A Farewell – and a Welcome 4 page

The elf lay writhing on the grass, a small, weak, pathetic creature, crying from the pain.

‘Funny, no?’ said the goblin. ‘In this new world, little things like swarf – and goblins – do matter.’

fn1 And heard her. For Mrs Earwig’s copious amount of jewellery announced the witch with such a cheerful jangle that it was as if it had ambitions to move from being a set of charms and amulets to being a full instrumental fanfare.

fn2 Though a Feegle will cheerfully lie about almost anything, so Tiffany still went into any privy with her eyes peeled for flashes of Feegle; she had even once had a nightmare about a Feegle popping up out of the other hole of her parents’ two-holer.

CHAPTER 8

The Baron’s Arms

THE BARON’S ARMS was the kind of pub where John Parsley, hereditary landlord and bartender, was happy for the locals to mind the pumps when there was a rush or he needed to answer the call of nature. The kind of pub where men would arrive proudly carrying a huge cucumber or any other humorously shaped or suggestive vegetable from the garden just to show it off to all their friends.

Quite often there would be arguments, but arguments for the truth and not for a fight. Occasionally someone would try to wager money but this was frowned on by John Parsley. Although smoking was allowed – lots and lots of smoking – spitting was not tolerated. And, of course, there was swearing, with language as ripe as the humorous vegetables. After all, there were no women there except for Mrs Parsley, who turned a blind ear and would certainly put up with language such as ‘bugger’, it being considered nothing more than a colourful expression, used plentifully in this context as ‘How are you, you old bugger?’ and, more carefully, ‘Bugger me!’

The Barons, knowing the value of a thriving pub and not being above dropping in from time to time, had over the generations added improvements for the entertainment of their tenants. Soon after his marriage, for instance, the new young Baron had given the pub everything needful for playing darts. This hadn’t been a total success – in one enthusiastic match Shake Gently, widely acknowledged as the best ploughman on the Chalk, but not known for his intellectual acumen, had almost lost an eye. The darts were therefore now looked upon as deadly by all the locals, and the shove ha’penny board had been carefully put back into favour.

After a long day’s slog in the fields or sheds, the pub was a welcome refuge to many. Joe Aching, tenant farmer of Home Farm, had been promising himself a quiet pint throughout a day which had been beset by obstreperous animals and broken equipment. A pint, he had told himself, would put him in a better frame of mind for the discussion which he knew awaited him over supper about his wedding anniversary, which to his dark dismay he had forgotten. From long experience, he knew that this meant at least a week of cold dinners and cold shoulders, even the risk of a cold bed.

It was Saturday, a warm late summer evening, a clear night. The pub was full, though not as full as John Parsley would like. Joe took a seat at the long oak table outside the pub with his dog Jester curled around his ankles.

Coming from a long line of Achings who had farmed on the Chalk, Joe Aching knew every man who lived in the area and their families; he knew who worked and who didn’t work much, and he knew who was silly and who was smart. Joe himself wasn’t smart, but he was clever and a good farmer and, above all things, every Saturday night, wherever he actually sat, he held the chair in the pub. Here he was the fount of all knowledge.

At a smaller table just outside the door, he could hear two of the local men arguing about the difference between the paw prints of the cat and of the fox. One of them moved his hands in a slow pavane and said, ‘Look, I tell you this again, the cat, she walk like this, you old bugger, but Reynard, he do walk like this.’ Once again fox and cat were demonstrated by the other man. I wonder, Joe thought, if we might be one of the last generations to think of a fox as Reynard.

It had been a long day for all the men, working as they were with horses, pigs and sheep, not to mention the scores of chores that faced any countryman. They had a dialect that creaked, and they knew the names of all the songbirds throughout the valleys, and every snake and every fox and where it could be found, and all the places where the Baron’s men generally didn’t go. In short, they knew a large number of things unknown to scholars in universities. Usually, when one of them spoke, it was done after some cogitation and very slowly, and in this interlude they would put the world to rights until a boy was sent to tell the men their dinners were going cold if they didn’t hurry.

Then Dick Handly – a fat man with a wispy fluff of a beard that should be ashamed to call itself a beard in this company – quite abruptly said, ‘This ale is as weak as maiden’s water!’

‘What are you calling my beer?’ said John Parsley, clearing the empties from the table. ‘It’s as clean as anything. I opened the cask only this morning.’

