Wintersmith

her very old dog, had beans on toast, and then—
    “I think I’ve got something here for you,” said Mrs. Umbridge, heading for the little counter that was Twoshirts’s entire post office. “Now where did I—oh yes….”
    She handed Tiffany a small bundle of letters and a flat parcel, all held together by an elastic band and covered with dog hairs. She went on talking, but Tiffany barely noticed. There was something about how the carter had broken his leg, poor man, or maybe it was his horse that had broken a leg, poor creature, and one of the blizzards had brought down a lot of trees onto the track, and then the snow had set in so cruelly, dear, that not even a man on foot could get through, and so what with one thing and another the mail to and from the Chalk had been delayed and really there was hardly any of it anyway—
    All this was a kind of background buzzing to Tiffany, because the letters were all addressed to her—three from Roland and one from her mother—and so was the parcel. It had a businesslike air, and when opened revealed a sleek black box, which itself opened to reveal—
    Tiffany had never seen a box of watercolor paints before. She hadn’t known that so many colors existed in one place.
    “Oh, a paint box,” said Mrs. Umbridge, looking over her shoulder. “That’s nice. I had one when I was a girl. Ah, and it’s got turquoise in it. That’s very expensive, turquoise. That’s from your young man, is it?” she added, because old women like to know everything, or a little bit more.
    Tiffany cleared her throat. In her letters she’d kept right off the whole painful subject of painting. He must have thought she’d like to try it.
    The colors in her hands gleamed like a trapped rainbow.
    “It’s a lovely morning,” she said, “and I think I’d better go home….”

    On the chilly river just above the thundering Lancre Falls, a tree trunk was moored. Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg stood on a huge, water-worn stone in the middle of the torrent and watched it.
    The log was covered in Feegles. They all looked cheerful. Admittedly, certain death awaited them, but it did not involve—and this is important—having to spell anything.
    “You know, no man has ever gone over these falls and lived to tell the tale,” said Nanny.
    “Mr. Parkinson did,” said Granny. “Don’t you remember? Three years ago?”
    “Ah, yes, he lived, certainly, but he was left with a very bad stutter,” said Nanny Ogg.
    “But he wrote it down,” said Granny. “He called it ‘My Fall Over the Falls.’ It was quite interestin’.”
    “No one actually told a tale,” said Nanny. “That is my point.”
    “Aye, weel, we’re as light as wee feathers,” said Big Yan. “An’ the wind blowin’ through the kilt keeps a man well aloft, ye ken.”
    “I’m sure that’s a sight to see,” said Nanny Ogg.
    “Are ye all ready?” said Rob Anybody. “Fine! Would ye be so good as to untie yon rope, Mrs. Ogg?”
    Nanny Ogg undid the knot and gave the log a shove with her foot. It drifted a little way and then got caught by the current.
    “‘Row, Row, Row Yer Boat’?” Daft Wullie suggested.
    “Whut aboot it?” said Rob Anybody as the log began to speed up.
    “Why don’t we all sing it?” said Daft Wullie. The walls of the canyon were closing in fast now.
    “Okay,” said Rob. “After all, it is a pleasin’ naut-ickal ditty. And Wullie, ye’re tae keep yon cheese away fra’ me. I dinna like the way it’s lookin’ at me.”
    “It hasna got any eyes, Rob,” said Wullie meekly, holding on to Horace.
    “Aye, that’s whut I mean,” said Rob sourly.
    “Horace didna mean tae try an’ eat ye, Rob,” said Daft Wullie meekly. “An’ ye wuz sae nice an’ clean when he spat ye oot.”
    “An’ hoo come ye ken whut name a cheese has?” Rob demanded, as white water began to splash over the log.
    “He told me, Rob.”
    “Aye?” said Rob, and shrugged. “Oh, okay. I wouldna argue wi’ a cheese.”
    Bits of ice were bobbing on the river. Nanny Ogg pointed them out to Granny Weatherwax.
    “All this snow is making the ice rivers move again,” she said.
    “I know.”
    “I hope you can trust the stories, Esme,” said Nanny.
    “They are ancient stories. They have a life of their own. They long to be repeated. Summer rescued from a cave? Very old,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “The Wintersmith will chase our girl, though.”
    Granny watched the Feegles’ log drift around the