Wintersmith by Terry Pratchett Page B

the real word for a group of witches is an “argument.”
    In any case, most of the witches Tiffany had met never used the word. Mrs. Earwig did, though, almost all the time. She was tall and thin and rather chilly, and wore silver spectacles on a little chain, and used words like “avatar” and “sigil.” And Annagramma, who ran the coven because she’d invented it and had the tallest hat and sharpest voice, was her star pupil (and her only one).
    Granny Weatherwax always said that what Mrs. Earwig did was wizard magic with a dress on, and Annagramma certainly dragged a lot of books and wands along to the meetings. Mostly, the girls did a few ceremonies to keep her quiet, because for them the real purpose of the coven was to see friends, even if they were friends simply because they were, really, the only people you could talk to freely because they had the same problems and would understand what you were moaning about.
    They always met out in the woods, even in the snow. There was always enough wood lying around for a fire, and they all dressed up warm as a matter of course. Even in the summer, comfort on a broomstick at any height meant more layers of underclothing than anyone would dare guess at, and sometimes a couple of hot-water bottles held on with string.
    At the moment three small fireballs circled the fire. Annagramma had made them. You could slay enemies with them, she’d said. They made the others uneasy. It was wizard magic, showy and dangerous. Witches preferred to cut enemies dead with a look. There was no sense in killing your enemy. How would she know you’d won?
    Dimity Hubbub had brought a huge tray of inside-out cake. It was just the thing to put a coating on your ribs against the cold.
    Tiffany said: “Miss Treason told me she’s going to die on Friday morning. She said she just knows.”
    “That’s a shame,” said Annagramma in a that’s-not-really-a-shame tone of voice. “She was very old, though.”
    “She still is,” said Tiffany.
    “Um, it’s called The Call,” said Petulia Gristle. “Old witches know when they’re going to die. No one knows how it works. They just do.”
    “Has she still got those skulls?” said Lucy Warbeck, who had her hair piled up on her head with a knife and fork stuck in it. “I couldn’t stand them. They seemed to be, like, looking at me all the time!”
    “It was her using me as a mirror that made me leave,” said Lulu Darling. “Does she still do that?”
    Tiffany sighed. “Yes.”
    “I said flatly that I wouldn’t go,” said Gertruder Tiring, poking the fire. “Did you know that if you leave a witch without permission, no other witch will take you on, but if you leave Miss Treason even after only one night, no one says anything about it and they just find you another place?”
    “Mrs. Earwig says things like skulls and ravens is going far too far,” said Annagramma. “Everyone around there is literally frightened out of their lives!”
    “Um, what’s going to happen to you?” said Petulia to Tiffany.
    “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll go somewhere else.”
    “Poor you,” said Annagramma. “Miss Treason didn’t say who’ll take over the cottage, by any chance?” she added, as if she’d only just thought of the question.
    The sound that followed was the silence made by half a dozen pairs of ears listening so hard they were nearly creaking. There were not a lot of young witches coming up, it was true, but witches lived a long time, and getting your own cottage was the prize. That’s when you started getting respect.
    “No,” said Tiffany.
    “Not even a hint?”
    “No.”
    “She didn’t say it was going to be you , did she?” said Annagramma sharply. Her voice could be really annoying. It could make “hello” sound like an accusation.
    “No!”
    “Anyway, you’re too young.”
    “Actually, there’s no, you know, actual age limit,” said Lucy Warbeck. “Nothing written down, anyway.”
    “How do you know