Dick Handly said, ‘I’m not saying maiden’s water is all that bad.’ That got a laugh, albeit a small one. For they all remembered the time when curmudgeonly old Mr Tidder, putting his faith in a traditional cure, had asked his daughter to save some of her widdle to pour over his sore leg, and young Maisie – a sweet girl, but somewhat lacking in the brains department – had misunderstood the request and poured her father out a drink with a very unusual flavour. Amazingly, his leg had still got better.

But another pint was pulled, from a new cask, and Dick Handly pronounced it satisfactory. And John Parsley wondered. But not much. For what was a pint among friends?

The landlord sat down with his customers now, and said to Joe, ‘How do you think the young Baron is settling in?’

The relationship between the Baron and Mr Aching, his tenant, was not that unusual in the countryside. The Baron owned the land. Everyone knew that. He also owned all the farms in the neighbourhood, and the farmers, his tenants, farmed the land for him, paying rent every quarter day. He could, if he chose, take a farm back and throw a farmer and his family out. In the past, there had been barons who had occasionally indulged in displays of authority such as burning down cottages and throwing out whole families, sometimes just on a whim, but mostly as a daft way of showing who had the real power. They soon learned. Power means nothing without a decent harvest in the barn, and a flock of Sunday dinners grazing on the hills.

Roland, the young Baron, had made a bit of a rocky start – made worse, it has to be said, by his new mother-in-law, a duchess who made sure that everyone knew it too. But he soon learned. Knowing that he wasn’t yet experienced at farming the land, he had followed his father’s general practice of wisely leaving his farmers to run their farms and their workers as they saw fit. Now everyone was happy.

Also wisely, Roland would from time to time talk to Joe Aching, as had his father before him, and Joe, a kindly man, would offer to speak about the things the Baron’s land agent and rent collectors might not see, such as a widow who had fallen on bad times or a mother struggling to cope after her husband had been trampled by a bad-tempered young bull. Joe Aching would point out that a certain amount of charity would be a good thing and, to give the young Baron his due, he would do what he was told in a strange sort of way, and the widow would find that somehow she had managed to pay her rent in advance, so owed nothing for the time being, and a helpful young lad from the estate who needed to learn farming might turn up at the young mother’s little holding.

‘I don’t like to judge too soon,’ said Joe, leaning back on the bench and looking solemn in a way only a man who had the right to the chair on a Saturday had the right to look. ‘But to tell you the truth, he’s doing rather well. Picking it up as he goes along, you might say.’

‘That’s good then,’ said Thomas Greengrass. ‘Looks like he’s going to follow in the footsteps of his old man.’

‘We’ll be lucky then. The old Baron was a good man – tough on the outside, but he knew what was what.’

Parsley smiled. ‘His young lady, the Baroness, has learned a lot of lessons without being taught them – have you noticed that? She’s always around the place talking to people, not putting on airs. The wife likes her,’ he added with a sage nod. If the wife approved, well, that was good. It meant peace at home, and every countryman wanted that after a day’s hard work. ‘I heard tell she’d been round to say well done whenever a man’s wife was having kids.’

On that subject, Robert Thick said, ‘My Josephine will be having another one shortly.’

Somebody laughed and said, ‘That’s pints all round, you know.’

‘Be sure to have a word with Joe’s Tiffany then,’ said Thomas Greengrass. ‘When it comes to birthing a child, I’ve never seen better.’

Over his pint, Thomas added, ‘I saw her whizzing past yesterday. It made me right proud, it really did, a girl of the Chalk. I’m sure you must be just as proud, Joe.’

Everyone knew Tiffany Aching, of course; had done ever since she was very small and played with their own children. They didn’t much like witches up on the Chalk, but Tiffany was their witch. And a good witch to boot. Most importantly, she was a girl of the Chalk. She knew the worth of sheep, and they’d seen her running around in her pants when she was growing up. So that was all right then.

Tiffany’s father tried to smile as he reached down and gave his dog a pork scratching. ‘A present for you, Jester.’ He looked up. ‘Of course, Tiffany’s mother would like to see her here more often, though she’s made up about our Tiff; can’t stop telling people about what she does, and neither can I.’ He looked over at the landlord. ‘Another pint for me when you’ve time please, John.’

