‘Yes, but you didn’t actually eat them, did you?’ said Tiffany. ‘It was the owl that actually ate them.’

Technic’ly, yes,’ Mistress Weatherwax admitted. ‘But if you think you’ve been eating voles all night you’d be amazed how much you don’t want to eat anything next morning. Or ever again.’

She nodded at the distant, departing figure of Petulia.

‘Friend of yours?’ she said, as they set out.

‘Er… if she is, I don’t deserve it,’ said Tiffany.

‘Hmm,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Well, sometimes we get what we don’t deserve.’

For an old woman Mistress Weatherwax could move quite fast. She strode over the moors as if distance was a personal insult. But she was good at something else too.

She knew about silence. There was the swish of her long skirt as it snagged the heathers, but somehow that became part of the background noise.

In the silence, as she walked, Tiffany could still hear the memories. There were hundreds of them left behind by the hiver. Most of them were so faint that they were nothing more than a slight uncomfortable feeling in her head, but the ancient tiger still burned brightly in the back of her brain, and behind that was the giant lizard. They’d been killing machines, the most powerful creatures in their world—once. The hiver had taken them both. And then they’d died fighting.

Always taking fresh bodies, always driving the owners mad with the urge for power which would always end with getting them killed… and just as Tiffany wondered why, a memory said: Because it is frightened.

Frightened of what? Tiffany thought. It’s so powerful!

Who knows? But it’s mad with terror. Completely binkers!

‘You’re Simplicity Bustle, aren’t you,’ said Tiffany, and then her ears informed her that she’d said this aloud.

‘Talkative, ain’t he,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘He talked in your sleep the other night. Used to have a very high opinion of himself. I reckon that’s why his memories held together for so long.’

‘He doesn’t know binkers from bonkers, though,’ said Tiffany.

‘Well, memory fades,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. She stopped and leaned against a rock. She sounded out of breath.

‘Are you all right, mistress?’ said Tiffany.

‘Sound as a bell,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, wheezing slightly. ‘Just getting my second wind. Anyway, it’s only another six miles.’

‘I notice you’re limping a bit,’ said Tiffany.

‘Do you, indeed? Then stop noticing!’

The shout echoed off the cliffs, full of command.

Mistress Weatherwax coughed, when the echo had died away. Tiffany had gone pale.

‘It seems to me,’ said the old witch, ‘that I might just’ve been a shade on the sharp side there. It was prob’ly the voles.’ She coughed again. ‘Them as knows me, or has earned it one way or the other, calls me Granny Weatherwax. I shall not take it amiss if you did the same.’

‘Granny Weatherwax?’ said Tiffany, shocked out of her shock by this new shock.

‘Not technic’ly,’ said Mistress Weatherwax quickly. ‘It’s what they call a honorific, like Old Mother So-and-so, or Goodie Thingy, or Nanny Whatshername. To show that a witch has… is fully… has been—’

Tiffany didn’t know whether to laugh or burst into tears. ‘I know,’ she said.

‘You do?’

‘Like Granny Aching,’ said Tiffany. ‘She was my granny, but everyone on the Chalk called her Granny Aching.’

“Mrs Aching” wouldn’t have worked, she knew. You needed a big, warm, billowing, open kind of word. Granny Aching was there for everybody.

‘It’s like being everyone’s grandmother,’ she added. And didn’t add: who tells them stories!

‘Well, then. Perhaps so. Granny Weatherwax it is,’ said Granny Weatherwax, and added quickly, ‘but not technic’ly. Now we’re best be moving.’

She straightened up and set off again.

Granny Weatherwax. Tiffany tried it out in her head. She’d never known her other grandmother, who’d died before she was born. Calling someone else Granny was strange but, oddly, it seemed right. And you could have two.

The hiver followed them. Tiffany could feel it. But it was still keeping its distance. Well, there’s a trick to take to the Trials, she thought. Granny—her brain tingled as she thought the word—Granny has got a plan. She must have.

But… things weren’t right. There was another thought she wasn’t quite having; it ducked out of sight every time she thought she had it. The hiver wasn’t acting right.

She made sure she kept up with Granny Weatherwax.

As they got nearer to the Trials, there were clues. Tiffany saw at least three broomsticks in the air, heading the same way. They reached a proper track, too, and groups of people were travelling in the same direction; there were a few pointy hats amongst them, which was a definite clue. The track dropped on down through some woods, came up in a patchwork of little fields and headed for a tall hedge, from behind which came the sound of a brass band playing a medley of Songs from the Shows, although by the sound of it no two musicians could agree on what Song or which Show.

Tiffany jumped when she saw a balloon sail up above the trees, catch the wind and swoop away, but it turned out to be just a balloon and not a lump of excess Brian. She could tell this because it was followed by a long scream of rage mixed with a roar of complaint: ‘AAaargwannawannaaaagongongonaargggaaaa BLOON!’ which is the traditional sound of a very small child learning that with balloons, as with life itself, it is important to know when not to let go of the string. The whole point of balloons is to teach small children this.

However, on this occasion a broomstick with a pointy-hatted passenger rose above the trees, caught up with the balloon and towed it back down to the Trials ground.

‘Didn’t used to be like this,’ Granny Weatherwax grumbled as they reached a gate. ‘When I was a girl, we just used to meet up in some meadow somewhere, all by ourselves. But now, oh no, it has to be a Grand Day Out For All The Family. Hah!’

There had been a crowd around the gate leading into the field, but there was something about that ‘Hah!’ The crowd parted, as if by magic, and the women pulled their children a little closer to them as Granny walked right up to the gate.

There was a boy there, selling tickets and wishing, now, that he’d never been born.

Granny Weatherwax stared at him. Tiffany saw his ears go red.

‘Two tickets, young man,’ said Granny. Little bits of ice tinkled off her words.

‘That’ll, er, be, er… one child and one senior citizen?’ the young man quavered.

Granny leaned forward and said: ‘What is a senior citizen, young man?’

‘It’s like… you know… old folks,’ the boy mumbled. Now his hands were shaking.

Granny leaned further forward. The boy really, really wanted to step back but his feet were rooted to the ground. All he could do was bend backwards.

‘Young man,’ said Granny, ‘I am not now, nor shall I ever be, an “old folk”. We’ll take two tickets, which I see on that board there is a penny apiece.’ Her hand shot out, fast as an adder. The boy made a noise like gneeee as he leaped back.

‘Here’s tuppence,’ said Granny Weatherwax.

Tiffany looked at Granny’s hand. The first finger and thumb were held together, but there did not appear to be any coins between them.

Nevertheless, the young man, grinning horribly, took the total absence of coins very carefully between his thumb and finger. Granny twitched two tickets out of his other hand.

‘Thank you, young man,’ she said, and walked into the field. Tiffany ran after her.

‘What did—?’ she began, but Granny Weatherwax raised a finger to her lips, grasped Tiffany’s shoulder and swivelled her round.

The ticket-seller was still staring at his fingers. He even rubbed them together. Then he shrugged, held them over his leather moneybag and let go.