The Wee Free Men

said Mistress Weatherwax.
    “Um,” said Miss Tick.
    “You were being metapahorrical, weren’t you?” said Tiffany.
    “Metapahorrical?” said Mrs. Ogg, wrinkling her forehead.
    “She means metaphorical,” mumbled Miss Tick.
    “It’s like stories,” said Tiffany. “It’s all right. I worked it out. This is the school, isn’t it? The magic place? The world. Here. And you don’t realize it until you look. Do you know the pictsies think this world is heaven? We just don’t look. You can’t give lessons on witchcraft. Not properly. It’s all about how you are…you, I suppose.”
    “Nicely said,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “You’re sharp. But there’s magic, too. You’ll pick that up. It don’t take much intelligence, otherwise wizards wouldn’t be able to do it.”
    “You’ll need a job, too,” said Mrs. Ogg. “There’s no money in witchcraft. Can’t do magic for yourself, see? Cast-iron rule.”
    “I make good cheese,” said Tiffany.
    “Cheese, eh?” said Mistress Weatherwax. “Hmm. Yes. Cheese is good. But do you know anything about medicines? Midwifery? That’s a good portable skill.”
    “Well, I’ve helped deliver difficult lambs,” said Tiffany. “And I saw my brother being born. They didn’t bother to turn me out. It didn’t look too difficult. But I think cheese is probably easier, and less noisy.”
    “Cheese is good,” Mistress Weatherwax repeated, nodding. “Cheese is alive.”
    “And what do you really do?” said Tiffany.
    The thin witch hesitated for a moment, and then:
    “We look to…the edges,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “There’s a lot of edges, more than people know. Between life and death, this world and the next, night and day, right and wrong…an’ they need watchin’. We watch ’em, we guard the sum of things. And we never ask for any reward. That’s important.”
    “People give us stuff, mind you. People can be very gen’rous to witches,” said Mrs. Ogg happily. “On bakin’ days in our village, sometimes I can’t move for cake. There’s ways and ways of not askin’, if you get my meaning. People like to see a happy witch.”
    “But down here people think witches are bad!” said Tiffany, but her Second Thoughs added: Remember how rarely Granny Aching ever had to buy her own tobacco?
    “It’s amazin’ what people can get used to,” said Mrs. Ogg. “You just have to start slow.”
    “And we have to hurry,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “There’s a man riding up here on a farm horse. Fair hair, red face—”
    “It sounds like my father!”
    “Well, he’s making the poor thing gallop,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “Quick, now. You want to learn the skills? When can you leave home?”
    “Pardon?” said Tiffany.
    “Don’t the girls here go off to work as maids and things?” said Mrs. Ogg.
    “Oh, yes. When they’re a bit older than me.”
    “Well, when you’re a bit older than you, Miss Tick here will come and find you,” said Mistress Weatherwax. Miss Tick nodded. “There’re elderly witches up in the mountains who’ll pass on what they know in exchange for a bit of help around the cottage. This place will be watched over while you’re gone, you may depend on it. In the meantime you’ll get three meals a day, your own bed, use of broomstick…that’s the way we do it. All right?”
    “Yes,” said Tiffany, grinning happily. The wonderful moment was passing too quickly for all the questions she wanted to ask. “Yes! But, er…”
    “Yes?” said Mrs. Ogg.
    “I don’t have to dance around with no clothes on or anything like that, do I? Only I heard rumors—”
    Mistress Weatherwax rolled her eyes.
    Mrs. Ogg grinned cheerfully. “Well, that procedure does have something to recommend it—” she began.
    “No, you don’t have to!” snapped Mistress Weatherwax. “No cottage made of sweets, no cackling, and no dancing!”
    “Unless you want to,” said Mrs. Ogg, standing up. “There’s no harm in an occasional cackle, if the mood takes you that way. I’d teach you a good one right now, but we really ought to be going.”
    “But…but how did you manage it?” said Miss Tick to Tiffany. “This is all chalk! You’ve become a witch on chalk? How?”
    “That’s all you know, Perspicacia Tick,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “The bones of the hills is flint. It’s hard and sharp and useful. King of stones.” She picked up her broomstick and turned back to Tiffany. “Will you get into trouble, do