‘Of course, Joe,’ said John Parsley, heading into the bar and returning with the foaming tankard in his hand.

As the pint was passed down to its destination, Joe said, ‘It’s strange, you know, when I think about how much time our Tiffany spends over in Lancre these days.’

‘Be a shame if she moved up there,’ Dick Handly commented. And the thought was there, floating in the air, though nobody said anything further. Not to Joe Aching, not on a Saturday.

‘Well, she’s always very busy,’ Joe said slowly, tucking Dick’s comment away in his head to think about later. ‘Lot of babies round here, lads!’ This brought a smile.

‘And it’s not just birthing. She came to my old mother when she was going,’ said Jim Twister. ‘Was with her all night. And she took the pain away! She does that, you know?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not just for barons, but that’s how the old boy went, you know – he had a nurse, but it was Tiffany who sorted him out. Made sure he had no pain.’

There was a sudden silence at the table as the the drinkers reflected on the many times Tiffany Aching had crossed their paths. Then Noddy Saunters said, almost breathlessly, ‘Well, Joe, we are all hoping as your Tiffany stays round here, you know. You have got a good one there and no mistake. Mind you tell her that when you sees her.’

‘I don’t need telling, Noddy,’ said Joe. ‘Tiffany’s mother would like her to settle down, o’ course, on the Chalk with her young man – you know, young Preston, who’s gone off to learn to be a proper doctor in the big city. But I reckon she won’t, not for a while anyway. As I see it, there’s lots of Achings around here but our Tiff is following in the footsteps of her granny, only more modern thinking, if you get me? I reckon she’s out to change the world, and if not the world, then this little bit called the Chalk.’

‘She’s a right good witch for us shepherds,’ Thomas Greengrass added, and there was a murmur of agreement.

‘Do you remember, lads, when shepherds would all turn up here and fight in the Challenge?’ said Dick Handly after a pause to empty his glass. ‘We didn’t have witches then.’

‘Aye,’ said Joe Aching. ‘Those old shepherds didn’t fight with their sticks, mind you. They arm-wrestled. And the winner would be named head shepherd.’

They all laughed at that. And most of them thought of Granny Aching, for Granny Aching had really been the last head shepherd. A nod from Granny Aching and a shepherd would walk like a king for the day, Challenge or no Challenge.

‘Well, we don’t have no head shepherd nowadays. We got a witch instead. Your Tiffany,’ said Robert Thick after another long silence in which more beer was drunk and pipes were lit.

‘So if we have a witch instead of a head shepherd . . . do you think any of you ought to arm-wrestle her?’ asked John Parsley with a big grin – and a sideways look at Tiffany’s father.

Robert Thick said, ‘A witch? No fear. I would mend my manners.’

Joe chuckled as the others nodded in agreement.

Then they looked up as a shadow passed over them and the girl on her broomstick shouted down, ‘Evening, Dad! Evening, all. Can’t stop. This one’s having twins.’

Roland de Chumsfanleigh,fn1 the young Baron on the Chalk, did want to be like his father in many ways. He knew the old man had been popular – what was known as an ‘old school baron’, which meant that everyone knew what to expect and the guards polished up their armour and saluted, and did what was expected of them, while the Baron did what was expected of him, and pretty much left them alone.

But his father had also been a bit of a bad-tempered bully at times. And that bit Roland wanted to forget about. He particularly wanted to sound the right note when he called round to see Tiffany Aching at Home Farm. For they had once been good friends, and, to Roland’s alarm, Tiffany was thought of as a good friend by his wife Letitia. Any man with sense was wise to be fearful of a wife’s best friends. For who knew what . . . little secrets might be shared. Roland, having been educated at home and with limited knowledge of the world outside the Chalk, feared that ‘little’ might be exactly the kind of comment Letitia might share with Tiffany.

He chose his moment when he saw her broomstick descend early that Saturday evening, at a time when he knew Joe Aching would be at the pub.

‘Hello, Roland,’ Tiffany said, not even turning round as he rode into the farmyard and dismounted from his horse.

Roland quivered. He was the Baron. Her father’s farm was his. And as he thought this, he realized how stupid a thought it was. As Baron, he had the bits of paper that proved his ownership. But this farm was the Achings’. It always had been, and it always would be. And he knew that Tiffany knew exactly what he’d just thought, so he went a bit pink when she turned round.

