Wintersmith

difference. Tiffany consoled herself with the fact that at least Granny knew that she knew. It wasn’t much, but it was all she was going to get.
    “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.