Wintersmith

Werk. Apart from the snoring, the chorus of werk s, and the rustle of shuffling chickens, it was all very peaceful in the candlelight. Werk.
    Tiffany glared at the kitten. She rubbed up against things when she wanted to be fed, didn’t she? Werk. And made meep noises? Werk. And the Cornucopia could work out languages, couldn’t it? Werk.
    Now she whispered: “No more chickens,” and after a few seconds the flow of chickens ceased. Werk.
    But she couldn’t really leave it like that. She shook Granny by the shoulder and, as the old woman awoke, she said: “The good news is a lot of the ham sandwiches have gone…er….”
    Werk.

CHAPTER NINE
    Green Shoots
    I t was much colder the next morning, a numb dull coldness that could practically freeze the flames on a fire.
    Tiffany let the broomstick settle between the trees a little way from Nanny Ogg’s cottage. The snow hadn’t drifted much here, but it came up to her knees, and cold had put a crispness on it that crackled like a stale loaf when Tiffany trod it.
    In theory she was out in the woods to get the hang of the Cornucopia, but really she was there to keep it out of the way. Nanny Ogg hadn’t been too upset about the chickens. After all, she now owned five hundred hens, which were currently standing around in her shed going werk . But the floors were a mess, there were chicken doo-dahs even on the banisters, and as Granny had pointed out (in a whisper), supposing someone had said “sharks”?
    The Cornucopia lay on her lap while she sat on a stump among snow-covered trees. Once the forest had been pretty. Now it was hateful. Dark trunks against snowdrifts, a striped world of black and white, bars against the light. She longed for horizons.
    Funny…the Cornucopia was always very slightly warm, even out here, and seemed to know in advance what size it ought to be. “I grow, I shrink,” thought Tiffany. And I’m feeling pretty small.
    What next? What now? She’d kept hoping that the…the power would drop on her, just like the Cornucopia had done. It hadn’t.
    There was life under the snow. She felt it in her fingertips. Somewhere down there, out of reach, was the real Summer. Using the Cornucopia as a scoop, she scraped away at the snow until she reached dead leaves. There was life down there in the white webs of fungi and pale, new roots. A half-frozen worm crawled slowly away and burrowed under a leaf skeleton, fine as lace. Beside it was an acorn.
    The woods weren’t silent. They were holding their breath. They were all waiting for her, and she didn’t know what to do.
    I’m not the Summer Lady, she told herself. I can never be her. I’m in her shoes, but I can never be her. I might be able to make a few flowers grow, but I can never be her. She’ll walk across the world and oceans of sap will rise in these dead trees and a million tons of grass will grow in a second. Can I do that? No. I’m a stupid child with a handful of tricks, that’s all. I’m just Tiffany Aching, and I’m aching to go home.
    Feeling guilty about the worm, she breathed some warm air on the soil and then pushed the leaves back to cover it. As she did so, there was a wet little sound, like the snapping of a frog’s fingers, and the acorn split. A white shoot escaped from it and grew more than half an inch as she watched it.
    Hurriedly she made a hole in the mold with her fingers, pushed the acorn in, and patted the soil back again.
    Someone was watching her. She stood up and turned around quickly. There was no one to be seen, but that didn’t mean a thing.
    “I know you’re there!” she said, still turning around. “Whoever you are!”
    Her voice echoed among the black trees. Even to her it sounded thin and scared.
    She found herself raising the Cornucopia.
    “Show yourself,” she quavered, “or—”
    What? she wondered. I’ll fill you full of fruit?
    Some snow fell off a tree with a thump, making her jump and then feel even more foolish. Now she was flinching at the fall of a handful of snowflakes! A witch ought never to be frightened in the darkest forest, Granny Weatherwax had once told her, because she should be sure in her soul that the most terrifying thing in the forest was her.
    She raised the Cornucopia and said, half-heartedly: “Strawberry….”
    Something shot out of the Cornucopia with a pfut and made a red stain on a tree twenty feet away. Tiffany didn’t bother to check; it always delivered what you asked for.
    Which was more than she could