"Then he says what is he supposed to do with them now and I says it's not my place to tell him and that will be two pennies please and he puts down a gold coin so I curtsy because, well, you never know. Then he says, ‘I am a human just like you. Where are the pointy humans who fly through the sky?' which was a funny way of putting it to my mind, but I told him if it was witches he wanted, there was plenty of 'em over the Lancre Bridge, and he said, ‘Name of Treason?' and I said I heard she was dead but with witches who can say. And off he went. All the time he had this, like, smile, all shiny and a bit worrying. Something wrong with his clothes, too, like they were stuck to him or something. But you can't be too choosy in this business. We had some trolls in here yesterday. They can't eat our food, you know, being kind of like walking rocks, but we gave them a slap-up meal of broken cups and grease. But he was a rum 'un. The place got a lot warmer after he left, too."

Expect no less of you…

The words kept Tiffany warm as she flew over the trees. The fire in her head burned with pride but contained one or two big crackly logs of anger.

Granny had known! Had she planned it? Because it looked good, didn't it? All the witches would know. Mrs. Earwig's pupil couldn't cope, but Tiffany Aching organized all the other girls to help out and didn't tell anyone. Of course, among witches, not telling anyone was a sure way of getting things found out. Witches were very good at listening to what you weren't saying. So Annagramma held on to her cottage, and Mrs. Earwig was embarrassed and Granny would be smug. All that work and rushing around, to let Granny feel smug. Well, and for Mrs. Stumper's pig and everyone else, of course. That made it complicated. If you could, you did what needed to be done. Poking your nose in was basic witchcraft. She knew it. Granny knew she knew it. So Tiffany had scurried around like a little clockwork mouse….

There would be a reckoning!

The clearing was full of snow in great icy drifts, but a path had been worn to the cottage, she was pleased to see.

There was something new. There were people standing by Miss Treason's grave, and some of the snow had been scraped off.

Oh no, Tiffany thought as she circled down, please say she hasn't gone looking for the skulls!

It turned out to be, in some ways, worse.

She recognized the people around the grave. They were villagers, and they gave Tiffany the defiant, worried stares of people scared half to death by the small but possibly angry pointy hat in front of them. And there was something about the very deliberate way they weren't looking at the mound that instantly drew her attention to it. It was covered in little torn scraps of paper, pinned down with sticks. They fluttered in the wind.

She snatched up a couple:

Miss Treason please keep my boy Joe save at see.

Miss treason, Im goin bald pleas help.

Miss Treason, please find our Girl Becky what run away Im sorry.

There were more. And just as she was about to speak sharply to the villagers for still bothering Miss Treason, she remembered the packets of Jolly Sailor tobacco that the shepherds even now left on the turf where the old shepherding hut had been. They didn't write their petitions down, but they were there all the same, floating in the air:

"Granny Aching, who herds the clouds in the blue sky, please watch my sheep." "Granny Aching, cure my son." "Granny Aching, find my lambs."

They were the prayers of small people, too afraid to bother the gods in their high places. They trusted in what they knew. They weren't right or wrong. They were just…hopeful.

Well, Miss Treason, she thought, you're a myth now, as sure as anything. You might even make it to goddess. It's not much fun, I can tell you.

"And has Becky been found?" she said, turning to the people.

A man avoided her gaze as he said: "I reckon Miss Treason'll understand why the girl won't be wantin' to come home anytime soon."

Oh, thought Tiffany, one of those reasons.

"Any news of the boy, then?" she said.

"Ah, that one worked," said a woman. "His mum got a letter yesterday sayin' he'd been in a dreadful shipwreck but was picked up alive, which only goes to show."

Tiffany didn't ask what it was that it went to show. It was enough that it had gone to show it.

"Well, that's good," she said.

"But lots of poor seamen got drownded," the woman went on. "They hit an iceberg in the fog. A big floating mountain of ice shaped like a woman, they said. What d'you think of that?"

"I expect if they'd been at sea long enough, anything would look like a woman, eh?" said the man, and chuckled. The women gave him a Look.

"He didn't say who she—if she looked like, you know…anyone?" said Tiffany, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Depends where they were looking—" the man began cheerfully.

"You ought to wash your brain out with soap and water," said the woman, prodding him sharply in the chest.

"Er, no, miss," he said, looking down at his feet. "He just said her head was all covered with seagull—poo, miss."

This time, Tiffany tried not to sound relieved. She looked down at the fluttering bits of paper on the grave and back to the woman, who was trying to hide what might be a fresh request behind her back.

"Do you believe in this stuff, Mrs. Carter?"

The woman suddenly looked flustered. "Oh no, miss, of course not. But it's just that…well, you know…."

It makes you feel better, thought Tiffany. It's something you can do when there's nothing more to be done. And who knows, it might work. Yes, I know. It's—

Her hand itched. And now she realized that it had been itching for a while.

"Oh yes?" she said under her breath. "You dare?"

"Are you all right, miss?" said the man. Tiffany ignored him. A rider was approaching and snow followed after him, spreading and widening behind him like a cloak, soundless as a wish, thick as fog.

Without taking her eyes off him, Tiffany reached into her pocket and gripped the tiny Cornucopia. Hah!

She walked forward.

The Wintersmith dismounted from his snow-white horse when it had drawn level with the old cottage.

Tiffany stopped about twenty feet away, her heart pounding.

"My lady," said the Wintersmith, and bowed.

He looked…better, and older.

"I warn you! I've got a Cornucopia and I'm not afraid to use it!" said Tiffany. But she hesitated. He did look almost human, except for that fixed, strange grin. "How did you find me?" she said.

"For you I have learned," said the figure. "I learned how to search. I am human!"

Really? But his mouth doesn't look right, said her Third Thoughts. It's pale inside, like snow. That's not a boy there. It just thinks it is.

One big pumpkin, her Second Thoughts urged. They get really hard at this time of year. Shoot him now!

Tiffany herself, the one on the outside, the one who could feel the air on her face, thought: I can't just do that! All he's doing is standing there talking. All this is my fault!

He wants never-ending winter, said her Third Thoughts. Everyone you know will die!

She was sure the eyes of the Wintersmith could see right into her mind.

The summer kills the winter, the Third Thoughts insisted. That's how it works!

But not like this, Tiffany thought. I know it's not supposed to be like this! It feels wrong. It's not the right…story. The king of winter can't be killed by a flying pumpkin!

The Wintersmith was watching her carefully. Thousands of Tiffany-shaped flakes were falling around him.

"We will finish the Dance now?" he said. "I am human, just like you!" He held out a hand.

"Do you know what human is?" said Tiffany.