"Do all witches buy from Boffo?" asked Tiffany.

"Only me, at least around here. Oh, and I believe Old Mistress Breathless over in Two Falls used to buy warts from there."

"But…why?" said Tiffany.

"She couldn't grow them. Just couldn't grow them at all, poor woman. Tried everything. Face like a baby's bottom, her whole life."

"No, I meant, why do you want to seem so"—Tiffany hesitated, and went on—"awful?"

"I have my reasons," said Miss Treason.

"But you don't do those things the stories say you do, do you? Kings and princes don't come to consult you, do they?"

"No, but they might," said Miss Treason stoutly. "If they got lost, for example. Oh, I know all about those stories. I made up most of them!"

"You made up stories about yourself?"

"Oh, yes. Of course. Why not? I couldn't leave something as important as that to amateurs."

"But people say you can see a man's soul!"

Miss Treason chuckled. "Yes. Didn't make that one up! But I'll tell you, for some of my parishioners I'd need a magnifying glass! I see what they see, I hear with their ears. I knew their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers. I know the rumors and the secrets and the stories and the truths. And I am Justice to them, and I am fair. Look at me. See me."

Tiffany looked—and looked past the black cloak and the skulls and the rubber cobwebs and the black flowers and the blindfold and the stories, and saw a little deaf and blind old lady.

Boffo made the difference…not just the silly party stuff, but Boffo-thinking—the rumors and the stories. Miss Treason had power because people thought she did. It was like the standard witch's hat. But Miss Treason was taking Boffo much, much further.

"A witch needs no devices, Miss Treason," Tiffany said.

"Don't get smart with me, child. Didn't the girl Weatherwax tell you all this? Oh, yes, you don't need a wand or a shamble or even a pointy hat to be a witch. But it helps a witch to put on a show! People expect it. They'll believe in you. I didn't get where I am today by wearing a woolly bobble hat and a gingham apron! I look the part. I—"

There was a crash from outside, in the direction of the dairy.

"Our little blue friends?" said Miss Treason, raising her eyebrows.

"No, they're absolutely forbidden to go into any dairy I work in," Tiffany began, heading for the door. "Oh dear, I hope it's not Horace—"

"I told you he'd be nothing but trouble, did I not?" Miss Treason shouted as Tiffany hurried away.

It was Horace. He'd squeezed out of his cage again. He could make himself quite runny when he wanted to.

There was a broken butter dish on the floor, but although it had been full of butter, there was none there now. There was just a greasy patch.

And, from the darkness under the sink, there came a sort of high-speed grumbling noise, a kind of mnnamnamnam….

"Oh, you're after butter now, are you, Horace?" said Tiffany, picking up the dairy broom. "That's practically cannibalism, you know."

Still, it was better than mice, she had to admit. Finding little piles of mouse bones on the floor was a bit distressing. Even Miss Treason had not been able to work that one out. A mouse she happened to be looking through would be trying to get at the cheeses and then it would all go dark.

That was because Horace was a cheese.

Tiffany knew that Lancre Blue cheeses were always a bit on the lively side, and sometimes had to be nailed down, but…well, she was highly skilled at cheese making, even though she said it herself, and Horace was definitely a champion. The famous blue streaks that gave the variety its wonderful color were really pretty, although Tiffany wasn't sure they should glow in the dark.

She prodded the shadows with the end of the broom. There was a crack, and when she pulled the stick out again, two inches were missing from the end. Then there was a ptooi! noise and the missing piece of handle bounced off the wall on the other side of the room.

"No more milk for you, then," said Tiffany, straightening up, and she thought:

He came to give me the horse back. The Wintersmith did that.

Um…

That is quite…impressive, when you think about it.

I mean, he's got to organize avalanches and gales and come up with new shapes for snowflakes and everything, but he spared a bit of time just to come and give me my necklace back. Um…

And he just stood there.

And then he just vanished—I mean vanished even more.

Um…

She left Horace muttering under the sink and made tea for Miss Treason, who was back at her weaving. Then she quietly went up to her room.

Tiffany's diary was three inches thick. Annagramma, another local trainee witch and one of her friends (more or less), said that she should really call it her Book of Shadows and write it on vellum using one of the special magical inks sold at Zakzak Stronginthearm's Magical Emporium at Popular Prices—at least, prices that were popular with Zakzak.

Tiffany couldn't afford one. You could only trade witchcraft—you weren't supposed to sell it. Miss Treason didn't mind her selling cheeses, but even so paper was expensive up here, and the wandering peddlers never had very much to sell. They usually had an ounce or two of green copperas, though, which could make a decent ink if you mixed it with crushed oak galls or green walnut shells.

The diary was now as thick as a brick with extra pages Tiffany had glued in. She'd worked out that she could make it last two more years if she wrote small.

On the leather cover she had, with a hot skewer, drawn the words "Feegles Keep Out!!" It had never worked. They looked upon that sort of thing as an invitation. She wrote parts of the diary in code these days. Reading didn't come naturally to the Chalk Hill Feegles, so surely they'd never get the hang of a code.

She looked around carefully, in any case, and unlocked the huge padlock that secured a chain around the book. She turned to today's date, dipped her pen in the ink, and wrote: "Met t*."

Yes, a snowflake would be a good code for the Wintersmith.

He just stood there, she thought.

And he ran away because I screamed.

Which was a good thing, obviously.

Um…

But…I wish I hadn't screamed.

She opened her hand. The image of the horse was still there, as white as chalk, but there was no pain at all.

Tiffany gave a little shiver and pulled herself together. So? She had met the spirit of Winter. She was a witch. It was the sort of thing that sometimes happened. He'd politely given her back what was hers, and then he'd gone. There was no call to get soppy about it. There were things to do.

Then she wrote: "Ltr frm R."

She very carefully opened the letter from Roland, which was easy because slug slime isn't much of a glue. With any luck she could even reuse the envelope. She hunched over the letter so that no one could read it over her shoulder. Finally she said: "Miss Treason, will you get out of my face, please? I need to use my eyeballs privately."

There was a pause and then a mutter from downstairs, and the tickling behind her eyes went away.

It was always…good to get a letter from Roland. Yes, they were often about the sheep, and other things of the Chalk, and sometimes there'd be a dried flower inside, a harebell or a cowslip. Granny Aching wouldn't have approved of that; she always said that if the hills had wanted people to pick the flowers, they would have grown more of them.

The letters always made her homesick.

One day Miss Treason had said, "This young man who writes to you…is he your beau?" and Tiffany had changed the subject until she had time to look up the word in the dictionary and then more time to stop blushing.

Roland was…well, the thing about Roland was…the main thing about…well, the point was…he was there.