Wintersmith by Terry Pratchett

avalanche that carried away more than a hundred trees and a hunting lodge. This wasn’t Tiffany’s fault.
    It wasn’t her fault that people slipped on packed layers of her, or couldn’t open the door because she was piled up outside it, or got hit by handfuls of her thrown by small children. Most of her had melted by breakfast time the next day, and besides, no one noticed anything strange except witches who don’t take people’s word forthings, and a lot of kids no one listened to.
    Even so, Tiffany woke up feeling very embarrassed.
    Miss Treason didn’t help at all.
    “At least he likes you,” she said while she ferociously wound up her clock.
    “I wouldn’t know about that, Miss Treason,” said Tiffany, really not wanting this conversation at all. She was washing the dishes at the sink, her back to the old woman, and she was glad that Miss Treason could not see her face—and, if it came to it, that she couldn’t see Miss Treason’s face, either.
    “What will your young man say about it, I wonder?”
    “What young man is that, Miss Treason?” said Tiffany, as stonily as she could manage.
    “He writes you letters, girl!”
    And I expect you read them with my eyes, Tiffany thought. “Roland? He’s just a friend…sort of,” she said.
    “A sort of friend?”
    I’m not going into this, Tiffany thought. I bet she’s grinning. It’s not her business, anyway.
    “Yes,” she said, “that’s right, Miss Treason. A sort of friend.”
    There was a long silence, which Tiffany used to scrub out the bottom of an iron saucepan.
    “It is important to have friends,” said Miss Treason, in a voice that was somehow smaller than it had been. It sounded as though Tiffany had won. “When you have finished, dear, please be kind enough to fetch me my shamble bag.”
    Tiffany did so, and hurried off into the dairy. It was always good to get in there. It reminded her of home, and she could think better. She—
    There was a cheese-shaped hole in the bottom of the door, butHorace was back in his broken cage, making a very faint mnmnmnmn noise that may have been cheese snores. She left him alone and dealt with the morning’s milk.
    At least it wasn’t snowing. She felt herself blushing, and tried to stop herself from even thinking about it.
    And there was going to be a coven meeting tonight. Would the other girls know? Hah! Of course they would. Witches paid attention to snow, especially if it was going to be embarrassing for somebody.
    “Tiffany? I wish to speak with you,” Miss Treason called out.
    Miss Treason had hardly ever called her Tiffany before. It was quite worrying to hear her say the name.
    Miss Treason was holding up a shamble. Her seeing-eye mouse was dangling awkwardly among the bits of bone and ribbon.
    “This is so inconvenient,” she said, and raised her voice. “Ach, ye mudlins! C’mon oot! I ken ye’re there! I can see ye lookin’ at me!”
    Feegle heads appeared from behind very nearly everything.
    “Good! Tiffany Aching, sit down!”
    Tiffany sat down quickly.
    “At a time like this, too,” said Miss Treason, laying down the shamble. “This is so inconvenient. But there is no doubt.” She paused for a moment and said: “I will die the day after tomorrow. On Friday, just before half past six in the morning.”
    It was an impressive statement, and did not deserve this reply: “Oh, that’s a shame, tae be missin’ the weekend like that,” said Rob Anybody. “Are ye goin’ somewhere nice?”
    “But…but…you can’t die!” Tiffany burst out. “You’re a hundred and thirteen years old, Miss Treason!”
    “You know, that is very probably the reason, child,” said MissTreason calmly. “Didn’t anyone tell you that witches have forewarning when they’re going to die? Anyway, I like a good funeral.”
    “Oh aye, ye canna beat a good wake,” said Rob Anybody. “Wi’ lots o’ boozin’ an’ dancin’ an’ greetin’ an feastin’ an’ boozin’.”
    “There may be some