I Shall Wear Midnight

‘That was all very interesting.’ Tiffany spun round and looked into Preston’s cheerful grin. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I was really worried when you went so stiff for a few moments. I thought you were dead. When I touched your arm – very respectfully, no hanky-panky – it felt like the air on a thundery day. So I thought, This is witch business, and decided to keep an eye on you, and then you threatened an innocent tapestry with fiery death!’

She stared at the boy’s eyes as if they were a mirror. Fire, she thought. Fire killed him once, and he knows it. He won’t go anywhere near fire. Fire is the secret. The hare runs into the fire. Hmm.

‘Actually, I quite like fire,’ said Preston. ‘I don’t think it’s my enemy at all.’

‘What?’ said Tiffany.

‘I’m afraid you were speaking just under your breath,’ said Preston. ‘I’m not going to ask what it was about. My granny said: Don’t meddle in the affairs of witches because they clout you around the ear.’

Tiffany stared at him and made an instant decision. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

Preston nodded. ‘Certainly! I have never told anybody that the sergeant writes poetry, for example.’

‘Preston, you have just told me!’

Preston grinned at her. ‘Ah, but a witch isn’t anybody. My granny told me that telling your secret to a witch is like whispering to a wall.’

‘Well, yes,’ Tiffany began and then paused. ‘How do you know he writes poetry?’

‘It was hard not to know,’ said Preston. ‘But, you see, he writes it on pages of the events ledger in the guard house, probably when he’s on night duty. He carefully tears out the pages, and does it so neatly that you wouldn’t guess, but he presses so hard with his pencil that it’s quite easy to read the impression on the paper underneath.’

‘Surely the other men notice?’ said Tiffany.

Preston shook his head, which caused his oversized helmet to spin a little. ‘Oh no, miss, you know them: they think reading is cissy stuff for girls. Anyway, if I get in early I tear out the paper underneath so that they don’t laugh at him. I have to say, for a self-taught man he is a pretty good poet – good grasp of the metaphor. They are all written to somebody called Millie.’

‘That would be his wife,’ said Tiffany. ‘You must have seen her in the village – more freckles than anyone I’ve ever seen. She is very sensitive about it.’

Preston nodded. ‘That might explain why his latest poem is entitled “What Good Is The Sky Without Stars”?’

‘You wouldn’t know it from looking at the man, would you?’

Preston looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Excuse me, Tiffany,’ he said, ‘but you don’t look well. In fact, no offence meant, you look absolutely dreadful. If you were somebody else and took a look at you, you would say that you were very ill indeed. You don’t look as if you’ve had any sleep.’

‘I had at least an hour’s worth last night. And a nap the day before!’ said Tiffany.

‘Really?’ said Preston, looking stern. ‘And apart from breakfast this morning, when did you last have a proper meal?’

For some reason Tiffany still felt full of light inside. ‘I think I might have had a snack yesterday …’

‘Oh really?’ said Preston. ‘Snacks and naps? That’s not how somebody is supposed to live; it’s how people die!’

He was right. She knew he was. But that only made things worse.

‘Look, I’m being tracked by a horrible creature who can take over somebody else completely, and it’s up to me to deal with it!’

Preston looked around with interest. ‘Could it take me over?’

Poison goes where poison’s welcome, thought Tiffany. Thank you for that useful phrase, Mrs Proust. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think you have to be the right kind of person – which is to say, the wrong kind of person. You know, somebody with a touch of evil.’

For the first time, Preston looked worried. ‘I have done a few bad things in my time, I’m sorry to say.’

Despite her sudden tiredness, Tiffany smiled. ‘What was the worst one?’

‘I once stole a packet of coloured pencils off a market stall.’ He looked at her defiantly, as if expecting her to scream or point the finger of scorn.

Instead, she shook her head and said, ‘How old were you then?’

‘Six.’

‘Preston, I don’t think this creature could ever find its way into your head. Quite apart from anything else, it seems pretty crowded and complicated to me.’

‘Miss Tiffany, you need a rest, a proper rest in a proper bed. What kind of witch can look after everybody if she’s not sensible enough to look after herself? Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. That means: Who guards the guards, that does,’ Preston went on. ‘So who watches the witches? Who cares for the people who care for the people? Right now, it looks like it needs to be me.’

She gave in.

* * *

The fog of the city was as thick as curtains when Mrs Proust hurried towards the dark, brooding shape of the Tanty, but the billows obediently separated as she approached and closed again after her.