The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(12)

The rather toothless old crone handed over the little girl with alacrity. After all, she knew that Tiffany, apart from being a midwife, was a witch, and you never knew what a witch might do if you got on the wrong side of one. And when the old granny went to get her share of the drink, Tiffany took the child in her arms and whispered a promise to her in a voice so low that no one could have heard. This little girl would clearly need some luck in her life. And with luck, now, she would get some. She took her back to her mother, who didn’t seem very impressed with her.

By now, Tiffany noticed, the little boys had names, but the girl didn’t. Worried about this, Tiffany said, ‘What about your girl? Can’t she have a name?’

The mother looked over. ‘Name her after yourself. Tiffany is a nice name.’

Tiffany was flattered, but it didn’t take the worry away about baby Tiffany. Those big, strapping boys were going to get most of the milk, she thought. But not if she could do something about it, and so she decided that this particular family was going to be visited almost every week for a time.

Then there was nothing for it, but to say, ‘Everything looks fine, you know where to find me, I’ll pop in and see you next week. And if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have other people to see.’

She kept on smiling, right up to the time when she came out of the cottage, picked up her broomstick and the white cat leaped onto the handle of it like a figurehead. The world is changing, Tiffany thought – I can feel it.

Suddenly she caught a flash of the red that showed a Feegle or two lurking behind a milk churn. Tiffany had, if only for a few days, once been the kelda of the Nac Mac Feegle, and this created a bond between them that could never be broken. And they were always there – always, watching over her, making sure no harm came to their big wee hag.

But there was something different today. This lurking was somehow not like their usual lurking, and . . .

‘Oh, waily waily,’ came a voice. It was Daft Wullie, a Feegle who had been somewhere else when the brains of a Feegle – small enough to begin with – had been handed out. He was shut up suddenly with a ‘whmpf’ as Rob slapped a hand over his mouth.

‘Shut yer gob, Wullie. This is hag business, ye ken,’ he said, stepping out to stand in front of Tiffany, shuffling his feet and twiddling his rabbit-skull helmet in his hands. ‘It’s the big hag,’ he continued. ‘Jeannie tol’ me to come fetch ye . . .’

All the birds of the day, the bats and the owls of the night knew Tiffany Aching and didn’t fly in her way when she was busy, and the stick ploughed on through the air to Lancre. The little kingdom was a long flight from the Chalk and Tiffany found her mind filling up with an invisible grey mist, and in that thought there was nothing but grief. She could feel herself trying to push back time, but even the best witchcraft could not do that. She tried not to think, but it’s hard to stop your brain working, no matter how much you try. Tiffany was a witch, and a witch learned to respect her forebodings, even if she hoped that what she feared was not true.

It was early evening by the time she settled her broomstick down quietly outside Granny Weatherwax’s cottage, where she saw the unmistakable rotund shape of Nanny Ogg. The older witch had a pint mug in one hand and looked grey.

The cat, You, jumped off the broomstick instantly and headed into the cottage. The Nac Mac Feegles followed, making You scuttle just a little faster in that way cats scuttle when they want to look like, oh yes, it was their decision to speed up and, oh no, nothing to do with the little red-haired figures melting into the shadows of the cottage.

‘Good to see you, Tiff,’ said Nanny Ogg.

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ said Tiffany.

‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘Esme’s gone. In her sleep, last night, by the looks of it.’

‘I knew it,’ said Tiffany. ‘Her cat came to tell me. And the kelda sent Rob . . .’

Nanny Ogg looked Tiffany in the face and said, ‘Glad to see you’re not cryin’, my dear; that’s for later. You knows how Granny wanted things: no fuss or shoutin’, and definitely no cryin’. There’s other things as must be done first. Can you help, Tiff? She’s upstairs and you know what them stairs is like.’

Tiffany looked and saw the long, thin wicker basket that Granny had made, waiting by the stairs. It was almost exactly the same size as Granny. Minus her hat, of course.

Nanny said, ‘That’s Esme for you, that is. Does everything for ’erself.’

Granny Weatherwax’s cottage was largely built of creaks, and you could play a tune with them if you wanted to. With accompaniment from the harmonious woodwork, Tiffany followed Nanny Ogg as she huffed and puffed up the cramped little staircase that wound up and round like a snake – Nanny always said that you needed a corkscrew to get through it – until they arrived at the bedroom and the small, sad deathbed.

It could, Tiffany thought, have been the bed of a child, and there, laid out properly, was Granny Weatherwax herself, looking as if she was just sleeping. And there too, on the bed by her mistress, was You the cat.

There was a familiar card on Granny’s chest, and a sudden thought struck Tiffany like a gong.

‘Nanny, you don’t suppose Granny could just be Borrowing, do you? Do you think that while her body is here, her actual self is . . . elsewhere?’ She looked at the white cat curled upon the bed and added hopefully, ‘In You?’