A Hat Full Of Sky (14 page)

“Oh, aye,” said Rob, airily. “No’ in the privy, o’ course. An’ it’s getting harder in her bedroom ’cuz she’s blocked up a lot o’ the cracks, for some reason.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Miss Level carefully.

“No’ us, neither,” said Rob. “We reckon it was ’cuz o’ the drafts.”

“Yes, I expect that’s why it was,” said Miss Level.

“So mostly we get in through a mousehole and hides out in her old dolly house until she guz tae sleep,” said Rob. “Dinna look at me like that, mistress—all the lads is perrrfect gentlemen an’ keeps their eyes tight shut when she’s gettin’ intae her nightie. Then there’s one guarding her window and another at the door.”

“Guarding her from what?”

“Everything.”

For a moment Miss Level had a picture in her mind of a silent, moonlit bedroom with a sleeping child. She saw, by the window, lit by the moon, one small figure on guard, and another in the shadows by the door. What were they guarding her from?
Everything…

But now something, this
thing
, has taken her
over and she’s locked inside somewhere. But she never used to do magic! I could understand it if it was one of the other girls messing around, but…Tiffany?

One of the Feegles was slowly raising a hand.

“Yes?” she said.

“It’s me, mistress, Big Yan. I dinna know if it wuz proper hagglin’, mistress,” he said nervously, “but me an’ Nearly Big Angus saw her doin’ something odd a few times, eh, Nearly Big Angus?” The Feegle next to him nodded and the speaker went on. “It was when she got her new dress and her new hat…”

“And verra bonny she looked, too,” said Nearly Big Angus.

“Aye, she did that. But she’d put ’em on, and then standing in the middle o’ the floor she said—whut wuz it she said, Nearly Big Angus?”

“‘See me,’” Nearly Big Angus volunteered.

Miss Level looked blank. The speaker, now looking a bit sorry that he’d raised this, went on: “Then after a wee while we’d hear her voice say, ‘See me not,’ and then she’d adjust the hat, ye know, mebbe to a more fetchin’ angle.”

“Oh, you mean she was looking at herself in what we call a
mirror
,” said Miss Level. “That’s a kind of—”

“We ken well what them things are, mistress,” said Nearly Big Angus. “She’s got a tiny one, all cracked and dirty. But it’s nae good for a body as wants tae see herself properly.”

“Verra good for the stealin’, mirrors,” said Rob Anybody. “We got oour Jeannie a silver one wi’ garnets in the frame.”

“And she’d say ‘See me’?” said Miss Level.

“Aye, an’ then ‘See me not,’” said Big Yan. “An’ betweentimes she’d stand verra still, like a stachoo.”

“Sounds like she was trying to invent some kind of invisibility spell,” Miss Level mused. “They don’t work like that, of course.”

“We reckoned she was just tryin’ to throw her voice,” said Nearly Big Angus. “So it sounds like it’s comin’ fra’ somewhere else, ye ken? Wee Iain can do that a treat when we’re huntin’.”

“Throw her voice?” said Miss Level, her brow wrinkling. “Why did you think that?”

“’Cuz when she said, ‘See me not,’ it sounded like it wuz no’ comin fra’ her, and her lips didnae move.”

Miss Level stared at the Feegles. When she spoke next, her voice was a little strange.

“Tell me,” she said, “when she was just standing there, was she moving at
all
?”

“Just breathin’ verra slow, mistress,” said Big Yan.

“Were her eyes shut?”

“Aye!”

Miss Level started to breathe very fast.

“She walked out of her own body! There’s not one—”

“—witch in a hundred who can do that!” she said. “That’s Borrowing, that is! It’s better than any circus trick! It’s putting—”

“—your mind somewhere else! You have to—”

“—learn how to protect yourself before you ever
try
it! And
she
just invented it because she didn’t have a mirror? The little fool, why didn’t she—”

“—
say
? She walked out of her own body and left it there for anything to take over! I wonder what—”

“—she
thought
she was—”

“—doing?”

