‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘Letitia Keepsake. But she’s not trained and her husband is a bit – how should I say it? – snobby.’
Magrat said, ‘Well, my dear, if you want, I’ll fly down there and drop in for tea one day. And hint, in a subtle way, that the idea of being a witch for the people at large might be a good idea. My Verence, you know, likes to be thought of as a king of the people, and in fact, I feel sure he thinks I am being a good example to the population by working as a witch now. He talks like that, sometimes, but I love him nevertheless. The idea of this Letitia being friends with a queen might stop her husband interfering.’
Tiffany said, ‘I am amazed. Just like that?’
‘Trust me,’ said Queen Magrat. ‘Crowns are important, you know.’
Tiffany flew back to the Chalk feeling a bit happier. Magrat would be a useful ally, and perhaps Letitia would be able to help too. But we are still short of witches, so we must take pains to get more, she thought. Furious pains. That means pulling in every witch and likely witch to learn at least some of the craft and how to deal with the glamour of elves.
Elves! Nastiness for the sake of being nasty. As Granny Aching had told her, they would take away the stick of a man with no legs. Nasty, unpleasant, stupid, annoying – trouble and discord just for the pleasure of it. Worse. They brought actual horror, and terror, and pain . . . And they laughed, which was bad enough because their laughter was actually musical and you could wonder why such wonderful music could come from such unpleasant creatures. They cared for nobody except themselves and possibly not even that.
But Nightshade . . . Perhaps there was one elf for whom the wheel was turning. Especially the iron wheels . . .
fn1 It had been in The Goode Childe’s Booke of Faerie Tales and told how two little elves secretly helped a poor shoemaker, but sadly experience had taught Tiffany that a lot of what was in that book bore no relation whatsoever to the real Fairyland.
fn2 Most princesses never tried to kiss toads, however, which had been a source of sadness to the Feegles’ toad lawyer for many years.
CHAPTER 15
The God in the Barrow
IN THE DARK of the night, down in the Chalk, the wheel was definitely stuck in the old ways – just the way three elves dancing through the gloom of the woods liked it. This world was here for their pleasure, to entertain them, delight them. And the creatures within it were no more than toys; toys that sometimes squealed and ran and shrieked as the elves laughed and sang.
Now they spotted a small home, a poor-looking dwelling with a window slightly ajar. From within came the sound of babies, gurgling happily in their sleep, their bellies full of their mother’s milk, their limbs curled beneath the covers of their cots.
The elves grinned at each other and licked their lips in anticipation. Babies!
Faces now at the window. Predatory faces, with the eyes of hunters.
Then a hand reached in and tickled the nearest infant under the chin, the little girl waking and gazing in delight at the glorious creature leaning over her, his glamour shining radiantly in the dark room. Her little fingers stretched to touch a beautiful feather . . .
Tiffany’s happiness lasted until just after she had gone to bed, when there was a sudden tickling in her head, and in her inner eye she saw young Tiffany Robinson – the baby she had not had time to see yet this week, the little girl on whom she had placed a tracking spell.
But this was not just neglect by baby Tiffany’s mum and dad.
The elves had taken her!
Tiffany’s broomstick could not go fast enough. In a piece of woodland she found a group of three elves toying with the little girl, and what was inside her was not anger. It was something more forensic than that, and as the stick went onwards, Tiffany let her feelings flame up . . . and release.
The elves were laughing, but as Tiffany swooped down, she sent fire blazing from her fingertips and into them and watched them burn. She was shuddering with her fury, a fury so intense it was threatening to overcome her. If she met any more elves that night, they too would be dead.
And she had to stop herself there, suddenly appalled at what she had done. Only a witch gone to the dark would kill, she screamed at herself inside her head.
And another voice said, But they were just elves. And they were hurting the baby.
The first voice came sneakily back with, But Nightshade is also just an elf . . .
And Tiffany knew that if a witch started thinking of anyone as ‘just’ anything, that would be the first step on a well-worn path that could lead to, oh, to poisoned apples, spinning wheels and a too-small stove . . . and to pain, and terror, and horror and the darkness.