Terry Pratchett - Wintersmith

"This isn't how it's supposed to go!" she panted, hanging on to the wheel.

Marry me, said the Wintersmith.

Churning white water roared across the foundering ship. Tiffany held on for a moment longer; then the cold surf covered her…except that it was suddenly not cold, but warm. But it was still stopping her from breathing. In the darkness she tried to fight her way to the surface, until the blackness was suddenly pulled aside, her eyes filled with light, and a voice said: "I'm sure these mattresses are far too soft, but you can't tell Mrs. Ogg a thing."

Tiffany blinked. She was in bed, and a skinny woman with worried hair and a rather red nose was standing by it.

"You were tossing and turning like a mad thing," the woman said, putting a steaming mug on the small table by the bed. "One day someone will suffikate, mark my words."

Tiffany blinked again. I'm supposed to think: Oh, it was just a dream. But it wasn't just a dream. Not my dream.

"What time is it?" she managed.

"About seven," said the woman.

"Seven!" Tiffany pushed the sheets back. "I've got to get up! Mrs. Ogg will be wanting her breakfast!"

"I shouldn't think so. I took it to her in bed not ten minutes ago," said the woman, giving Tiffany a Look. "And I'm off home." She sniffed. "Drink your tea before it gets cold." And with that she marched toward the door.

"Is Mrs. Ogg ill?" asked Tiffany, looking everywhere for her socks. She'd never heard of anyone who wasn't really old or very ill having a meal in bed.

"Ill? I don't think she's had a day's illness in her life," said the woman, managing to suggest that in her opinion this was unfair. She shut the door.

Even the bedroom floor was smooth—not made smooth by centuries of feet that had worn down the planks and taken all the splinters out, but because someone had sanded and varnished it. Tiffany's bare feet stuck to it slightly. There was no dust to be seen, no spiderwebs anywhere. The room was bright and fresh and exactly unlike any room in a witch's cottage ought to be.

"I'm going to get dressed," she said to the air. "Are there any Feegles in here?"

"Ach, no," said a voice from under the bed.

There was some frantic whispering and the voice said: "That is tae say, there's hardly any o' us here at a'."

"Then shut your eyes," said Tiffany.

She got dressed, taking occasional sips of the tea as she did so. Tea brought to your bedside when you weren't ill? That sort of thing happened to kings and queens!

And then she noticed the bruise on her fingers. It didn't hurt at all, but the skin was blue where the ship's wheel had hit it. Right…

"Feegles?" she said.

"Crivens, ye'll nae be foolin' us a second time," said the voice from under the bed.

"Get out here where I can see you, Daft Wullie!" Tiffany commanded.

"It's real hagglin', miss, the way ye always ken it's me."

After some more urgent whispering, Daft Wullie—for it was indeed he—trooped out with two more Feegles and Horace the cheese.

Tiffany stared. All right, he was a blue cheese, so he was about the same color as a Feegle. And he acted like a Feegle, no doubt about that. Why, though, had he got a grubby strip of Feegle tartan around him?

"He kinda found us," said Daft Wullie, putting his arm around as much of Horace as was possible. "Can I keep him? He understands evera word I say!"

"That's amazing, because I don't," said Tiffany. "Look, were we in a shipwreck last night?"

"Oh, aye. Sorta."

"Sort of? Was it real or wasn't it?"

"Oh, aye," said the Feegle nervously.

"Which?" Tiffany insisted.

"Kinda real, and kinda not real, in a real unreal sorta way," said Daft Wullie, squirming a bit. "I don't have the knowin' o' the right wurdies…."

"Are all you Feegles okay?"

"Oh aye, miss," said Daft Wullie, brightening up. "Nae problemo. It wuz only a dream ship on a dream sea, after a'."

"And a dream iceberg?" said Tiffany.

"Ach, no. The iceberg was real, mistress."

"I thought so! Are you sure?"

"Aye. We're good at the knowin' o' stuff like that," said Daft Wullie. "That's so, eh, lads?" The other two Feegles, in total awe of being in the presence of the big wee hag without the safety of hundreds of brothers around them, nodded at Tiffany and then tried to shuffle behind each other.

"A real iceberg shaped like me is floating around on the sea?" said Tiffany in horror. "Getting in the way of shipping?"

"Aye. Could be," said Daft Wullie.

"I'm going to get into so much trouble!" said Tiffany, standing up.

There was a snapping noise, and the end of one of the floorboards leaped out of the floor and hung there, bouncing up and down with a rocking-chair noise. It had ripped out two long nails.

"And now this," said Tiffany weakly. But the Feegles and Horace had vanished.

Behind Tiffany someone laughed, although it was maybe more of a chuckle, deep and real and with just a hint that maybe someone had told a rude joke.

"Those little devils can't half run, eh?" said Nanny Ogg, ambling into the room. "Now then, Tiff, I wants you to turn around slowly and go and sit on your bed with your feet off the ground. Can you do that?"

"Of course, Mrs. Ogg," said Tiffany. "Look, I'm sorry about—"

"Poo, what's a floorboard more or less?" said Nanny Ogg. "I'm much more worried about Esme Weatherwax. She said there might be something like this! Ha, she was right and Miss Tick was wrong! There'll be no living with her after this! She'll have her nose so far in the air, her feet won't touch the ground!"

With a spioioioiiing! sound, another floorboard sprang up.

"And it might be a good idea if yours didn't either, miss," Nanny Ogg added. "I'll be back in half a tick."

That turned out to be the same length of time as twenty-seven seconds, when Nanny returned carrying a pair of violently pink slippers with bunny rabbits on them.

"My second-best pair," she said as, behind her, a board went plunk! and hurled four big nails into the far wall. The boards that had already sprung up were beginning to sprout what looked a lot like leaves. They were thin and weedy, but leaves were what they were.

"Is it me doing this?" asked Tiffany nervously.

"I daresay Esme will want to tell you all about it herself," said Nanny, helping Tiffany's feet into the slippers. "But what you've got here, miss, is a bad case of Ped Fecundis." In the back of Tiffany's memory Dr. Sensibility Bustle, D. M. Phil., B. El L., stirred in his sleep for a moment and took care of the translation.

"Fertile Feet?" said Tiffany.

"Well done! I didn't expect anything to happen to floorboards, mind you, but it makes sense, when you think about it. They're made of wood, after all, so they're tryin' to grow."

"Mrs. Ogg?" said Tiffany.

"Yes?"

"Please? I haven't got a clue what you're talking about! I keep my feet very clean! And I think I'm a giant iceberg!"

Nanny Ogg gave her a slow, kind look. Tiffany stared into dark, twinkling eyes. Don't try to trick her or hold anything back from those eyes, said her Third Thoughts. Everyone says she's been Granny Weatherwax's best friend since they were girls. And that means that under all those wrinkles must be nerves of steel.

"Kettle's on downstairs," said Nanny brightly. "Why don't you come down and tell me all about it?"

Tiffany had looked up "strumpet" in the Unexpurgated Dictionary, and found it meant "a woman who is no better than she should be" and "a lady of easy virtue." This, she decided after some working out, meant that Mrs. Gytha Ogg, known as Nanny, was a very respectable person. She found virtue easy, for one thing. And if she was no better than she should be, then she was just as good as she ought to be.

She had a feeling that Miss Treason hadn't meant this, but you couldn't argue with logic.