I Shall Wear Midnight

It was a good funeral too; from Tiffany’s point of view, a good funeral was one where the main player was very old. She had been to some – too many – where they were small and wrapped in a shroud. Coffins were barely known on the Chalk, and indeed nearly anywhere else. Decent timber was too expensive to be left to rot underground. A practical white woollen shroud did for most people; it was easy to make, not too expensive, and good for the wool industry. The Baron, however, went to his eternal rest inside a tomb of white marble which, him being a practical man, he had designed, bought and paid for twenty years ago. There was a white shroud inside it, because marble can be a bit chilly to lie on.

And that was the end of the old Baron, except that only Tiffany knew where he really was. He was walking with his father in the stubbles, where they burned the corn stalks and the weeds, a perfect late-summer’s day, one never-changing perfect moment held in time …

She gasped. ‘The drawing!’ Even though she’d spoken under her breath, people around her turned to look. She thought, How selfish of me! And then thought, Surely it will still be there?

As soon as the lid of the stone tomb had been slid into place with a sound that Tiffany would always remember, she went and found Brian, who was blowing his nose; when he looked up at her he was pink around the eyes.

She took him gently by the arm, trying not to sound urgent. ‘The room that the Baron was living in, is it locked?’

He looked shocked. ‘I should say so! And the money is in the big safe in the office. Why d’you want to know?’

‘There was something very valuable in there. A leather folder. Did that get put in the big safe too?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘Believe me, Tiff, after the’ – he hesitated – ‘bit of trouble, I did an inventory of everything in that room. Not a thing went out from there without me seeing it and putting it down in my notebook. With my pencil,’ he added, for maximum accuracy. ‘Nothing like a leather folder was taken out, I’m sure of it.’

‘No. Because Miss Spruce had already taken it,’ Tiffany said. ‘That wretched nurse! I didn’t mind about the money, because I never expected the money! Maybe she thought it had deeds in it or something!’

Tiffany hurried back to the hall and looked around. Roland was the Baron now, in every respect. And it was in respect that people were clustering around him, saying things like, ‘He was a very good man,’ and ‘He’d had a good innings,’ and ‘At least he didn’t suffer,’ and all the other things people say after a funeral when they don’t know what to say.

And now Tiffany headed purposefully towards the Baron, and stopped when a hand landed on her shoulder. She followed the arm up to the face of Nanny Ogg, who had managed to obtain the biggest flagon of ale that Tiffany had ever seen. To be precise, she noticed it was a half-full flagon of ale.

‘Nice to see something like this done well,’ said Nanny. ‘Never knew the old boy, of course, but he sounds like a decent fellow. Nice to see you, Tiff. Managing all right?’

Tiffany looked into those innocent smiling eyes, and past them to the much sterner face of Granny Weatherwax, and the brim of her hat. Tiffany bowed.

Granny Weatherwax cleared her throat with a sound like gravel. ‘We ain’t here on business, my girl, we just wanted to help the king make a good entrance.’

‘We are not here about the Cunning Man neither,’ Nanny Ogg added cheerfully. It sounded like a simple and silly giveaway, and Tiffany heard a disapproving sniff from Granny. But, generally speaking, when Nanny Ogg came out with a silly, embarrassing comment by accident, it was because she had thought about it very carefully beforehand. Tiffany knew this, and Nanny certainly knew that Tiffany knew, and Tiffany knew that too. But it was often the kind of way that witches behaved, and it all worked perfectly if nobody picked up an axe.

‘I know this is my problem. I will sort it out,’ she said.

This was on the face of it a really stupid thing to say. The senior witches would be very useful to have at her side. But how would that look? This was a new steading, and she had to be proud.

You couldn’t say, ‘I have done difficult and dangerous things before,’ because that was understood. What did matter was what you did today. It was a matter of pride. It was a matter of style.

And it was also a matter of age. In twenty years’ time, perhaps, if she asked for help, people would think: Well, even an experienced witch can run up against something really unusual. And they would help as a matter of course. But now, if she asked for help, well … people would help. Witches always helped other witches. But everyone would think: Was she really any good? Can’t she last the distance? Is she strong enough for the long haul? No one would say anything, but everyone would think it.

All this was the thought of a second, and when she blinked, the witches were watching her.