I Shall Wear Midnight

  26 Witches always made certain that their hands were scrupulously clean; the rest of the witch had to wait for some time in the busy schedule – or possibly for a thunderstorm.

  27 There was no tradition of holy men on the Chalk, but since the hills were between the cities and the mountains, there was generally – in the good weather, at least – a steady procession of priests of one sort or another passing through who would, for a decent meal or a bed for the night, spread some holy words and generally give people’s souls a decent scrubbing. Provided that the priests were clearly of the decent sort, people didn’t worry unduly who their god was, so long as he – or occasionally she and sometimes it – kept the sun and moon spinning properly and didn’t want anything ridiculous or new. It also helped if the preacher knew a little something about sheep.

  28 If not through actual personal practice.

  Chapter 13

  THE SHAKING OF THE SHEETS

  HER PROPER BED in the castle’s black-and-white chamber was so much better than the dungeon, even though Tiffany had missed the soothing burps of the goats.

  She dreamed of fire, again. And she was being watched. She could feel it, and it wasn’t the goats this time. She was being watched inside her head. But it wasn’t bad watching; someone was caring for her. And in the dream the fire raged, and a dark figure pulled aside the flames as though they were curtains, and there was the hare sitting by the dark figure as if she was a pet. The hare caught Tiffany’s eye and jumped into the fire. And Tiffany knew.

  Somebody knocked at the door. Tiffany was suddenly awake. ‘Who’s there?’

  A voice on the other side of the heavy door said, ‘What sound does forgetfulness make?’

  She hardly had to think. ‘It’s the sound of the wind in dead grasses on a hot summer’s day.’

  ‘Yes, I think that would about do it,’ said Preston’s voice from the other side of the door. ‘To get right to the point, miss, there’s a lot of people downstairs, miss. I think they need their witch.’

  It was a good day for a funeral, Tiffany thought, looking out of the narrow castle window. It shouldn’t rain on a funeral. It made people too gloomy. She tried not to be gloomy at funerals. People lived, and died, and were remembered. It happened in the same way that winter followed summer. It was not a wrong thing. There were tears, of course, but they were for those who were left; those who had gone on did not need them.

  The staff had been up very early, and the long tables had been put out in the hall to make a breakfast for all-comers. That was a tradition. Rich or poor, lord or lady: the funeral breakfast was there for everyone, and out of respect for the old Baron; and also out of respect for a good meal, the hall was filling up. The Duchess was there, in a black dress that was more black than any black Tiffany had ever seen before. The dress gleamed. The black dress of the average witch was usually only theoretically black. In reality, it was often rather dusty, and quite possibly patched in the vicinity of the knees and somewhat ragged at the hems and, of course, very nearly worn through by frequent washings. It was what it was: working clothes. You couldn’t imagine the Duchess delivering a baby in that dress … Tiffany blinked. She could imagine the Duchess doing just that; if it was an emergency, she would. She would bully and complain and order people around, but she would do it. She was that kind of person.

  Tiffany blinked again. Her head felt crystal clear. The world seemed understandable but slightly fragile, as if it could be broken, like a mirror ball.

  ‘Morning, miss!’ That was Amber, and behind her, both her parents, Mr Petty looking scrubbed and sheepish and also quite bashful. He clearly didn’t know what to say. Nor did Tiffany.

  There was a stir at the main doors, and Roland hurried in that direction and came back with King Verence of Lancre and Magrat, his queen. Tiffany had met them before. You couldn’t help meeting them in Lancre, which was a very small kingdom, and even smaller when you took into consideration that Granny Weatherwax lived there too.

  And Granny Weatherwax was here, right here and now, with You29 lying across her shoulders like a scarf, behind the King and Queen and just in front of a huge jolly voice that shouted, ‘Watcha, Tiff! How’s your belly off for spots!’ which meant that a couple of feet below it, but hidden by reasons of size, was Nanny Ogg, rumoured by some to be cleverer than Granny Weatherwax, and clever enough at least not to let her find out.

