Wintersmith by Terry Pratchett Page A

stopped as Miss Treason turned her head fast, like a chicken does.
    “—leave you like this?” she said. “Is that what you were going to say?”
    “Er, no,” Tiffany lied.
    “You’ll have to move in with someone else, of course,” said Miss Treason. “You’re not really senior enough to take on a cottage, not when there’s older girls waiting—”
    “You know I don’t want to spend my life in the mountains, Miss Treason,” Tiffany said quickly.
    “Oh yes, Miss Tick did tell me,” said the old witch. “You want to go back to your little chalk hills.”
    “They’re not little!” Tiffany snapped, louder than she’d meant to.
    “Yes, this has been a bit of a trying time all around,” said Miss Treason very calmly. “I shall write some letters, which you will take down to the village, and then you shall have your afternoon off. We shall hold the funeral tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Sorry? You mean before you die?” said Tiffany.
    “Why, of course! I don’t see why I shouldn’t have some fun!”
    “Good thinkin’!” said Rob Anybody. “That’s the kind o’ sensible detail people usually fails tae consider.”
    “We call it a going-away party,” said Miss Treason. “Just for witches, of course. Other people tend to get a bit nervous—I can’t think why. And on the bright side, we’ve got that splendid ham that Mr. Armbinder gave us last week for settling the ownership of the chestnut tree, and I’d love to try it.”

    An hour later Tiffany set out, with her pockets full of notes to butchers and bakers and farmers in the local villages.
    She was a bit surprised at the reception she got. They seemed to think it was all a joke.
    “Miss Treason’s not going to go dying at her time of life,” said a butcher, weighing out sausages. “I heard that Death’s come for her before and she slammed the door on him!”
    “Thirteen dozen sausages, please,” said Tiffany. “Cooked and delivered.”
    “Are you sure she’s going to die?” said the butcher, uncertainty clouding his face.
    “No. But she is,” said Tiffany.
    And the baker said, “Don’t you know about that clock of hers? She had it made when her heart died. It’s like a clockwork heart, see?”
    “Really?” said Tiffany. “So if her heart died, and she had a new one made of clockwork, how did she stay alive while the new heart was being made?”
    “Oh, that’d be by magic, obviously,” said the baker.
    “But a heart pumps blood, and Miss Treason’s clock is outside her body,” Tiffany pointed out. “There’s no…tubes….”
    “It pumps the blood by magic,” said the baker, speaking slowly. He gave her an odd look. “How can you be a witch if you don’t know this stuff?”
    It was the same everywhere else. It was as if the idea of there being no Miss Treason was the wrong shape to put in anyone’s head. She was 113 years old, and they argued that it was practically unheard of for anyone to die aged 113. It was a joke, they said, or she’d got a scroll signed in blood that meant she’d live forever, or you’d have to steal her clock before she’d die, or every time the Grim Reaper came for her she lied about her name or sent him to another person, or maybe she was just feeling a bit unwell….
    By the time Tiffany was finished, she was wondering if it really was going to happen. Yet Miss Treason had seemed so certain. And if you were 113, the amazing thing wasn’t that you were going to die tomorrow but that you were still alive today.
    With her head full of gloomy thoughts, she set out to the coven meeting.
    Once or twice she thought she could feel Feegles watching her. She never knew how she could feel this; it was a talent you learned. And you learned to put up with it, most of the time.
    All the other young witches were there by the time she arrived, and they had even got a fire lit.
    Some people think that “coven” is a word for a group of witches, and it’s true that’s what the dictionary says. But