"Romance?" said Tiffany, shocked. "The girl Weatherwax and Miss Tick will have to guide you," Miss Treason went on. "I must say, though, that I suspect that neither of them has jousted much in the lists of love."
"Lists of love?" said Tiffany. It was getting worse! "Can you play poker?" Miss Treason asked. "Pardon?"
"Poker. The card game. Or Cripple Mr. Onion? Chase My Neighbor Up the Passage? You must have sat up with the dead and dying before?"
"Well, yes. But I've never played cards with them! Anyway, I don't know how to play!"
"I'll teach you. There's a pack of cards in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Go and fetch them." file:///F|/MUSIC/Pratchett,%20Terry%20-%20[Discworld...]%20-%20Wintersmith%20[html,%20jpg]/wintersmith.html (103 of 269)26/12/2006 19:25:36
Wintersmith "Is this like gambling? My father said that people shouldn't gamble." Miss Treason nodded. "Good advice, my dear. Don't worry. The way I play poker isn't like gambling at all…." When Tiffany awoke with a jolt, playing cards sliding off her dress and onto the floor, the cold gray light of morning filled the room. She peered at Miss Treason, who was snoring like a pig. What was the time? It was six at least! What should she do? Nothing. There was nothing to do. She picked up the Ace of Wands and stared at it. So that was poker, was it? Well, she hadn't been too bad at it, once she'd worked out that it was all about making your face tell lies. For most of the time the cards were just something to do with your hands. Miss Treason slept on. Tiffany wondered if she should get some breakfast, but it seemed such a— "The ancient kings of Djelibeybi, who are buried in pyramids," said Miss Treason from the bed, "used to believe that they could take things with them into the next world. Such things as gold and precious stones and even slaves. On that basis, please make me a ham sandwich."
"Er…you mean…?" Tiffany began. "The journey after death is quite a long one," said Miss Treason, sitting up. "I may get hungry."
"But you'll just be a soul!"
"Well, perhaps a ham sandwich has a soul, too," said Miss Treason, as she swung her skinny legs out of the bed. "I'm not sure about the mustard, but it's worth a try. Hold still there!" This was because she had picked up her hairbrush and was using Tiffany as a mirror. The fiercely concentrated glare a few inches away was as much as Tiffany could bear on a morning like this. "Thank you—you may go and make the sandwich," said Miss Treason, laying the brush aside. "I will now get dressed." Tiffany hurried out and washed her face in the basin in her room; she always did that after the eyeballing, but she'd never plucked up the courage to object, and now certainly wasn't the time to start. As she dried her face, she thought she heard a muffled sound outside and went over to the window. There was frost on— Oh, no…oh…no…no! He was at it again! The frost ferns spelled the word "Tiffany." Over and over. She grabbed a rag and wiped them off, but the ice only formed again, thicker. She hurried downstairs. The ferns were all over the windows, and when she tried to wipe them off, the rag froze to the glass. It creaked when she pulled at it. Her name, all over the window. Over all the windows. Maybe over all the windows in all the mountains. Everywhere. He'd come back. That was dreadful! But also, just a bit…cool…. She didn't think the word, because as far as Tiffany knew the word meant "slightly cold." But she thought the thought, even so. It was a hot little thought. "In my day young men would just carve the girl's initials on a tree," said Miss Treason, coming down the stairs one careful step at a time. Too late, Tiffany felt the tickle behind her eyes. "It's not funny, Miss Treason! What shall I do?"
"I don't know. If possible, be yourself." Miss Treason bent down creakily and opened her hand. The seeing-eye mouse hopped down onto the floor, turned, and stared at her with tiny black eyes for a moment. She prodded it with a finger. "Go on, off you go. Thank you," she said, and then it scuttled off to a hole. Tiffany helped her upright, and the old witch said: "You're starting to snivel, aren't you."
"Well, it's all a bit—" Tiffany began. The little mouse had looked so lost and forlorn. "Don't cry," said Miss Treason. "Living this long's not as wonderful as people think. I mean, you get the same amount of youth as everyone else, but a great big extra helping of being very old and deaf and creaky. Now, blow your nose and help me on with the ravens' perch."
"He might still be out there…" Tiffany mumbled, as she eased the perch onto the thin shoulders. Then she rubbed at the window again and saw shapes and movement. "Oh…they came…" she said. "What?" said Miss Treason. She stopped. "There's lots of people out there!"
"Er…yes," said Tiffany. "What do you know about this, my girl?"
"Well, you see, they kept asking when—"
"Fetch my skulls! They mustn't see me without my skulls! How does my hair look?" said Miss Treason, frantically winding up her clock. "It looks nice—"
"Nice? Nice? Are you mad? Mess it up this minute!" Miss Treason demanded. "And fetch my most raggedy cloak! This one's far too clean! Move yourself, child!" It took several minutes to get Miss Treason ready, and a lot of the time was spent convincing her that taking the skulls out in daylight might be dangerous, in case they got dropped and someone saw the labels. Then Tiffany opened the door. A murmur of conversation crashed into silence. There were people in a crowd all around the door. As Miss Treason stepped forward, it parted to leave a clear path. To her horror, Tiffany saw a dug grave on the other side of the clearing. She hadn't expected that. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but a dug grave wasn't it. "Who dug—?"
