Terry Pratchett - Wintersmith

She turned around slowly. The poker was lying in the grate.

And now, she thought, it would be a good idea to go outside into the fresh air. It's a bit sad and stuffy in here. That's why I want to go out, because it's sad and stuffy. It's not at all because I'm afraid of any imaginary noises. I'm not superstitious. I'm a witch. Witches aren't superstitious. We are what people are superstitious of. I just don't want to stay. I felt safe here when she was alive—it was like sheltering under a huge tree—but I don't think it is safe anymore. If the Wintersmith makes the trees shout my name, well, I'll cover my ears. The house feels like it's dying and I'm going outside.

There was no point in locking the door. The local people were nervous enough about going inside even when Miss Treason was alive. They certainly wouldn't set foot inside now, not until another witch had made the place her own.

A weak, runny-egg kind of sun was showing through the clouds, and the wind had blown the frost away. But a brief autumn turned to winter quickly up here; from now on there would always be the smell of snow in the air. Up in the mountains the winter never ended. Even in the summer, the water in the streams was ice cold from the melting snow.

Tiffany sat down on the old stump with her ancient suitcase and a sack and waited for the Arrangements. Annagramma would be here pretty soon, you could bet on that.

The cottage already looked abandoned. It seemed like—

It was her birthday. The thought pushed itself to the front. Yes, it would be today. Death had got it right. The one big day in the year that was totally hers, and she had forgotten about it in all the excitement, and now it was already two thirds over.

Had she ever told Petulia and the others when her birthday was? She couldn't remember.

Thirteen years old. But she'd been thinking of herself as "nearly thirteen" for months now. Pretty soon she'd be "nearly fourteen."

She was just about to enjoy a bit of self-pity when there was a stealthy rustling behind her. She turned so quickly that Horace the cheese leaped backward.

"Oh, it's you," said Tiffany. "Where have you been, you naughty bo—cheese? I was worried sick!"

Horace looked ashamed, but it was quite hard to see how he managed it.

"Are you going to come with me?" she asked.

Horace was immediately surrounded by a feeling of yesness.

"All right. You must get in the sack." Tiffany opened it, but Horace backed away.

"Well, if you are going to be a naughty chee—" she began, and stopped. Her hand was itching. She looked up…at the Wintersmith.

It had to be him. At first he was just swirling snow in the air, but as he strode across the clearing, he seemed to come together, become human, become a young man with a cloak billowing out behind him and snow on his hair and shoulders. He wasn't transparent this time, not entirely, but something like ripples ran across him, and Tiffany thought she could see the trees behind him, like shadows.

She took a few hurried steps backward, but the Wintersmith was crossing the dead grass with the speed of a skater. She could turn and run, but that would mean she was, well, turning and running, and why should she do that? She hadn't been the one scribbling on people's windows!

What should she say, what should she say?

"Now, I really appreciated you finding my necklace," she said, backing away again. "And the snowflakes and roses were really very…it was very sweet. But…I don't think that we…well, you're made of cold and I'm not…I'm a human, made of…human stuff."

"You must be her," said the Wintersmith. "You were in the Dance! And now you are here, in my winter."

The voice wasn't right. It sounded…fake, somehow, as if the Wintersmith had been taught to say the sound of words without understanding what they were.

"I'm a her," she said uncertainly. "I don't know about ‘must be.' Er…please, I'm really sorry about the dance, I didn't mean to, it just seemed so…"

He's still got the same purple-gray eyes, she noticed. Purple-gray, in a face sculpted from freezing fog. A handsome face, too. "Look, I never meant to make you think—" she began.

"Meant?" said the Wintersmith, looking astonished. "But we don't mean. We are!"

"What do you…mean?"

"Crivens!"

"Oh, no…" muttered Tiffany as Feegles erupted from the grass.

The Feegles didn't know the meaning of the word "fear." Sometimes Tiffany wished they'd read a dictionary. They fought like tigers, they fought like demons, they fought like giants. What they didn't do was fight like something with more than a spoonful of brain.

They attacked the Wintersmith with swords, heads, and feet, and the fact that everything went through him as if he were a shadow didn't seem to bother them. If a Feegle aimed a boot at a misty leg and ended up kicking himself in his own head, then it had been a good result.

The Wintersmith ignored them, like a man paying no attention to butterflies.

"Where is your power? Why are you dressed like this?" the Wintersmith demanded. "This is not as it should be!"

He stepped forward and grabbed Tiffany's wrist hard, much harder than a ghostly hand should be able to do.

"It is wrong!" he shouted. Above the clearing the clouds were moving fast.

Tiffany tried to pull away. "Let me go!"

"You are her!" the Wintersmith shouted, pulling her toward him.

Tiffany hadn't known where the shout came from, but the slap came from her hand, thinking for itself. It caught the figure on the cheek so hard that for a moment the face blurred, as if she'd smeared a painting.

"Don't come near me! Don't touch me!" she screamed.

There was a flicker behind the Wintersmith. Tiffany couldn't see it clearly because of the icy haze and her own anger and terror, but something blurred and dark was moving toward them across the clearing, wavering and distorted like a figure seen through ice. It loomed behind the transparent figure for one dark moment, and then became Granny Weatherwax, in the same space as the Wintersmith…inside him.

He screamed for a second, and exploded into a mist.

Granny stumbled forward, blinking.

"Urrrgh. It'll take a while to get the taste of that out of my head," she said. "Shut your mouth, girl—something might fly into it."

Tiffany shut her mouth. Something might fly into it.

"What…what did you do to him?" she managed.

"It!" snapped Granny, rubbing her forehead. "It's an it, not a he! An it that thinks it's a he! Now give me your necklace!"

"What! But it's mine!"

"Do you think I want an argument?" Granny Weatherwax demanded. "Does it say on my face I want an argument? Give it to me now! Don't you dare defy me!"

"I won't just—"

Granny Weatherwax lowered her voice and, in a piercing hiss much worse than a scream, said: "It's how it finds you. Do you want it to find you again? It's just a fog now. How solid do you think it will become?"

Tiffany thought about that strange face, not moving like a real one should, and that strange voice, putting words together as if they were bricks….

She undid the little silver clasp and held up the necklace.

It's just Boffo, she told herself. Every stick is a wand, every puddle is a crystal ball. This is just a…a thing. I don't need it to be me.

Yes, I do.

"You must give it to me," said Granny softly. "I can't take it."

She held out her hand, palm up.

Tiffany dropped the horse into it and tried not to see Granny Weatherwax's fingers as a closing claw.

"Very well," said Granny, satisfied. "Now we must go."

"You were watching me," said Tiffany sullenly.

"All morning. You could have seen me if you'd thought to look," said Granny. "But you didn't do a bad job at the burial, I'll say that."