After a while Rob Anybody gave a polite cough.

“We’re better at questions about fightin’, drinkin’, and stealin’,” he mumbled. “We dinna have the knowin’ o’ the hagglin’.”

S
omething that called itself Tiffany flew across the treetops.

It thought it was Tiffany. It could remember everything—nearly everything—about being Tiffany. It looked like Tiffany. It even thought like Tiffany, more or less. It had everything it needed to be Tiffany…

…except Tiffany. Except the tiny part of her that was…
her.

It peered from her own eyes, tried to hear with her own ears, think with her own brain.

A hiver took over its victim not by force, exactly, but simply by moving into any space, like the hermit elephant.
*
It just took you over because that was what it did, until it was in all the places and there was no room left…

…except…

…it was having trouble. It had flowed through her like a dark tide but there was a place, tight and sealed, that was still closed. If it had had the brains of a tree, it would have been puzzled.

If it had had the brains of a human, it would have been frightened….

Tiffany brought the broomstick in low over the trees and landed it neatly in Mrs. Earwig’s garden. There really was nothing to it, she decided. You just had to
want
it to fly.

Then she was sick again, or at least tried to be, but since she’d thrown up twice in the air, there wasn’t much left to be sick with. It was ridiculous! She wasn’t frightened of flying anymore, but her stupid stomach was!

She wiped her mouth carefully and looked around.

She’d landed on a lawn. She’d heard of them, but had never seen a real one before. There was grass all around Miss Level’s cottage, but that was just, well, the grass of the clearing. Every other garden she’d seen was used for growing vegetables, with perhaps just a little space for flowers if
the wife had gotten tough about it. A lawn meant you were posh enough to afford to give up valuable potato space.

This lawn had stripes.

Tiffany turned to the stick and said, “Stay!” and then marched across the lawn to the house. It was a lot grander than Miss Level’s cottage, but from what Tiffany had heard, Mrs. Earwig was a more senior witch. She’d also married a wizard, although he didn’t do any wizarding these days. It was a funny thing, Miss Level said, but you didn’t often meet a poor wizard.

She knocked at the door and waited.

There was a curse net hanging in the porch. You’d have thought that a witch wouldn’t need such a thing, but Tiffany supposed they used them as decoration. There was also a broomstick leaning against the wall, and a five-pointed silver star on the door. Mrs. Earwig
advertised
.

Tiffany knocked on the door again, much harder.

It was instantly opened by a tall, thin woman, all in black. But it was a very decorative, rich, deep black, all lacy and ruffled, and set off with more silver jewelry than Tiffany imagined could exist. She didn’t just have rings on her fingers. Some fingers had sort of silver finger gloves,
designed to look like claws. She gleamed like the night sky.

And she was wearing her pointy hat, which Miss Level never did at home. It was taller than any hat that Tiffany had ever seen. It had stars on it, and silver hatpins glittered.

All of this should have added up to something pretty impressive. It didn’t. Partly it was because there was just too much of
everything
, but mostly it was because of Mrs. Earwig. She had a long, sharp face and looked very much as though she was about to complain about the cat from next door widdling on her lawn. And she looked like that all the time. Before she spoke, she very pointedly looked at the door to see if the heavy knocking had made a mark.

“Well?” she said, haughtily, or what she probably thought was haughtily. It sounded a bit strangled.

“Bless all in this house,” said Tiffany.

“What? Oh, yes. Favorable runes shine on this our meeting,” said Mrs. Earwig hurriedly. “Well?”

“I’ve come to see Annagramma,” said Tiffany. There really
was
too much silver.

“Oh, are you one of her girls?” said Mrs. Earwig.

“Not…exactly,” said Tiffany. “I work with Miss Level.”

“Oh,
her
,” said Mrs. Earwig, looking her up and down. “Green is a very dangerous color. What is your name, child?”

“Tiffany.”

