I Shall Wear Midnight

Going nuts; or, rather not going nuts, was the soul and centre of witchcraft, and this was how it worked. After a while, a witch, who almost always worked by herself in the tradition of witches, had a tendency to go … strange. Of course, it depended on the length of time and the strength of mind of the witch, but sooner or later they tended to get confused about things like right and wrong and good and bad and truth and consequences. That could be very dangerous. So witches had to keep one another normal, or at least what was normal for witches. It didn’t take very much: a tea party, a singsong, a stroll in the woods, and somehow everything balanced up, and they could look at adverts for gingerbread cottages in the builder’s brochure without putting a deposit on one.

On top of everything else Tiffany was worried about going nuts. It was two months since she had last been up into the mountains and three months since she had last seen Miss Tick, the only other witch you ever saw down here. There wasn’t time to go visiting. There was always too much to do. Perhaps that was the trick of it, Tiffany thought. If you kept yourself busy you wouldn’t have time to go nuts.

The sun was well up when she got back to the Feegle mound and she was shocked to see Amber sitting out on the side of the mound, surrounded by Feegles and laughing. The kelda was waiting for Tiffany by the time she had garaged the broomstick in the thorn bushes.

‘I hope ye do not mind,’ she said when she saw Tiffany’s face. ‘The sunshine is a great healer.’

‘Jeannie, it was wonderful of you to put the soothings on her, but I don’t want her to see too much of you. She might tell people.’

‘Oh, it will all seem like a dream tae her, the soothings will see to that,’ said Jeannie calmly, ‘and who will take much heed of a wee girl prattling about the fairies?’

‘She is thirteen!’ said Tiffany. ‘It’s not supposed to happen!’

‘Is she no’ happy?’

‘Well, yes, but …’

There was a steely look in Jeannie’s eye. She had always been very respectful to Tiffany, but respect requires respect in its turn. It was Jeannie’s mound, after all, and probably her land as well.

Tiffany settled for saying, ‘Her mother will be worrying.’

‘Is that so?’ said Jeannie. ‘And did her mam worry when she left the poor thing taking a beating?’

Tiffany wished the kelda wasn’t so astute. People used to tell Tiffany that she was so sharp she would cut herself, but the kelda’s steady grey gaze could chop iron nails.

‘Well, Amber’s mother is … she’s not very … clever.’

‘So I hear,’ said Jeannie, ‘but most beasts is short on brains, and yet still the doe will stand her ground to defend her fawn, and a fox for her cub will face down the dog.’

‘Humans are more complicated,’ said Tiffany.

‘So it seems,’ said the kelda, her voice chilly just for that moment.

‘Well, the soothings is working fine, so maybe the girl needs to be back in your complicated world?’

Where her father is still alive, Tiffany reminded herself. I know he is. He was bruised, but he was breathing, and I hope to goodness he sobers up. And is this problem ever going to end? It has to be sorted out! I’ve got other things to do! And I’ve got to go and see the Baron this afternoon!

Tiffany’s father met them when they walked into the farmyard; Tiffany generally left the broomstick tied to a tree just outside, in theory because flying overhead frightened the chickens, but mostly because she was never able to land very gracefully and certainly didn’t want an audience.

He looked from Amber to his daughter. ‘Is she all right? She looks a bit … dreamy.’

‘She’s had something to calm her down and make her feel better,’ said Tiffany, ‘and she shouldn’t run around.’

‘Her mum has been in a dreadful state, you know,’ Tiffany’s father went on reproachfully, ‘but I told her you were looking after Amber in a very safe place.’

There was more than a hint of ‘You are sure about that, aren’t you?’ in the way he spoke, and Tiffany was careful to ignore it, and simply said, ‘I was.’ She tried to imagine Mrs Petty in a dreadful state, and it didn’t work. Every time she had ever seen the woman she had a look of baffled apprehension, as if life had too many puzzles and you just had to wait until the next one hit you.

Tiffany’s father pulled his daughter to one side and lowered his voice. ‘Petty came back in the night,’ he hissed, ‘and they say that someone tried to kill him!’

‘What?’

‘True as I’m standing here.’

Tiffany turned to Amber. The girl was staring at the sky as if hoping patiently for something interesting to happen.

‘Amber,’ she said carefully, ‘you know how to feed chickens, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes, miss.’

‘Well, go and feed ours, will you? There’s grain in the barn.’

‘Your mum fed them hours ago—’ her father began, but Tiffany dragged him away quickly.

‘When did this happen?’ she asked, watching Amber walking obediently into the barn.

‘Some time last night. Mrs Petty told me. He was beaten badly. In that rackety old barn. Right where we were sitting last night.’