  Tiffany bowed to them as was the custom. She thought, They gather, do they? She smiled at Granny Weatherwax and said, ‘Very pleased to see you here, Mistress Weatherwax, and a little surprised.’

  Granny stared at her but Nanny Ogg said, ‘It’s a long bumpy ride down from Lancre, and so the two of us thought we’d give Magrat and her king a nice ride down.’

  Possibly Tiffany was imagining it, but Nanny Ogg’s explanation sounded like something she had been working on for a little while. It felt as if she were reciting a script.

  But there was no more time to talk. The arrival of the king had triggered something in the air, and for the first time Tiffany saw Pastor Egg, in a black-and-white robe. She adjusted her pointy hat and walked over to him. He seemed quite glad of the company, which is to say that he gave her a grateful smile.

  ‘Hah, a witch, I see.’

  ‘Yes, the pointy hat is a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘But not a black dress, I notice … ?’

  Tiffany heard the question mark as it went past. ‘When I am old, I shall wear midnight,’ she said.

  ‘Entirely appropriate,’ said the pastor, ‘but now you wear green, white and blue, the downland colours, I can’t help remarking!’

  Tiffany was impressed. ‘So, you’re not interested in witchfinding, then?’ She felt a bit silly for asking outright, but she was on edge.

  Pastor Egg shook his head. ‘I can assure you, madam, that the Church has not been seriously involved in that sort of thing for hundreds of years! Unfortunately some people have long memories. Indeed, it was only a matter of a few years ago that the famous Pastor Oats said in his renowned Testament from the Mountains that the women known as witches embody, in a caring and practical way, the very best ideals of Brutha the prophet. That’s good enough for me. I hope it is good enough for you?’

  Tiffany gave him her sweetest smile, which wasn’t all that sweet, however hard you tried; she’d never really got the hang of sweet.

  ‘It’s important to be clear about these things, don’t you think?’

  She sniffed, and noticed no odour other than a hint of shaving cream. Even so, she was going to have to be on her guard.

  It was a good funeral too; from Tiffany’s point of view, a good funeral was one where the main player was very old. She had been to some – too many – where they were small and wrapped in a shroud. Coffins were barely known on the Chalk, and indeed nearly anywhere else. Decent timber was too expensive to be left to rot underground. A practical white woollen shroud did for most people; it was easy to make, not too expensive, and good for the wool industry. The Baron, however, went to his eternal rest inside a tomb of white marble which, him being a practical man, he had designed, bought and paid for twenty years ago. There was a white shroud inside it, because marble can be a bit chilly to lie on.

  And that was the end of the old Baron, except that only Tiffany knew where he really was. He was walking with his father in the stubbles, where they burned the corn stalks and the weeds, a perfect late-summer’s day, one never-changing perfect moment held in time …

  She gasped. ‘The drawing!’ Even though she’d spoken under her breath, people around her turned to look. She thought, How selfish of me! And then thought, Surely it will still be there?

  As soon as the lid of the stone tomb had been slid into place with a sound that Tiffany would always remember, she went and found Brian, who was blowing his nose; when he looked up at her he was pink around the eyes.

  She took him gently by the arm, trying not to sound urgent. ‘The room that the Baron was living in
, is it locked?’

  He looked shocked. ‘I should say so! And the money is in the big safe in the office. Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘There was something very valuable in there. A leather folder. Did that get put in the big safe too?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘Believe me, Tiff, after the’ – he hesitated – ‘bit of trouble, I did an inventory of everything in that room. Not a thing went out from there without me seeing it and putting it down in my notebook. With my pencil,’ he added, for maximum accuracy. ‘Nothing like a leather folder was taken out, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘No. Because Miss Spruce had already taken it,’ Tiffany said. ‘That wretched nurse! I didn’t mind about the money, because I never expected the money! Maybe she thought it had deeds in it or something!’

  Tiffany hurried back to the hall and looked around. Roland was the Baron now, in every respect. And it was in respect that people were clustering around him, saying things like, ‘He was a very good man,’ and ‘He’d had a good innings,’ and ‘At least he didn’t suffer,’ and all the other things people say after a funeral when they don’t know what to say.

