Wintersmith

Roland sighed. The castle had been built by people who did not like to have their doors battered down, and anyone trying to do that here would have to carry the battering ram up a narrow spiral staircase with no room at the top to turn around, and then find a way to knock down a door four planks thick and made of oak timbers so ancient, it was like iron. One man could defend this room for months, if he had provisions. He heard some more grumbling outside and then the echo of the aunts' shoes as they went down the tower. Then he heard them screaming at the guards again.

It wouldn't do them much good. Sergeant Roberts and his guards over there," said Miss Tick. "They've had Miss Treason for a long, long time. It'll be a tricky task for a new witch."

"She'll be a difficult…act to follow, indeed," said Granny Weatherwax.

"Act?" said Miss Tick.

"I meant life, of course," said Granny Weatherwax.

"Whom will you put in there?" asked Miss Tick, because she liked to be first with the news. She also made a point of saying "whom" whenever she could. She felt it was more literate.

"Miss Tick, that is not up to me," said Granny sharply. "We have no leaders in witchcraft, you know that."

"Oh indeed," said Miss Tick, who also knew that the leader the witches did not have was Granny Weatherwax. "But I know that Mrs. Earwig will be proposing young Annagramma, and Mrs. Earwig has quite a few followers these days. It's probably those books she writes. She makes witchcraft sound exciting."

"You know I don't like witches who try to impose their will on others," said Granny Weatherwax.

"Quite," said Miss Tick, trying not to laugh.

"I shall, however, drop a name into the conversation," said Granny Weatherwax.

With a clang, I expect, thought Miss Tick. "Petulia Gristle has shaped up very well," she said. "A good all-around witch."

"Yes, but mostly all around pigs," said Granny Weatherwax. "I was thinking about Tiffany Aching."

"What?" said Miss Tick. "Don't you think that child has enough to cope with?"

Granny Weatherwax smiled briefly. "Well, Miss Tick, you know what they say: If you want something done, give it to someone who's busy! And young Tiffany might be very busy soon," she added.

"Why do you say that?" said Miss Tick.

"Hmm. Well, I can't be sure, but I will be very interested to see what happens to her feet…."

Tiffany didn't sleep much on the night before the funeral. Miss Treason's loom had clicked and clacked all through the night, because she had an order for bedsheets she wanted to complete.

It was just getting light when Tiffany gave up and got up, in that order. At least she could get the goats mucked out and milked before she tackled the other chores. There was snow, and a bitter wind was blowing it across the ground.

It wasn't until she was carting a barrowload of muck to the compost heap, which was steaming gently in the gray light, that she heard the tinkling. It sounded a bit like the wind chimes Miss Pullunder had around her cottage, only they were tuned to a note that was uncomfortable for demons.

It was coming from the place where the rose bed was in summer. It grew fine, old roses, full of scent and so red they were nearly, yes, black.

The roses were blooming again. But they—

"How do you like them, sheep girl?" said a voice. It didn't arrive in her head, it wasn't her thoughts, any of them, and Dr. Bustle didn't wake up until at least ten. It was her own voice, from her own lips. But she hadn't thought it, and she hadn't meant to say it.

Now she was running back to the cottage. She hadn't decided to do that either, but her legs had taken over. It wasn't fear, not exactly; it was just that she very much wanted to be somewhere other than in the garden with the sun not up and the snow blowing and filling the air with ice crystals as fine as fog.

She ran through the scullery door and collided with a dark figure, which said, "Um, sorry," and therefore was Petulia. She was the kind of person who apologized if you trod on her foot. Right now there was no sight more welcome.

"Sorry, I was called out to deal with a difficult cow and, um, it wasn't worth going back to bed," Petulia said, and then added: "Are you all right? You don't look it!"

"I heard a voice in my mouth!" said Tiffany.

Petulia gave her an odd look and might just have stepped an inch or so backward.

"You mean in your head?" she asked.

"No! I can deal with those! My mouth said words all by itself! And come and see what's grown in the rose garden! You won't believe it!"

There were roses. They were made of ice so thin that, if you breathed on them, they melted away and left nothing but the dead stalks they'd grown on. And there were dozens of them, waving in the wind.

"Even the heat of my hand near them makes them drip," said Petulia. "Do you think it's your Wintersmith?"

"He's not mine! And I can't think of any other way they'd turn up!"

"And you think he, um, spoke to you?" said Petulia, plucking another rose. Ice particles slid off her hat every time she moved.