They finished their dinner in silence, a warm silence, and as Tiffany prepared to go up the stairs to her childhood bedroom, Mrs Aching stood and pulled out an envelope from where she had tucked it out of the way on the dresser, amongst the blue and white jars that, surprisingly in a working farm kitchen, were simply for show. ‘There’s a letter here for you. From Preston, I expect.’ Her tone was very mother-ish now; she only had to say ‘Preston’ and there was a question there.
And Tiffany crept up the stairs, feeling the care and love of her parents flowing around her, and into her room, relishing the familiar creak of the boards. She placed the shepherd’s crown on the shelf by her few books – a new treasure – and pulled on her nightdress wearily. Tonight, she decided, she would try to forget her fears, allow herself to just be Tiffany Aching for a while. Not Tiffany Aching, the Witch of the Chalk.
Then, while there was still light to see, she read Preston’s letter, and the weariness fled for a moment, replaced by a wave of sheer happiness. Preston’s letter was wonderful! Filled with new language, new words – today he wrote about taking up a scalpel – ‘such a sharp, strong word’ – and how he had learned a new way to suture. ‘Suture,’ Tiffany said quietly to herself. A soft word, so much smoother than ‘scalpel’, almost healing. And in a way she needed healing. Healing from the loss of Granny Weatherwax, healing from the strain of too much to do – and healing from the effort of trying to match the expectations of the other witches.
She carefully read every word, twice, then folded the letter up and put it away in a small wooden box in which she kept all his letters, as well as the beautiful golden hare pendant he had once given her. There was no point resealing it: she could keep nothing secret from the Feegles and she preferred not to have the box full of the snail slime they used to restick anything they had opened.
Then she slept in her childhood bedroom. And beside her there was the cat, You.
And Tiffany was a child again. A child with parents who loved her very much.
But also a young girl. A girl with a boy who sends her letters.
And a witch. A witch with a cat that was very . . . special.
While her parents lay in bed, talking about their daughter . . .
‘It’s right proud of our girl I am,’ Joe Aching began.
‘And of course she is a really good midwife,’ Mrs Aching said, adding rather sadly, ‘But I wonder if she might ever have children of her own. She doesn’t talk about Preston to me, you know, and I don’t much like to ask. Not like with her sisters.’ She sighed. ‘But so much is changing. Even Wentworth, tonight . . .’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ Mr Aching said. ‘’Tis right for a lad to want to find his own feet, and most likely he’ll bluster for a bit and shout and argue, but he’ll be here when we’ve gone, looking after the Aching land, you mark my words. There’s nothing to beat land.’ He sniffed. ‘Certainly not them railways.’
‘But Tiffany’s different,’ his wife continued. ‘What she’s going to do I really don’t know, though I do hope, in time, that she and Preston might settle round here. If he’s a doctor and she’s a witch, that’s no reason why they can’t be together, is it? Tiffany could have children too then, like Hannah and Fastidia . . .’ They thought of their other daughters, of their grandchildren.
Joe sighed. ‘She’s not like our other daughters, love. I believe Tiffany may even surpass her grandmother,’ he said.
And then he blew out the candles, and they slept, thinking of their Tiffany, a skylark among the sparrows.
fn1 Basically, if it had something herbal in it, Magrat and Verence thought it would do you good. With some of the herbs in Granny’s garden, this might be doubtful. At least in the short term. And it might not be wise to stray too far from the privy.
fn2 And contrary to popular belief, no witch Tiffany knew had yet managed to control a broomstick whilst also using an umbrella.
CHAPTER 6
Around the Houses
WALKING STEADILY ALONG the road to Lancre with Mephistopheles trotting beside him and his little cart rattling behind, and swallows swooping overhead, Geoffrey realized that his old home seemed a long way away now. It had only been a week or so, but as they climbed higher into the Ramtops he began to understand what ‘geography’ meant in reality, rather than in the books Mr Wiggall had let him read – Lancre and its surrounding villages had a lot of geography.
At the end of a day’s long but satisfying walk for both boy and goat, they arrived outside a village pub which proclaimed its name as The Star, the sign promising excellent ales and food. Well, let’s see how excellent it is, Geoffrey thought. He unhitched the cart and went into the pub with the goat following close behind.
The pub was full of working men, who were now not working but enjoying a pint or two before dinner. It was rather stuffy inside with the usual rural tint of agricultural armpit. The regulars were used to people bringing a working dog in with them but they were amazed to see a dusty but well-dressed lad bringing a goat into their pub.