  And now Tiffany headed purposefully towards the Baron, and stopped when a hand landed on her shoulder. She followed the arm up to the face of Nanny Ogg, who had managed to obtain the biggest flagon of ale that Tiffany had ever seen. To be precise, she noticed it was a half-full flagon of ale.

  ‘Nice to see something like this done well,’ said Nanny. ‘Never knew the old boy, of course, but he sounds like a decent fellow. Nice to see you, Tiff. Managing all right?’

  Tiffany looked into those innocent smiling eyes, and past them to the much sterner face of Granny Weatherwax, and the brim of her hat. Tiffany bowed.

  Granny Weatherwax cleared her throat with a sound like gravel. ‘We ain’t here on business, my girl, we just wanted to help the king make a good entrance.’

  ‘We are not here about the Cunning Man neither,’ Nanny Ogg added cheerfully. It sounded like a simple and silly giveaway, and Tiffany heard a disapproving sniff from Granny. But, generally speaking, when Nanny Ogg came out with a silly, embarrassing comment by accident, it was because she had thought about it very carefully beforehand. Tiffany knew this, and Nanny certainly knew that Tiffany knew, and Tiffany knew that too. But it was often the kind of way that witches behaved, and it all worked perfectly if nobody picked up an axe.

  ‘I know this is my problem. I will sort it out,’ she said.

  This was on the face of it a really stupid thing to say. The senior witches would be very useful to have at her side. But how would that look? This was a new steading, and she had to be proud.

  You couldn’t say, ‘I have done difficult and dangerous things before,’ because that was understood. What did matter was what you did today. It was a matter of pride. It was a matter of style.

  And it was also a matter of age. In twenty years’ time, perhaps, if she asked for help, people would think: Well, even an experienced witch can run up against something really unusual. And they would help as a matter of course. But now, if she asked for help, well … people would help. Witches always helped other witches. But everyone would think: Was she really any good? Can’t she last the distance? Is she strong enough for the long haul? No one would say anything, but everyone would think it.

  All this was the thought of a second, and when she blinked, the witches were watching her.

  ‘Self-reliance is a witch’s best friend,’ said Granny Weatherwax, looking stern.

  Nanny Ogg nodded in agreement, and added, ‘You can always rely on self-reliance, I’ve always said so.’ She laughed at Tiffany’s expression. ‘Do you think you are the only one to have to deal with the Cunning Man, love? Granny here had to deal with him when she was your age. She sent him back to where he came from in very short order, trust me on that.’

  Knowing that it was useless, but attempting it anyway, Tiffany turned to Granny Weatherwax and said, ‘Can you give me any tips, Mistress Weatherwax?’

  Granny, who was already drifting purposefully towards the buffet lunch, stopped for a moment and turned and said, ‘Trust yourself.’ She walked a few steps further and stood as if lost in thought and added, ‘And don’t lose.’

  Nanny Ogg slapped Tiffany on the back. ‘Never met the bugger myself, but I hear he is pretty bad. Here, is the blushing bride having a hen night tonight?’ The old lady winked and poured the remaining contents of the flagon down her throat.

  Tiffany tried to think quickly. Nanny Ogg got on with everyone. Tiffany had only a vague idea of what a hen night was, but some of Mrs Proust’s stock gave her a few clues, and if Nanny Ogg knew about them too, it was a certainty that alcohol was involved.

  ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to have a party like that on a night after a funeral, do you, Nanny? Though I think Letitia might enjoy a little talk,’ she added.

  ‘She’s your chum, isn’t she? I would have thought you’d have had a little talk with her yourself.’

  ‘I did!’ Tiffany protested. ‘But I don’t think she believed me. And you’ve had at least three husbands, Nanny!’

  Nanny Ogg stared at her for a moment and then said, ‘That’s quite a lot of conversation, I suppose. All right. But what about the young man? When’s his stag night going to be?’