‘Er, Tiffany,’ he began, ‘I just wanted to see you and . . . er . . . well, it’s like this . . .’

‘Oh, come on, Roland,’ she urged. ‘Just get on with what you’ve come to say; it’s been a busy day and I need to get back to Lancre tonight too.’

It was the opening he needed. ‘Well, that’s what I came about, Tiffany. There have been . . . complaints.’ It wasn’t the right word, and he knew it.

Tiffany reeled at the word. ‘What?’ she said sharply.

‘Well, you’re never here, Tiffany. You’re supposed to be our witch, be here for us. But you’re off to the Ramtops almost every other day.’ He straightened up, a metaphorical broomstick up his spine. He needed to sound official, not wheedle. ‘I am your baron,’ he said, ‘and I ask that you look to your responsibilities, do your duty.’

‘Do my duty?’ Tiffany echoed weakly. What did he think she had been doing over the past few weeks, bandaging legs and treating sores, birthing babies and taking pain away from those nearing the end of their days, and visiting the old folk and keeping an eye on the babies, and . . . yes, cutting toenails! What had Roland been doing? Hosting dinner parties? Admiring Letitia’s attempts at watercolours? It would be far better if he could have offered Letitia’s help. For Roland knew, just as Tiffany did, that Letitia had the natural abilities of a witch. She could be useful on the Chalk.

And then she thought, that was mean. For she knew that Letitia visited every new baby. Talked to the women.

But she was angry with Roland.

‘I shall think on what you say,’ she said with an exaggerated politeness that made him blush even more.

With the imaginary broomstick still rigidly attached to his back, Roland strode over to his horse, remounted and rode off.

Well, I did try, he told himself. But he couldn’t help but feel that he had made a bit of a mess of it.

There had been pandemonium when the Queen and her followers got back through the stone circle.

The glittering Fairyland palace was gone and the council was taking place in a clearing in the depths of what might have been a magical wood if the Queen had bothered to put in the requisite details such as butterflies, daisies and toadstools. Even now, trees were frantically scribbling in branches and twigs as she passed, and parts of the ground seemed to be having a little race to create blades of grass on either side of her.

She was furious. A goblin – a piece of filth – had dared to attack one of her lords. And he had fallen in front of that goblin, a goblin so fleet of mucky foot as he had run from her anger. But although it had been Peaseblossom who had fallen – and secretly the Queen was pleased that it had been him and not another of her lords – she knew that her elves blamed her for the shame. The failure. For she had led the raiding party, taken the goblin with them.

Despite her orders, Peaseblossom was still with them. He’d been pale and staggering at first, but his glamour was almost back to its normal strength now the terrible iron had been cleansed from his body. Behind him were ranked her guards and she could feel defiance flowing from them.

She glared at Peaseblossom with disdain, and said to one of the guards, ‘Take that weakling away. Get him out of my sight!’

But the guard did not move. Instead, he smiled insolently, and fingered the crossbow in his hands, casually nocking a feathered arrow and daring to point it in her direction.

‘My lady,’ Peaseblossom said with thinly veiled scorn, ‘we are getting lost. Our hold on the human world is weak. Even the goblins are laughing at us now. Why do we only learn from one of them that the humans have been encircling their world with iron? Why haven’t you done anything to stop this? Why haven’t we been out on the hunts? Why have you not allowed us to be true elves? It’s not like the old times.’

His glamour was nearly powerful enough again to match hers, but his will was even stronger. How did I not fully see this? the Queen thought, though her face showed nothing of what she was feeling. Is he daring to challenge me? I am the Queen. The King may be in another world, lolling in his barrow, luxuriating in his pleasures, but I am still his queen. There is always a queen to rule. Never a lord. She pulled herself up to her full height and glared at her treacherous lord, willing her glamour to its full power.

But there was a chorus of agreement with Peaseblossom from several elves. It was indeed a rare day when an elf agreed with another elf – disagreement was a far more normal state of being – but the mass of warriors seemed to be drawing closer together right now, their cold eyes examining their queen. Pitiless. Dangerous. Nasty.

The Queen looked at each one before turning back to Peaseblossom. ‘You little squib,’ she hissed. ‘I could put out your eyes in a moment.’

