Wintersmith

all he liked water. When you couldn’t find him, he was usually down by the river, fishing. He loved the river, which was a bit surprising since a huge green monster had once leaped out of it to eat him. However, Tiffany had hit it in the mouth with an iron frying pan. Since he’d been eating sweets at the time, Wentworth’s only comment afterward had been, “Tiffy hit fish go bang.” But he did seem to be growing up as a skilled angler. He was fishing this afternoon. He’d found the knack of knowing where the monsters were. The really big pike lurked in the deep, black holes, thinking slow hungry thoughts until Wentworth’s silver lure dropped almost into their mouths.
    When Tiffany went to call him in, she met him staggering up the path, much disheveled, and carrying a fish that looked as if it weighed at least half as much as he did.
    “It’s the big one!” he shouted as soon as he saw her. “Abe reckoned it was tucked in under the fallen willow, you know? He said they’ll snap at anything this time of year! It pulled me over, but I held on! Must weigh at least thirty pounds!”
    About twenty, thought Tiffany, but fish are always much heavier to the man who catches them.
    “Well done. But come on in, it’s going to freeze,” she said.
    “Can I have it for supper? It took ages to get in the net! It’s at least thirty-five pounds!” Wentworth said, struggling under the load. Tiffany knew better than to offer to carry it. That would be an insult.
    “No, it has to be cleaned and soaked for a day, and Mum’s done stew for tonight. But I’ll cook it for you tomorrow with ginger sauce.”
    “And there’ll be enough for everyone,” said Wentworth happily, “because it weighs at least forty pounds!”
    “Easily,” Tiffany agreed.
    And that night, after the fish had been duly admired by everyone and found to weigh twenty-three pounds with Tiffany’s hand on the scales helping it along a bit, she went into the scullery and cleaned the fish, which was a nice way of talking about pulling out or cutting off everything that you shouldn’t eat, which if Tiffany had her way meant the whole fish. She didn’t much like pike, but a witch should never turn up her nose at food, especially free food, and at least a good sauce would stop it tasting of pike.
    Then, as she was tipping the innards into the pig bucket, she saw the glint of silver. Well, you couldn’t exactly blame Wentworth for being too excited to extract the lure.
    She reached down and pulled out, covered with slime and scales but very recognizably itself, the silver horse.
    There should have been a roll of thunder. There was just Wentworth, in the next room, telling for the tenth time about the heroic capture of the monster fish. There should have been a rush of wind. Barely a draft disturbed the candles.
    But he knew she’d touched it. She felt his shock.
    She went to the door. As she opened it, a few snowflakes fell, but as if suddenly happy to have an audience, more began to pour down until—with no sound but a hiss—the night turned white. She held out her hand to catch some flakes and looked at them very closely. Little icy Tiffanys melted away.
    Oh, yes. He had found her.
    Her mind went cold, but crystal wheels of thought spun fast.
    She could take a horse?…No, she’d not get far on a night like this. She should’ve kept that broomstick!
    She shouldn’t have danced.
    There was nowhere to run to. She’d have to face him again, and face him here, and stop him dead. In the mountains, with their black forests, endless winter was hard to imagine. It was easier here, and because it was easier it was worse, because he was bringing winter into her heart. She could feel it growing colder.
    But the snow was inches deep already, in this short time. She was a shepherd’s daughter before she was a witch, and at this time, in this place, there were more immediate things to do.
    She went into the golden warmth and light of the kitchen and said: “Dad, we must see to the flock.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    The Crown of Ice
    T hat was then. This is now.
    “Ach, crivens,” moaned Wee Dangerous Spike, on the roof of the cart shed.
    The fire went out. The snow that had filled the sky began to thin. Wee Dangerous Spike heard a scream high overhead and knew exactly what to do. He raised his arms in the air and shut his eyes just as the buzzard swooped out of the white sky and snatched him up.
    He liked this bit. When he opened his eyes, the world was