And within this sisterhood — except that it wasn’t a sisterhood, it was a loose assortment of chronic non-joiners; a group of witches wasn’t a coven, it was a small war — there was always this awareness of position. It had nothing to do with anything the other world thought of as status. Nothing was ever said. But if an elderly witch died the local witches would attend her funeral for a few last words, and then go solemnly home alone, with the little insistent thought at the back of their minds: “I’ve moved up one.”

And newcomers were watched very, very carefully.

“Morning, Mrs Ogg,” said a voice behind her. “I trust I find you well?”

“How’d’yer do, Mistress Shimmy,” said Nanny, turning. Her mental filing system threw up a card: Clarity Shimmy, lives over towards Cutshade with her old mum, takes snuff, good with animals. “How’s your mother keepin’?”

“We buried her last month, Mrs Ogg.”

Nanny Ogg quite liked Clarity, because she didn’t see her very often.

“Oh dear ...” she said.

“But I shall tell her you asked after her, anyway,” said Clarity. She glanced briefly towards the ring. “Who’s the fat girl on now? Got a backside on her like a bowling ball on a short seesaw.”

“That’s Agnes Nitt.”

“That’s a good cursin’ voice she’s got there. You know you’ve been cursed with a voice like that.”

“Oh yes, she’s been blessed with a good voice for cursin’,” said Nanny politely. “Esme Weatherwax an’ me gave her a few tips,” she added.

Clarity’s head turned.

At the far edge of the field, a small pink shape sat alone behind the Lucky Dip. It did not seem to be drawing a big crowd.

Clarity leaned closer.

“What’s she ... er ... doing?”

“I don’t know,” said Nanny. “I think she’s decided to be nice about it.”

“Esme? Nice about it?”

“Er ... yes,” said Nanny. It didn’t sound any better now she was telling someone.

Clarity stared at her. Nanny saw her make a little sign with her left hand, and then hurry off.

The pointy hats were bunching up now. There were little groups of three or four. You could see the points come together, cluster in animated conversation, and then open out again like a flower, and turn towards the distant blob of pinkness. Then a hat would leave that group and head off purposefully to another one, where the process would start all over again. It was a bit like watching very slow nuclear fission. There was a lot of excitement, and soon there would be an explosion.

Every so often someone would turn and look at Nanny, so she hurried away among the sideshows until she fetched up beside the stall of the dwarf Zakzak Stronginthearm, maker and purveyor or occult knicknackery to the more impressionable. He nodded at her cheerfully over the top of a display saying “Lucky Horseshoes $2 Each”.

“Hello, Mrs Ogg” he said.

Nanny realized she was flustered.

“What’s lucky about ’em?” she said, picking up a horseshoe.

“Well, I get two dollars each for them,” said Stronginthearm.

“And that makes them lucky?”

“Lucky for me,” said Stronginthearm. “I expect you’ll be wanting one too, Mrs Ogg? I’d have fetched along another box if I’d known they’d be so popular. Some of the ladies’ve bought two.”

There was an inflection to the word “ladies”.

“Witches have been buying lucky horseshoes?” said Nanny.

“Like there’s no tomorrow,” said Zakzak. He frowned for a moment. They had been witches, after all. “Er ... there will be ... won’t there?” he added.

“I’m very nearly certain of it,” said Nanny, which didn’t seem to comfort him.

“Suddenly been doing a roaring trade in protective herbs, too,” said Zakzak. And, being a dwarf, which meant that he’d see the Flood as a marvellous opportunity to sell towels, he added, “Can I interest you, Mrs Ogg?”

Nanny shook her head. If trouble was going to come from the direction everyone had been looking, then a sprig of rue wasn’t going to be much help. A large oak tree’d be better, but only maybe.

The atmosphere was changing. The sky was a wide pale blue, but there was thunder on the horizons of the mind. The witches were uneasy and with so many in one place the nervousness was bouncing from one to another and, amplified, rebroadcasting itself to everyone. It meant that even ordinary people who thought that a rune was a dried plum were beginning to feel a deep, existential worry, the kind that causes you to snap at your kids and want a drink.

Nanny peered through a gap between a couple of stalls. The pink figure was still sitting patiently, and a little crestfallen, behind the barrel. There was, as it were, a huge queue of no one at all.

Then Nanny scuttled from the cover of one tent to another until she could see the produce stand. It had already been doing a busy trade but there, forlorn in the middle of the cloth, was the pile of terrible cakes. And the jar of jam. Some wag had chalked up a sign beside it: “Get Thee fpoon out of thee Jar, 3 tries for A Penney!!!”

She thought she’d been careful to stay concealed, but she heard the straw rustle behind her. The committee had tracked her down.

“That’s your handwriting, isn’t it, Mrs Earwig?” she said. “That’s cruel. That ain’t ... nice.”

“We’ve decided you’re to go and talk to Miss Weatherwax,” said Letice. “She’s got to stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“She’s doing something to people’s heads! She’s come here to put the ’fluence on us, right? Everyone knows she does head magic. We can all feel it! She’s spoiling it for everyone!”

“She’s only sitting there,” said Nanny.

“Ah, yes, but how is she sitting there, may we ask?”

Nanny peered around the stall again.

“Well ... like normal. You know ... bent in the middle and the knees ...”

Letice waved a finger sternly.

“Now you listen to me, Gytha Ogg —”

“If you want her to go away, you go and tell her!” snapped Nanny. “I’m fed up with —”

There was the piercing scream of a child.

The witches stared at one another, and then ran across the field to the Lucky Dip.

A small boy was writhing on the ground, sobbing.

It was Pewsey, Nanny’s youngest grandchild.

Her stomach turned to ice. She snatched him up, and glared into Granny’s face.

“What have you done to him, you —” she began.

“Don’twannadolly! Don’twannadolly! Wannasoljer! WannawannawannaSOLJER!”

Now Nanny looked down at the rag doll in Pewsey’s sticky hand, and the expression of affronted tearful rage on such of his face as could be seen around his screaming mouth —

“OiwannawannaSOLJER!”

— and then at the other witches, and at Granny Weatherwax’s face, and felt the horrible cold shame welling up from her boots.

“I said he could put it back and have another go,” said Granny meekly. “But he just wouldn’t listen.”

“— wannawannaSOL —”

“Pewsey Ogg, if you don’t shut up right this minute Nanny will —” Nanny Ogg began, and dredged up the nastiest punishment she could think of, “Nanny won’t give you a sweetie ever again!”

Pewsey closed his mouth, stunned into silence by this unimaginable threat. Then, to Nanny’s horror, Letice Earwig drew herself up and said, “Miss Weatherwax, we would prefer it if you left.”

“Am I being a bother?” said Granny. “I hope I’m not being a bother. I don’t want to be a bother. He just took a lucky dip and —”

“You’re ... upsetting people.”

Any minute now, Nanny thought. Any minute now she’s going to raise her head and narrow her eyes and if Letice doesn’t take two steps backwards she’ll be a lot tougher than me.

“I can’t stay and watch?” Granny said quietly.

“I know your game,” said Letice. “You’re planning to spoil it, aren’t you? You can’t stand the thought of being beaten, so you’re intending something nasty.”