Wintersmith

prayer.” She waved the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette and something in the drawer went pling . “It’ll be all right now. It was the egg slicer. Everyone has one, and no one knows why. Did anyone in the world ever knowingly go out one day and buy an egg slicer? I don’t think so.”
    Tiffany tried the drawer. It slid out easily.
    “About that tea?” said Anoia, sitting down.
    Tiffany put the kettle on. “You know about me?” she asked.
    “Oh, yes,” said Anoia. “It’s been quite some time since a god fell in love with a mortal. Everyone wants to see how it turns out.”
    “Fell in love?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “And you mean the gods are watching?”
    “Well, of course,” said Anoia. “Most of the big ones don’t do anything else these days! But I’m supposed to do zippers, oh yes, and my hands get very stiff in this weather!”
    Tiffany glanced at the ceiling, which was now full of smoke.
    “They’re watching all the time?” she said, aghast.
    “I heard you’re getting more interest than the war in Klatchistan, and that was pretty popular,” said Anoia, holding out her red hands. “Look, chilblains. Not that they care, of course.”
    “Even when I’m having a…wash?” said Tiffany.
    The goddess laughed nastily. “Yes. And they can see in the dark, too. Best not to think about it.”
    Tiffany looked up at the ceiling again. She had been hoping for a bath tonight.
    “I’ll try not to,” she said darkly, and added: “Is it…hard, being a goddess?”
    “It has its good days,” said Anoia. She stood with her cigarette arm cupped at the elbow by her other hand, holding the flaming, sparking thing close to her face. Now she took a sharp pull, raised her head, and blew a cloud of smoke out to join the smog on the ceiling. Sparks fell out of it like rain. “I haven’t been doing drawers long. I used to be a volcano goddess.”
    “Really?” said Tiffany. “I’d never have guessed.”
    “Oh, yes. It was good work, apart from the screaming,” said Anoia, and then added in a bitter tone of voice: “Ha! And the god of storms was always raining on my lava. That’s men for you, dear. They rain on your lava.”
    “And look at watercolors,” said Tiffany.
    Anoia’s eyes narrowed. “Someone else’s watercolors?”
    “Yes!”
    “Men! They’re all the same,” said Anoia. “Take my advice, dear, and show Mr. Wintersmith the door. He’s only an elemental, after all.”
    Tiffany glanced at the door.
    “Give him the boot, dear, send him packing and change the locks. Let’s have summer all year round like the hot countries do. Grapes all over the place, eh? Coconuts on every tree! Hah, when I was in the volcano game, I couldn’t move for mangoes. Kiss good-bye to snow and fog and slush. Have you got the thingy yet?”
    “The thingy?” said Tiffany, looking worried.
    “It’ll turn up, I daresay,” said Anoia. “I hear it can be a bit tricky to—Oops, I hear rattling, must fly, don’t worry, I won’t tell him where you are—”
    She vanished. So did the smoke.
    Not knowing what else to do, Tiffany ladled out a plate of hearty meat and vegetables and ate it. So…she could see gods now? And they knew about her? And everyone wanted to give her advice.
    It was not a good idea to come to the attention of those in high places, her father had said.
    But it was impressive. In love with her, eh? And telling everyone? But he was really an elemental, not a proper god at all. All he knew was how to move wind and water around!
    Even so…huh. Some people have elementals running after them! Oh yes! How about that? If people were stupid enough to dance around with girls who painted watercolors to lead honest men to their Doom, well, she could be haughty to people who were almost gods. She ought to mention that in a letter, except that of course she wasn’t going to be writing to him now . Hah!

    And a few miles away Old Mother Blackcap, who made her own soap out of animal fat and potash made, indeed, from plant ashes, felt a bar of soap snatched from her hand just as she was about to boil some sheets. The tub of water froze solid, too.
    Being a witch, she immediately said: “There’s a strange thief about!”
    And the Wintersmith said: “Potash enough to make a man!”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    The Horn of Plenty
    T hat night, after Nanny Ogg had gone to bed, Tiffany did have the bath she’d been looking forward to. This was not something to be taken lightly. First, the tin bath had