“Hmm,” said Mrs. Earwig, not approving at all. “Well, you had better come in.” She glanced up and made a
tch!
sound. “Oh, will you look at that? I bought that at the craft fair over in Slice, too. It was
very
expensive!”

The curse net was hanging in tatters.

“You didn’t do that, did you?” Mrs. Earwig demanded.

“It’s too high, Mrs. Earwig,” said Tiffany.

“It’s pronounced Ah-wij,” said Mrs. Earwig coldly.

“Sorry, Mrs. Earwig.”

“Come.”

It was a strange house. You couldn’t doubt that a witch lived in it, and not just because every doorframe had a tall pointy bit cut out of the top of it to allow Mrs. Earwig’s hat to pass through. Miss Level had nothing on her walls except circus posters, but Mrs. Earwig had proper big paintings everywhere and they were all…witchy. There were lots of crescent moons and young women with quite frankly not enough clothes on, and big men with horns and, ooh,
not just horns. There were suns and moons on the tiles of the floor, and the ceiling of the room Tiffany was led into was high, blue, and painted with stars. Mrs. Earwig (pronounced
Ah-wij
) pointed to a chair with gryphon feet and crescent-shaped cushions.

“Sit there,” she said. “I will tell Annagramma you are here. Do not kick the chair legs, please.”

She went out via another door.

Tiffany looked around—

—the hiver looked around—

—and thought: I’ve got to be the strongest. When I am strongest, I shall be safe.
That
one is weak. She thinks you can buy magic.

“Oh, it really
is
you,” said a sharp voice behind her. “The cheese girl.”

Tiffany stood up.

—the hiver had been many things, including a number of wizards, because wizards sought power all the time and sometimes found, in their treacherous circles, not some demon that was so stupid that it could be tricked with threats and riddles, but the hiver, which was so stupid that it could not be tricked at all. And the hiver remembered—

Annagramma was drinking a glass of milk. Once you’d seen Mrs. Earwig, you understood something about Annagramma. There was an air
about her that she was taking notes on the world in order to draw up a list of suggestions for improvements.

“Hello,” said Tiffany.

“I suppose you came along to beg to be allowed to join after all, have you? I suppose you might be fun.”

“No, not really. But I might let you join
me
,” said Tiffany. “Are you enjoying that milk?”

The glass of milk turned into a bunch of thistles and grass. Annagramma dropped it hurriedly. When it hit the floor, it became a glass of milk again, and shattered and splashed.

Tiffany pointed at the ceiling. The painted stars flared, filling the room with light. But Annagramma stared at the spilled milk. “You know they say the power comes?” said Tiffany. “Well, it’s come to
me
. Do you want to be my friend? Or do you want to be…in my way? I should clean up that milk, if I was you.”

She concentrated. She didn’t know where this was coming from, but it seemed to know exactly what to do.

Annagramma rose a few inches off the floor. She struggled and tried to run, but that only made her spin. To Tiffany’s dreadful delight, the girl started to cry.

“
You
said we ought to use our power,” said Tiffany, walking around her as Annagramma tried to break free. “
You
said if we had the gift, people ought to know about it. You’re a girl with her head screwed on right.” Tiffany bent down a bit to look her in the eye. “Wouldn’t it be
awful
if it got screwed on wrong?”

She waved a hand and her prisoner dropped to the ground. But while Annagramma was unpleasant, she wasn’t a coward, and she rose up with her mouth open to yell and a hand upraised—

“Careful,” said Tiffany. “I can do it again.”

Annagramma wasn’t stupid, either. She lowered her hand and shrugged.

“Well, you
have
been lucky,” she said grudgingly.

“But I still need your help,” said Tiffany.

“Why would you need my help?” asked Annagramma sulkily.

—We need allies,
the hiver thought with Tiffany’s mind.
They can help protect us. If necessary, we can sacrifice them. Other creatures will always want to be friends with the powerful, and this one loves power—

“To start with,” said Tiffany, “where can I get a dress like yours?”