"Our blue friends," said Miss Treason. "I asked them to." And then the crowd started to cheer. Women hurried forward with big bunches of yew, holly, and mistletoe, the only green things growing. People were laughing. People were crying. They clustered around the witch, forcing Tiffany out to the edge of the crowd. She went quiet and listened. "We don't know what we'll do without you, Miss Treason."—"I don't think we'll get another witch as good as you, Miss Treason!"—"We never thought you'd go, Miss Treason. You brought my ol' granddad into the world."— Walking into the grave, Tiffany thought. Well, that's style. That is…solid gold Boffo. They'll remember that for the rest of their lives— "In that case you shall keep all the puppies but one—" Miss Treason had stopped to organize the crowd. "The custom is to give that one to the owner of the dog. You should have kept the bitch in, after all, and minded your fences. And your question, Mister Blinkhorn?" Tiffany stood up straight. They were bothering her! Even this morning! But she…wanted to be bothered. Being bothered was her life. "Miss Treason!" she snapped, pushing her way through the mob. "Remember you have an appointment!" It wasn't the best thing to say, but a lot better than: "You said you were going to die in about five minutes' time!" Miss Treason turned and looked uncertain for a moment. "Oh, yes," she said. "Yes, indeed. We had better get on." Then, still talking to Mr. Blinkhorn about some complex problem concerning a fallen tree and someone's shed, and with the rest of the crowd trailing after her, she let Tiffany walk her gently to the graveside. "Well, at least you've got a happy ending, Miss Treason," Tiffany whispered. It was a silly thing to say and deserved what it got. "We make happy endings, child, day to day. But you see, for the witch there are no happy endings. There are just endings. And here we are…." Best not to think, thought Tiffany. Best not to think you're climbing down an actual ladder into an actual grave. Try not to think about helping Miss Treason down the ladder onto the leaves that are piled up at one end. Do not let yourself know you're standing in a grave. Down here, the horrible clock seemed to clank even louder: clonk-clank, clonk-clank…. Miss Treason trod the leaves down a bit and said cheerfully, "Yes, I can see myself being quite comfortable here. Listen, child, I told you about the books, did I not? And there is a small gift for you under my chair. Yes, this seems adequate. Oh, I forgot…" Clonk-clank, clonk-clank …went the clock, sounding much louder down there. Miss Treason stood on tiptoe and poked her head over the edge of the hole. "Mr. Easy! You owe two months' rent to the Widow Langley! Understand? Mr. Plenty, the pig belongs to Mrs. Frumment, and if you don't give it back to her, I shall come back and groan under your window! Mistress Fullsome, the Dogelley family have had Right of Passage over the Turnwise pasture since even I cannot remember, and you must…you must…" Clon…k. There was a moment, one long moment, when the sudden silence of the clock not ticking anymore filled the clearing like thunder. Slowly Miss Treason sagged down onto the leaves. It took a few dreadful seconds for her brain to start working, and then Tiffany screamed at the people clustered above: "Go back, all of you! Give her some air!" She knelt down as they backed hurriedly away. The smell of the raw soil was sharp in the air. At least Miss Treason seemed to have died with her eyes shut. Not everyone did. Tiffany hated having to shut them for people; it was like killing them all over again. "Miss Treason?" she whispered. That was the first test. There were a lot of them, and you had to do them all: speak to them, raise an arm, check the pulses including the one behind the ear, check for breath with a mirror…and she'd always been so nervous about getting them wrong that the first time she'd had to go out to deal with someone who looked dead—a young man who'd been in a horrible sawmill accident—she'd done every single test, even though she'd had to go and find his head. There were no mirrors in Miss Treason's cottage. In that case she— —should think! This is Miss Treason here! And I heard her wind her clock up only a few minutes ago! She smiled. "Miss Treason!" she said, very close to the woman's ear. "I know you're in there!" And that's when the morning, which had been sad, weird, odd, and horrible, became…Boffo all the way. Miss Treason smiled. "Have they gone?" she inquired. "Miss Treason!" said Tiffany sternly. "That was a terrible thing to do!"
"I stopped my clock with my thumbnail," said Miss Treason proudly. "Couldn't disappoint them, eh? Had to give 'em a show!"
"Miss Treason," said Tiffany severely, "did you make up the story about your clock?"
"Of course I did! And it's a wonderful bit of folklore, a real corker. Miss Treason and her clockwork heart! Might even become a myth, if I'm lucky. They'll remember Miss Treason for thousands of years!" Miss Treason closed her eyes again. "I'll certainly remember you, Miss Treason," said Tiffany. "I will really, because—" The world had gone gray, and was getting grayer. And Miss Treason had gone very still. "Miss Treason?" said Tiffany, nudging her. "Miss Treason?" MISS EUMENIDES TREASON, AGED ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN? Tiffany heard the voice inside her head. It didn't seem to have come through her ears. And she'd heard it before, making her quite unusual. Most people hear the voice of Death only once. Miss Treason stood up, without the creak of even one bone. And she looked just like Miss Treason, solid and smiling. What now lay on the dead leaves was, in this strange light, just a shadow. But a very tall dark figure was standing beside her. It was Death himself. Tiffany had seen him before, in his own land beyond the Dark Door, but you didn't need to have met him before to know who he was. The scythe, the long hooded robe, and of course the bundle of hourglasses were all clues. "Where are your manners, child?" said Miss Treason. Tiffany looked up and said: "Good morning." GOOD MORNING, TIFFANY ACHING, AGED THIRTEEN, said Death in his no-voice. I SEE YOU ARE IN GOOD HEALTH. "A little curtsy would be in order too," said Miss Treason. To Death? thought Tiffany. Granny Aching wouldn't have liked that. Never bend the knee to tyrants, she would say. AT LAST, MISS EUMENIDES TREASON, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER. Death took her gently by the arm. "Hey, wait a minute!" said Tiffany. "Miss Treason is one hundred and thirteen!"