  ‘Ah, I’ve heard of those! It’s where his friends get him drunk, take him a long way away, tie him to a tree and then … I think a bucket of paint and a brush is involved sometimes, but usually they throw him in the pigsty. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, the stag night is always much more interesting than the hen night,’ said Nanny, a look of mischief in her eye. ‘Has the lucky groom got any chums?’

  ‘Well, there are some nobby lads from other posh families, but the only people he really knows live here in the village. We all grew up together, you see? And none of them would dare throw the Baron in a pigsty!’

  ‘What about your young man over there?’ Nanny gestured towards Preston, who was standing nearby. He always seemed to be standing nearby.

  ‘Preston?’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t think he knows the Baron very well. And in any case—’ She stopped and thought, Young man? She turned and looked at Nanny, who was standing with her hands behind her back and face turned towards the ceiling with the expression of an angel, although admittedly one who might have met a few demons in her time. And that was Nanny all over. When it came to affairs of the heart – or indeed, of any other parts – you couldn’t fool Nanny Ogg.

  But he’s not my young man, she insisted to herself. He’s just a friend. Who is a boy.

  Preston stepped forward and removed his helmet in front of Nanny. ‘I fear, madam, that it would be against the rules for me as a military man to lay a hand on my commanding officer,’ he said. ‘Were it not for that, I would do so with alacrity.’

  Nanny nodded appreciatively at the polysyllabic response, and gave Tiffany a wink that made her blush to the soles of her boots. Nanny Ogg’s grin was now so wide you could fit it onto a pumpkin. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ she said. ‘I can see this place needs a little fun. Thank goodness I’m here!’

  Nanny Ogg had a heart of gold, but if you were easily shocked then it was best to stick your fingers in your ears when she said anything. Yet there had to be common sense, didn’t there? ‘Nanny, we’re at a funeral !’

  But her tone of voice would never make Nanny Ogg swerve. ‘Was he a good man?’

  Tiffany hesitated only for a moment. ‘He grew into goodness.’

  Nanny Ogg noticed everything. ‘Oh yes, your Granny Aching taught him his manners, I believe. But he died a good man, then? Good. Will he be remembered with fondness?’

  Tiffany tried to ignore the lump in her throat, and managed to say, ‘Oh yes, by everybody.’

  ‘And you saw to it that he died well? Kept the pain away?’

  ‘Nanny, if I say it myself, he had a perfect death. The only better death would have been not to die.’

  ?
??Well done,’ said Nanny. ‘Did he have a favourite song, do you know?’

  ‘Oh yes! It’s “The Larks They Sang Melodious”,’ said Tiffany.

  ‘Ah, I reckon that’s the one we call “Pleasant and Delightful” back home. Just follow me, will you, and we’ll soon get them in the right mood.’

  And with that Nanny Ogg grabbed a passing waiter by the shoulder, took a full flagon from his tray, jumped up onto a table, as lively as a girl, and shouted for silence in a voice as brisk as a sergeant-major. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! To celebrate the good life and easeful passing of our late friend and Baron, I have been asked to sing his favourite song. Do join in with me if you’ve got the breath!’

  Tiffany listened, enthralled. Nanny Ogg was a one-woman masterclass, or rather mistressclass, in people. She treated perfect strangers as if she had known them for years, and somehow they acted as if she really had. Dragged along, as it were, by an extremely good singing voice for one old woman with one tooth, perplexed people were raising their voices beyond a mumble by the second line, and by the end of the first verse were harmonizing like a choir, and she had them in her hand. Tiffany wept, and saw through the tears a little boy in his new tweed jacket that smelled of wee, walking with his father under different stars.

  And then she saw the glisten of tears on the faces, including the faces of Pastor Egg and even the Duchess. The echoes were of loss and remembrance, and the hall itself breathed.

  I should have learned this, she thought. I wanted to learn fire, and pain, but I should have learned people. I should have learned how not to sing like a turkey …

  The song had finished, and people were looking around sheepishly at one another, but Nanny Ogg’s boot was already making the table rock. ‘Dance, dance, the shaking of the sheets. Dance, dance, when you hear the piper playing,’ she sang.