Nanny Ogg was actually rather impressed by Tiffany. But also worried. ‘Really,’ she said to her one day as they shared a quick meal, ‘you know you’re good, Tiff. I know you’re good. Granny, wherever she is now, knew you was good, but you don’t have to keep tryin’ to do it all on your own, my girl. Let some of them young girls around here – the apprentices – take some of the strain.’ She paused as she chewed on a big mouthful of stew, then added, ‘That young lumberjack up in the mountains what Esme sewed up just the day afore she died? Well, young Harrieta Bilk’s been goin’ on up there to see to him, an’ doin’ a good job too. Tiff, you have to do it your own way, I know, but you ain’t the only witch in Lancre. Sometimes you needs to put your feet up and let the parade go by.’
Tiffany had barely had time to listen before she was back on her stick and heading down to the Chalk again. No rest for the busy witch with two steadings! But as the ear-numbing wind whistled by, she considered what Nanny had said. It was true that there were other witches in Lancre, but in the Chalk – unless Letitia decided to stop being just a baroness – Tiffany was the only witch. And if her forebodings were right, if Jeannie’s words came true, then one witch for the Chalk might not be anywhere near enough.
She shivered. She was looking forward to getting out of the icy wind and into the warmth of her mother’s kitchen. But there was one person she needed to see first . . .
It took Tiffany a long time to find Miss Tick, but eventually she landed in a little wood just outside Ham-on-Rye where the travelling witch, the witchfinder, had stopped her caravan for tea. A small mule was tethered nearby enjoying the contents of its feed bag. It looked at Tiffany as she approached and neighed.
‘He’s called Joseph,’ said Miss Tick. ‘A real witch’s mule.’
It had started to rain again and Miss Tick quickly waved Tiffany up the wooden caravan steps. Tiffany was glad to see that there was a kettle bubbling on a little stove. She perched herself on the edge of a bench seat fitted just inside the door, facing the stove, and gratefully took the offered cup of tea.
Inside the caravan, it was just as Tiffany expected. Miss Tick had everything ship-shape without needing a ship. On the walls were lots of little racks, neatly filled with many things, and all annotated in Miss Tick’s careful teacher-y hand. Tiffany looked closer and, yes, they were in alphabetical order. Elsewhere were little pots without labels, so you would never know what was inside them, and by the side of her bed there was a chart showing a variety of knots – escapology was a useful hobby for a witch.
‘I’ll be grateful if you don’t touch my little jars,’ said Miss Tick. ‘Some of those concoctions might not work properly and the results are often unpredictable. But, you know, one should keep on experimenting.’
That’s what’s in all the pots, thought Tiffany, taking a sip of her tea. Experiments.
‘Glad to see you,’ Miss Tick continued. ‘I am hearing about you all the time. You know, almost every girl I meet wants to be you. They see you whizzing about all over the place on your broomstick and they all want to be you, Mistress Aching. Suddenly it’s become a career choice to be a witch!’
‘Oh yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s how it starts out, and then you tell them exactly what they would spend their life doing, and quite a few of them decide to go to the big city and be a hairdresser or something.’
‘Well, I make no bones about it,’ said Miss Tick firmly. ‘I tell them to think hard; it’s not all magic and waving wands and all that silly business. It’s dirt and grime.’
Tiffany sighed. ‘Being a witch is a man’s job: that’s why it needs women to do it.’
Miss Tick laughed and continued, ‘Well, I remember a little girl who was unsure of herself and I told her that I would give her lessons that she would never forget in a hurry.’
Tiffany smiled. ‘I remember. And now I am in a hurry everywhere these days. But Miss Tick’ – she paused and her voice went a bit quiet – ‘I have a feeling that some of the older witches are beginning to think I might not be able to cope . . .’ She swallowed. ‘Up in Lancre, mostly. But it means I do have to be there a lot.’ She bit her lip – she hated asking for help. Was she saying that she wasn’t really up to the job? Letting Granny Weatherwax down, since Granny had been the one to put her name up for it. She couldn’t remember Granny ever asking for help. ‘Down here, on the Chalk,’ she said, ‘I think I maybe need to . . . er . . . train an apprentice. Have some help.’