing was called “looking for cuckoo nests.”
    She stopped there to go downstairs to fetch a fresh candle, got back into bed, let her feet warm up again, and went on reading.
    Should Megs marry sulky dark-eyed William, who already owned two and a half cows, or should she be swayed by Roger, who called her “my proud beauty” but was clearly a bad man because he rode a black stallion and had a mustache?
    Why did she think she had to marry either of them? Tiffany wondered. Anyway, she spent too much time leaning meaningfully against things and pouting. Wasn’t anyone doing any work? And if she always dressed like that, she’d catch a chill.
    It was amazing what those men put up with. But it made you think.
    She blew out the candle and sank gently under the eiderdown, which was as white as snow.

    Snow covered the Chalk. It fell around the sheep, making them look a dirty yellow. It covered the stars but glowed by its own light. It stuck to the windows of the cottages, blotting out the orange candlelight. But it would never cover the castle. The castle stood on a mound a little way from the village, a tower of stone ruling all those thatched homes. They looked as if they had grown from the land, but the castle nailed it down. It said: I Own.
    In his room, Roland wrote carefully. He ignored the hammering from outside.
    Annagramma, Petulia, Miss Treason—Tiffany’s letters were full of faraway people with strange-sounding names. Sometimes he tried to imagine them, and wondered if she was making them up. The whole witchcraft business seemed…well, not as advertised. It seemed like—
    “Do you hear this, you wicked boy?” Aunt Danuta sounded triumphant. “Now it’s barred from this side too! Hah! This is for your own good, you know. You will stay in there until you are ready to apologize!”
    —like hard work, to be honest. Worthy, though, visiting the sick and everything, but very busy and not very magical. He’d heard of “dancing around without your drawers on” and tried his best not to imagine it, but in any case there didn’t seem to be anything like that. Even broomstick rides sounded—
    “And we know about your secret passage now, oh yes! It’s being walled up! No more thumbing your nose at people who are doing their very best for you!”
    —dull. He paused for a moment, staring blankly at the carefully stacked piles of loaves and sausages beside his bed. I ought to get some onions tonight, he thought. General Tacticus says they are unsurpassable for the proper operation of the digestive system if you can’t find fresh fruit.
    What to write, what to write…yes! He’d tell her about the party. He’d only gone because his father, in one of his good moments, had asked him to. It was important to keep in with the neighbors but not with the relatives! It’d been quite nice to get out, and he’d been able to leave his horse at Mr. Gamely’s stable, where the aunts wouldn’t think of looking for it. Yes…she’d enjoy hearing about the party.
    The aunts were shouting again, about locking the door to his father’s room. And they were blocking the secret passage. That meant that all he was left with was the loose stone that came out behind the tapestry in the next room, the wobbly flagstone that could let him drop down into the room below, and, of course, the chain outside the window that let him climb all the way down to the ground. And on his desk, on top of General Tacticus’s book, was a complete set of shiny new castle keys. He’d got Mr. Gamely to make them for him. The blacksmith was a thoughtful man who could see the sense in being friendly to the next Baron.
    He could come and go as he liked, whatever they did. They could bully his father, they could shout all they pleased, but they would never own him .
    You could learn a lot from books.

    The Wintersmith was learning. It was a hard, slow task when you had to make your brain out of ice. But he had learned about snowmen. They were built by the smaller kinds of humans. That was interesting. Apart from the ones in pointy hats, the bigger humans