Wintersmith

Miss Treason had known all about stories, yes? She'd spun them like a spiderweb, to give herself power. And they worked because people wanted to believe them. And Nanny Ogg told a story, too. Fat, jolly Nanny Ogg, who liked a drink (and another drink, thank you kindly) and was everyone's favorite grandmother…but those twinkling little eyes could bore into your head and read all your secrets.

Even Granny Aching had a story. She'd lived in the old shepherding hut, high on the hills, listening to the wind blowing over the turf. She was mysterious, alone—and the stories floated up and gathered around her, all those stories about her finding lost lambs even though she was dead, all those stories about her, still, watching over people….

People wanted the world to be a story, because stories had to sound right and they had to make sense. People wanted the world to make sense.

Well, her story wasn't going to be the story of a little girl who got pushed around. There was no sense in that.

Except…he's not actually bad. The gods in the Mythology, they seemed to get the hang of being human—a bit too human, sometimes—but how could a snowstorm or a gale ever find out? He was dangerous and scary—but you couldn't help feeling sorry for him….

Someone hammered on Nanny Ogg's back door. It turned out to be a tall figure in black.

"Wrong house," said Tiffany. "No one here is even a bit sick."

A hand raised the black hood, and from its depths a voice hissed: "It's me, Annagramma! Is she in?"

"Mrs. Ogg's not up yet," said Tiffany.

"Good. Can I come in?"

At the kitchen table, over a cup of warming tea, Annagramma revealed all. Life in the woods was not going well.

"Two men came to see me about some stupid cow they both think they own!" she said.

"That'll be Joe Broomsocket and Shifty Adams. I left you a note about them, too," said Tiffany. "Whenever one or other of them gets drunk, they argue about that cow."

"What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Nod and smile. Wait until the cow dies, Miss Treason always said. Or one of the men," said Tiffany. "It's the only way."

"And a woman came to see me with a sick pig!"

"What did you do about it?"

"I told her I don't do pigs! But she burst into tears, so I tried Bangle's Universal Nostrum on it."

"You used that on a pig?" said Tiffany, shocked.

"Well, the pig witch uses magic, so I don't see why—" Annagramma began defensively.

"She knows what works!" said Tiffany.

"It was perfectly all right when I got it down out of the tree! She didn't have to make all that fuss! I'm sure the bristles will grow back! In time!"

"It wasn't a spotted pig, was it? And a woman with a squint?" Tiffany asked.

"Yes! I think so! Does it matter?"

"Mrs. Stumper is very attached to that pig," said Tiffany reproachfully. "She brings him up to the cottage about once a week. It's usually just an upset stomach. She feeds him too much."

"Really? Then I won't open the door to her next time," said Annagramma firmly.

"No, let her in. Really, it's all because she's lonely and wants to chat."

"Well, I should think I've got better things to do with my time than listen to an old lady who just wants to talk," said Annagramma indignantly.

Tiffany looked at her. Where did you start, apart from banging the girl's head on the table until the brain started working?

"Listen very carefully," she said. "I mean to her, not just to me. You've got no better use of your time than to listen to old ladies who want to talk. Everyone tells things to witches. So listen to everyone and don't say much and think about what they say and how they say it and watch their eyes…. It becomes like a big jigsaw puzzle, but you're the only one who can see all the pieces. You'll know what they want you to know, and what they don't want you to know, and even what they think no one knows. That's why we go around the houses. That's why you will go around the houses, until you're part of their lives."

"All this just to get some power over a crowd of farmers and peasants?"

Tiffany spun around and kicked a chair so hard that it broke a leg. Annagramma backed away quickly.

"What did you do that for?"

"You're clever—you guess!"

"Oh, I forgot…your father is a shepherd…"

"Good! You remembered!" Tiffany hesitated. Certainty was pouring into her brain, courtesy of her Third Thoughts. Suddenly she knew Annagramma.

"And your father?" she asked.

"What?" Annagramma instinctively drew herself up. "Oh, he owns several farms—"

"Liar!"

"Well, perhaps I should say he is a farmer—" the girl began, nervousness beginning to show.

"Liar!"

Annagramma backed away. "How dare you talk to me like—"

"How dare you not tell me the truth!"

In the pause that opened, Tiffany heard everything—the faint crackle of wood in the stove, the sound of mice in the cellar, her own breathing roaring like the sea in a cave….

"He works for a farmer, all right?" said Annagramma quickly, and then looked shocked at her own words. "We don't have any land, we don't even own the cottage. There's the truth, if you want it. Happy now?"