She watched them, their faces as solemn as a dirge as they pulled things out of their pockets. Miss Tick knew her witches, knew these girls had the innate magical talent, but to decide to train to be a witch was the kind of decision that took more than just a bit of talent. Hard work would have to come into it too. A lot of hard work. Even then it would not be easy, she knew. Apart from anything else, they had to have parents who would support their choice. A girl might be useful at home, helping with the younger children or working in a family business, for instance. That was before the question of grandchildren cropped up. And it always did, oh yes, always.
Miss Tick knew too that you can find out a lot about somebody from what’s in their pockets, and sometimes a lot about them from what they don’t have. She herself generally had a small cheese in one of her pockets – you couldn’t do good magic without a snack. Out loud, she said, ‘Even a worm is alive, so keeping one in a little box with some wet leaves will help.’
Nancy pulled off one of her boots, saying, ‘I’ve got a caterpillar in there.’
‘Well done,’ said Miss Tick. ‘You have been lucky, but being lucky is only part of being a witch.’
Becky looked rather glum. ‘I’ve got a hairpin – am I allowed to use that?’
Miss Tick sighed. ‘In your shamble? Of course, but you must still have something living. Butterflies or ants or things like that, but remember – you shouldn’t kill them. Let them fly free.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Becky. She rummaged around in the bushes behind them for a moment, then held up a large green hairy caterpillar.
‘Copycat!’ said Nancy.
Miss Tick laughed. ‘Part of being a witch is being clever. Using your eyes and learning from what you see. Well done, Becky.’ For Becky now had the caterpillar neatly trussed in a bit of old string, which also seemed to be knotted somehow around one of her fingers. Her other fingers were struggling to push the hairpin into the shamble.
Nancy pouted and held up her caterpillar, which appeared to be trying to burrow into a tuft of sheep’s wool.
There was a rumble of thunder and a strike of lightning and both girls said, ‘That was me, with my little shamble.’
Miss Tick smiled again. Why were people so keen to look at a sunrise, a rainbow, a flash of lightning or a dark cloud and feel responsible for it? She knew that if either girl really believed they could control a storm in the skies, they would be running home, screaming in terror – and their mothers would probably have to wash out the girls’ underclothing. Still, a bit of self-belief in a witch was a good start.
‘Miss, miss!’ said Becky and pointed. There was a hairpin now floating in the air alongside her caterpillar.
‘Well done,’ said Miss Tick. ‘Very well done indeed.’
‘Well, what about this, then?’ said Nancy, as her own shamble collapsed and the sheep’s wool floated to the ground, the little caterpillar perched on top like a witch on a broomstick. She raised her finger, and fire appeared to come out of the tip.
‘Excellent,’ said Miss Tick. ‘Both of you have got the hang of it. After that, it’s just a matter of learning, learning every day,’ she said sternly.
But what she thought was, Well, Mistress Tiffany will want to see you two and no mistake.
The music was playing in Fairyland – a harmonious melody, notes spiralling into the empty air, where a lazing elf perched on a slender branch near the top of a blossoming tree allowed himself the pleasure of turning each note into a colour, so that they danced above their heads, delighting the court. It doesn’t take much to delight an elf. Hurting something is usually top of their list, but music comes a close second.
The musician was a human, lured into the woods by the glamour of an elf’s harp, then snatched through to play, play, play for the Lord Peaseblossom. Elves were skilled at keeping their playthings alive, sometimes for weeks, and the man with the flute was a delightful new toy. Peaseblossom wondered idly how long the man would last.
But he was pleased. His warriors were making little sorties into the human world, bringing him back presents such as this. And he knew that with each successful incursion their confidence was growing. Soon they would be ready to make their move . . .
He frowned. He had to speak to Mustardseed. He needed to know that the elf had indeed thrown the wretched remains of the Queen out of Fairyland. He wanted no . . . complications.
Just as he loved to watch wildlife, so Geoffrey observed people. He found them fascinating, and he watched closely all the time, learning more and more from what he saw.