The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(23)

‘But—’ Wentworth wasn’t happy. Tiffany shot him a look. She knew how he felt. And after all, she herself wasn’t doing what had been expected of her, was she? If she had, she’d be getting married about now, like her sisters had, getting ready to produce a few more grandchildren for her mother to fuss over.

Her mother seemed to be thinking of the same thing. ‘You always seem to be somewhere else these days,’ she said, changing the subject from Wentworth to Tiffany, trying hard not to sound like she was complaining. ‘I wish you could be with us more, Tiff,’ she added a bit sadly.

‘Don’t bother the lass. She’s some kind of top witch now, you know. She can’t be everywhere,’ her father said.

Feeling like a little girl, Tiffany said, ‘I try to be around here as much as possible but we don’t really have enough witches to do the work that’s needed.’

Her mother smiled nervously and said, ‘I know you work hard, dear. There’s lots of people who stop me in the road to say that my girl has helped their kid or their father. Everybody sees that you are running about like nobody’s business. And you know what people are saying? They are saying to me, you are growing up like your granny. After all, she used to tell the Baron what to do. And you do the same.’

‘Well, Granny Aching wasn’t a witch,’ said Tiffany.

‘That depends,’ said her father, turning away from Wentworth, who stomped out and slammed the kitchen door behind him. Joe Aching looked after him for a moment, then sighed and winked at Tiffany. ‘There are surely different kinds of witches. You remember how your granny wanted the shepherd’s hut burned down once she was dead? “Burn everything,” she told me.’ He smiled and said, ‘I almost did what I was told. But there was a thing she had and it was not for the burning, so I wrapped it up, and now, seeing you, my girl, here’s a little memento from Granny Aching.’

To Tiffany’s surprise her father was crying, under his smiles, as he gave her a little package wrapped up in crinkled paper and tied with a piece of old wool. She opened it and turned the little ridged object over in her hand.

‘It’s a shepherd’s crown,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them before – they are quite easy to find.’

Joe Aching laughed and said, ‘Not this one. Your granny said it was special – the crown of crowns. And if the Shepherd of Shepherds picked it up, it would turn into gold. Look, beneath the grey you can see the hints of gold.’

Tiffany looked at the little object while she ate her stew, made as only her mother could make it, and she thought about the days when Granny Aching would come down to the farm for a meal.

It seemed to some that the old woman had lived on Jolly Sailor tobacco; and there was no doubt about it – when it came to sheep, Granny Aching knew everything. But the mind starts running all by itself and Tiffany thought about all the things Granny had done and the things that Granny had said. Then the memories came as a cavalcade, whether she wanted them or not, settling on her like snow.

Tiffany thought of the times she had walked with her granny. Mostly in silence, sometimes with Thunder and Lightning – Granny Aching’s sheepdogs – at their heels. She had learned a lot from the old woman.

She taught me so much, she said to herself. She built me as we were walking around after the sheep, and she told me all those things that I needed to know, and the first thing was to look after people. Of course, the other thing had been to look after the sheep.

And all she had ever asked for was her shepherd’s hut and some horrible tobacco.

Tiffany dropped her spoon. It was all right to sob in this familiar kitchen like she had when she was a girl.

Immediately, her father was there beside her. ‘You can do a lot, jigget, but no one could do it all.’

‘Yes,’ said her mother. ‘And we keep your bed ready every day. And we know you are doing a lot of good and I am proud when I see you flying around. But you can’t do everything for everybody. Don’t go out again tonight. Please.’

‘We like seeing our girl, but it’d be nice to see her properly and not always in a blur,’ her father added, putting his arm around her.

They finished their dinner in silence, a warm silence, and as Tiffany prepared to go up the stairs to her childhood bedroom, Mrs Aching stood and pulled out an envelope from where she had tucked it out of the way on the dresser, amongst the blue and white jars that, surprisingly in a working farm kitchen, were simply for show. ‘There’s a letter here for you. From Preston, I expect.’ Her tone was very mother-ish now; she only had to say ‘Preston’ and there was a question there.

And Tiffany crept up the stairs, feeling the care and love of her parents flowing around her, and into her room, relishing the familiar creak of the boards. She placed the shepherd’s crown on the shelf by her few books – a new treasure – and pulled on her nightdress wearily. Tonight, she decided, she would try to forget her fears, allow herself to just be Tiffany Aching for a while. Not Tiffany Aching, the Witch of the Chalk.

Then, while there was still light to see, she read Preston’s letter, and the weariness fled for a moment, replaced by a wave of sheer happiness. Preston’s letter was wonderful! Filled with new language, new words – today he wrote about taking up a scalpel – ‘such a sharp, strong word’ – and how he had learned a new way to suture. ‘Suture,’ Tiffany said quietly to herself. A soft word, so much smoother than ‘scalpel’, almost healing. And in a way she needed healing. Healing from the loss of Granny Weatherwax, healing from the strain of too much to do – and healing from the effort of trying to match the expectations of the other witches.