Terry Pratchett - Wintersmith

"And the horse ain't the only trinket I see," Granny continued. "Magick, is it?" She always stuck a K on the end of any magic she disapproved of.

Tiffany glanced down at the ring on her finger. It had a dull shine. It'd never rust while she wore it, the blacksmith had told her, because of the oils in her skin. He'd even taken the time to cut little snowflakes in it with a tiny chisel.

"It's just a ring I had made out of a nail," she said.

"Iron enough to make a ring," said Granny, and Tiffany stopped dead. Did she really get into people's minds? It had to be something like that.

"And why did you decide you wanted a ring?" said Granny.

For all sorts of reasons that never quite managed to be clear in Tiffany's head, she knew. All she could think of to say was: "It seemed like a good idea at the time." She waited for the explosion.

"Then it probably was," said Granny mildly. She stopped, pointed away from the path—in the direction of the town and Nanny Ogg's house—and said: "I put the fence around it. It's got other things protectin' it, you may be sure of that, but some beasts is just too stupid to scare."

It was the oak tree sapling, already five feet high. A fence of poles and woven branches surrounded it.

"Growing fast, for oak," said Granny. "I'm keeping an eye on it. But come on, I don't want to miss it." She set off again, covering the ground fast. Bewildered, Tiffany ran after her.

"Miss what?" she panted.

"The dance, of course!"

"Isn't it too early for that?"

"Not up here. They starts up here!"

Granny hurried along little paths and behind gardens and came out into the town square, which was thronged with people. Small stalls had been set up. A lot of people were standing around in the slightly hopeless why-are-we-here? way of crowds who're doing what their hearts want to do but their heads feel embarrassed about, but at least there were hot things on sticks to eat. There were lots of white chickens, too. Very good eggs, Nanny had said, so it would have been a shame to kill them.

Granny walked to the front of the crowd. There was no need to push people out of the way. They just moved sideways, without noticing.

They'd arrived just in time. Children came running along the road to the bridge, only just ahead of the dancers who, as they trudged along, seemed like quite homely and ordinary men—men Tiffany'd seen often, working in forges or driving carts. They all wore white clothes, or at least clothes that had been white once, and like the audience they looked a bit sheepish, their expressions suggesting that this was all just a bit of fun, really, not to be taken seriously. They were even waving to people in the crowd. Tiffany looked around and saw Miss Tick, and Nanny, and even Mrs. Earwig…nearly every witch she knew. Oh, and there was Annagramma, minus Mr. Boffo's little devices, and looking very proud.

It wasn't like this last autumn, she thought. It was dark and quiet and solemn and hidden, everything that this isn't. Who watched it from the shadows?

Who is watching now from the light? Who is here in secret?

A drummer and a man with an accordion pushed their way through the crowd, along with the local pub owner carrying eight pints of beer on a tray (because no grown man is going to dance in front of his friends with ribbons around his hat and bells on his trousers without the clear prospect of a large drink).

When the noise had died down a bit, the drummer beat the drum a few times and the accordionist played a long-drawn-out chord, the legal signal that a Morris dance is about to begin, and people who hang around after this have only got themselves to blame.

The two-man band struck up. The men, in two lines of three facing each other, counted the beat and then leaped…. Tiffany turned to Granny as twelve hobnailed boots crashed to the ground, throwing up sparks.

"Tell me how to take away pain," she said, above the noise of the dance.

Crash!

"It's hard," said Granny, not taking her eyes off the dancers. Crash went the boots again.

"You can move it out of the body?"

Crash!

"Sometimes. Or hide it. Or make a cage for it and carry it away. And all of it's dangerous, and it will kill you if you don't respect it, young woman. It is all price and no profit. You are asking me to tell you how to put your hand in the lion's mouth."

Crash!

"I must know, to help the Baron. It's bad. There is a lot I have to do."

"This you choose to do?" said Granny, still watching.

"Yes!"

Crash!

"This is your Baron who doesn't like witches?" said Granny, her gaze going from face to face in the crowd.

"But who does like witches until they need one, Mistress Weatherwax?" said Tiffany sweetly.

Crash!

"This is a reckoning, Mistress Weatherwax," Tiffany added. After all, once you've kissed the Wintersmith, you're in the mood to dare. And Granny Weatherwax smiled, as if she'd done all that was expected of her.

"Ha! Is it now?" she said. "Very well. Come and see me again before you go, and we'll see what you may take back with you. And I hopes you can close the doors you are opening. Now watch the people! Sometimes you see her!"

Tiffany paid attention to the dance. The Fool had turned up without her noticing, wandering around collecting money in his greasy top hat. If a girl looked as though she'd squeal if he kissed her, he gave her a kiss. And sometimes, without any warning, he'd spring off into the dance, spinning through the men with never a foot in the wrong place.

Then Tiffany saw it. The eyes of a woman on the other side of the dance flashed gold, just for a moment. Once she'd seen it, she saw it again—in the eyes of a boy, a girl, the man holding the beer, moving around to watch the Fool—

"Summer's here!" said Tiffany, and realized that she was tapping her foot to the beat; she realized it because a heavier boot had just trodden on it and pinned it gently but firmly to the ground. Beside it, You looked up at her in blue-eyed innocence that became, for the briefest fragment of a second, the lazy golden eyes of a snake.

"She's meant to be," said Granny Weatherwax, removing her boot.

"A few coppers for luck, miss?" said a voice close by, and there was the sound of money being shaken in an ancient hat.

Tiffany turned and looked into purple-gray eyes. The face around them was lined and tanned and grinning. He had a gold earring. "A copper or two from the lovely lady?" he wheedled. "Silver or gold, maybe?"

Sometimes, Tiffany thought, you just know how it all should go….

"Iron?" she said, taking the ring off her finger and dropping it into the hat.

The Fool picked it out, delicately, and flipped it into the air. Tiffany's eye followed it, but somehow it wasn't in the air anymore but was glistening on the man's finger.

"Iron's enough," he said, and gave her a sudden kiss on the cheek.

It was only slightly chilly.

The galleries inside the Feegle mound were crowded but hushed. This was important. The honor of the clan was at stake here.

In the middle was a large book, taller than Rob and filled with colorful pictures. It was quite muddy from its journey down into the mound. Rob had been challenged. For years he'd thought himself to be a hero, and then the hag o' hags had said he wasna, no' really. Weel, you couldn't argue wi' the hag o' hags, but he wuz goin' to rise tae the challenge, oh aye, so he wuz, or his name wasna Rob Anybody.

"Where's mah coo?" he read. "Is that mah coo? It gaes cluck! It is a…a…chicken! It is no' mah coo! An' then there's this wee paintin' o' a couple o' chickens. That's another page, right?"

"It is indeed, Rob," said Billy Bigchin.

There was a cheer from the assembled Feegles as Rob ran around the book, waving his hands in the air.