Annagramma’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you want
Zakzak Stronginthearm, over in Sallett Without,” she said. “He sells
everything
for the modern witch.”

“Then I want everything,” said Tiffany.

“
He’ll
want paying,” Annagramma went on. “He’s a dwarf. They know real gold from illusion gold. Everyone tries it out on him, of course. He just laughs. If you try it twice, he’ll make a complaint to your mistress.”

“Miss Tick said a witch should have just enough money,” said Tiffany.

“That’s right,” said Annagramma. “Just enough to buy everything she wants! Mrs. Earwig says that just because we’re witches, we don’t have to live like peasants. But Miss Level is old-fashioned, isn’t she? Probably hasn’t got any money in the house.”

And Tiffany said, “Oh, I know where I can get some money. I’ll meet you please help me! here this afternoon, and you can show me where his place is.”

“What was that?” said Annagramma sharply.

“I just said I’d stop me! meet you here this—” Tiffany began.

“There it was again! There was a sort of…odd echo in your voice,” said Annagramma. “Like two people trying to talk at once.”

“Oh, that,” said the hiver. “That’s nothing. It’ll stop soon.”

It was an interesting mind, and the hiver enjoyed using it—but always there was that one place, that little place that was closed; it was annoying, like an itch that wouldn’t go away….

It did not think. The mind of the hiver was just what remained of all the other minds it had once lived in. They were like echoes after the music is taken away. But even echoes, bouncing off one another, can produce new harmonies.

They clanged now. They rang out things like: fit in. Not strong enough yet to make enemies. Have friends….

Zakzak’s low-ceilinged, dark shop had plenty to spend your money on. Zakzak was indeed a dwarf, and they’re not traditionally interested in using magic, but he certainly knew how to display merchandise, which is what they are very good at.

There were wands, mostly of metal, some of rare woods. Some had shiny crystals stuck on them, which of course made them more expensive. There were bottles of colored glass in the potions section, and oddly enough, the smaller the bottle, the more expensive it was.

“That’s because there’s often very rare ingredients, like the tears of some rare snake or something,” said Annagramma.

“I didn’t know snakes cried,” said Tiffany.

“Don’t they? Oh, well, I expect that’s why it’s expensive.”

There was plenty of other stuff. Shambles hung from the ceiling, much prettier and more interesting than the working ones that Tiffany had seen. Since they were made up complete, then surely they were dead, just like the ones Miss Level kept for ornamentation. But they looked good—and looking was important.

There were even stones for looking
into
.

“Crystal balls,” said Annagramma as Tiffany picked one up. “Careful! They’re
very
expensive!” She pointed to a sign, which had been placed thoughtfully among the glittering globes. It said:

L
OVELY TO LOOK AT
N
ICE TO HOLD
I
F YOU DROP IT
Y
OU GET TORN APART BY WILD HORSES

Tiffany held the biggest one in her hand and saw how Mr. Stronginthearm moved slightly away from his counter, ready to rush forward
with a bill if she dropped it.

“Miss Tick uses a saucer of water with a bit of ink poured into it,” she said. “And she usually borrows the water and cadges the ink, at that.”

“Oh, a
fundamentalist
,” said Annagramma. “Letice—that’s Mrs. Earwig—says they let us down terribly. Do we really want people to think witches are just a bunch of mad old women who look like crows? That’s
so
gingerbread-cottagey! We really ought to be professional about these things.”

“Hmm,” said Tiffany, throwing the crystal ball up into the air and catching it again with one hand. “People should be made to
fear
witches.”

“Well, er, certainly they should respect us,” said Annagramma. “Um…I should be careful with that, if I was you….”

“Why?” said Tiffany, tossing the ball over her shoulder.

“That was finest quartz!” shouted Zakzak, rushing around his counter.

“Oh,
Tiffany
,” said Annagramma, shocked and trying not to giggle.

Zakzak rushed past them to where the shattered ball lay in hundreds of very expensive fragmen—