Jeannie had sharp ears for a little woman. ‘Aye, it’s amazin’ what my boys can do with snails, ye ken,’ she said. ‘They can even make snail whisky.’
Geoffrey smiled politely. ‘I thank you kindly, Kelda,’ he said softly, ‘but I do not eat anything that has been running, swimming or crawling around. And that includes snails. I prefer to let them live.’
‘Actually the Feegles cultivate snails,’ said Tiffany. ‘Everyone has to have a living, Geoffrey, there’s no getting away from that.’
‘Indeed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But not at the expense of others.’
Jeannie leaned forward, her eyes bright, and laid a small nut-brown hand on his arm. The air stilled, and now Geoffrey and Jeannie were looking into each other’s eyes.
‘There were many like you once,’ Jeannie said quietly at last. ‘I was right. I sees ye in my cauldron and I sees that ye are one of those who can stop a fight, bring peace . . .’ She turned to Tiffany. ‘Treasure him, Tir-far-thóinn.’
As they left to head back to the farm for tea, Tiffany pondered on the kelda’s words. Stop a fight. Bring peace. She might have need of just those very skills. And as she thought this, a shiver ran down her spine, one of those nasty little shivers that are like a message that something dreadful might be about to happen, hard to ignore. On the other hand, she thought, perhaps it was just her body telling her that if it was all right by her, next time perhaps she should say no to the snail relish . . . She did her best to shake the unsettling feeling off, focusing instead on Geoffrey. Treasure him. Jeannie is right about him, she decided. There might just be some things that a boy like this can do best.
And right there and then, she made a decision. She would go to Ankh-Morpork – and take Geoffrey with her. It was time anyway, as a sort of head witch, to make a trip to the city. What if all the city witches had heard of her and were talking about her like she was some little upstart? She ought to know. And, a little voice whispered in her head, I can maybe see Preston too. She tried to push the thought away. This trip was not about her. It was about being a witch, about doing what she ought to do, and that was what she would inform Nanny Ogg when she told her she’d be away for a few days. But the thought of seeing Preston again still crept back into her mind and made her feel a bit . . . tingly.
Geoffrey had got some way ahead down the path, but when Tiffany called him, he came back with a question in his eyes.
‘Geoffrey,’ she said, ‘tomorrow we will go to get you your first broomstick.’
fn1 It was a brave man indeed who could look upon a clan of Feegles and not want to tie the bottoms of his trousers tight around his ankles.
fn2 The Toad was the Feegles’ lawyer, his toad body the result of a misunderstanding with a fairy godmother.
CHAPTER 11
The Big City
IT WAS A long journey to Ankh-Morpork. Tiffany and Geoffrey had to stay over on the way, one night at a local witch’s cottage and the other in a barn where the farmer had been delighted at Geoffrey’s ability to help him with a troublesome goat. But now they were there – at the great city – and Tiffany watched Geoffrey’s mouth drop open as they flew carefully along the route of the river Ankh and into the heart of the capital. Well, she thought to herself, Geoffrey had said he wanted to see the world. Ankh-Morpork would be a very good start.
But she herself was amazed too when she went to the site of the old broomstick workshop, and they were directed to a new site. The railway was still in its infancy – and already there were these arches.
There’s a kind of magic in the cavernous spaces under railway arches and a mystery known only to those who work there. There are always puddles, even if it hasn’t rained for weeks, and the puddles are glossy and slimy, the air above filled with the taint of oil and working man’s armpit.
It is easy to recognize a habitué of the railway arch. He (it is rarely a woman) is the kind of man who keeps useful nails in old jam jars, and he might spend a considerable time talking about the merits of different kinds of grease or sprocket, and occasionally an onlooker might hear a proprietor saying quietly, ‘I can get them for you next week.’ Sometimes accompanied with a knowing look and a finger tap to the side of his nose.