‘Oh yes, madam,’ Peaseblossom continued as the pressure built. ‘And who lets the Feegles run amok? Now that the old crone is gone, the witches are weak. As is the gateway between our worlds. But you, despite all this, you seem still afraid of the Aching girl. She nearly killed you before by all accounts.’

‘She did not,’ said the Queen.

But the other elves were looking at her now, looking at her like a cat looks at its prey . . . And he spoke true. Tiffany Aching had defeated her. The Queen felt her glamour flickering, fading.

‘You are weak, madam,’ said Peaseblossom.

The Queen felt weak. And small, and tired. The trees were closing in. The light seemed to fade. She looked at the faces around her, then rallied and summoned up what power she had left. She was still the Queen. Their queen. They must listen to her.

‘The times are a-changing,’ she said, pulling herself to her full height. ‘Iron or not, goblins or not, that world is no longer the same.’

‘So we hide away, at your bidding,’ said Peaseblossom, his voice full of contempt. ‘If the world is changing, it is we who must change it. We who must decide how it will be. That is how it has always been. And how it must be again.’

The elves around him sparkled their approval, their finery dazzling, their cold narrow faces surrounded by the glow of their glamour.

The Queen felt lost. ‘You don’t understand,’ she tried. ‘We have that world there, for our pleasure. But if we try to act as it has always been, well, we will be rolled over by time. Just . . . fairies. This is what the iron in that world tells us. There is no future for us there.’

Peaseblossom sneered and said, ‘This is rubbish. This talk of no future? We make our own futures. We don’t care about humans or goblins. But you – you seem to be rather soft on them. Could the great Queen be afraid? You are not certain of yourself, lady. That makes us uncertain of you.’

The allegiance of elves is spider-web thin and the currency of Fairyland is glamour. The Queen could feel her glamour draining away more and more as her adversary talked.

And then he struck.

‘You have become too soft, madam,’ he roared. ‘It began with that . . . girl. And it will end with . . . me!’ And now his glamour was growing in intensity and his eyes were glowing and the power was building around him, making the other elves wary and obedient. Peaseblossom pointed at the Queen, watching myriad faces and visages flicker across her features – golden hair, dark hair, long hair, short hair, wispy hair . . . balding, baby’s hair. Tall, strong . . . weak, child-like. Upright, curled over . . . whimpering. ‘The goblins no longer come at your beck and call these days,’ he hissed. ‘And Fairyland cannot survive without a strong leader. We elves need somebody to prevail – over goblins, over humans and everybody else. What we need now, what our king in the barrow needs, is a warrior.’

Peaseblossom was like a snake now, his gaze piercing his victim, even as she shrivelled further and wept from the loss of her glamour.

‘We can’t be governed by such as this,’ he concluded contemptuously. He turned to the other elves and said, ‘What do you say?’

And in the blankness of their eyes, the Queen saw her future drop away.

‘What should we do with her, Lord Peaseblossom?’ It was Mustardseed, striding forward to support his new leader.

‘She must quit the throne!’ another elf called out.

Peaseblossom looked down at his former queen with disdain. ‘Take her away, toy with her as you will – and then tear off her wings,’ he commanded. ‘That will be the penalty for those who fail. Now,’ he continued, ‘where are my musicians? Let us dance on the shame of her who was once our queen. Kick her memory, if you will, out of Fairyland with her, and may she never come back.’

‘Where should she go?’ Mustardseed called, grabbing the Queen by one of her tiny, stick-like arms.

But Peaseblossom had gone, weaving amongst the throng of courtiers who now danced in his footsteps.

As the helpless little elf who had once been a queen was dragged from his sight, Mustardseed heard her whisper a few words in her desperation: ‘Thunder . . . and Lightning . . . may you feel the force of Thunder and Lightning, Peaseblossom, and then the wrath of Tiffany Aching. It stings to the bone . . .’

And the rain started and became hail.

fn1 Pronounced ‘Chuffley’ under that strange rule that the more gentrified a family is, the more peculiar the pronunciation of their name becomes. Tiffany had once heard a highborn visitor named Ponsonby-Macklewright (Pwt) refer to Roland as Chf. She wondered how they managed at dinner when Pwt introduced Chf to Wm or Hmpfh. Surely it could lead to misunderstandings?

CHAPTER 9

Good with Goats

THE BOY STANDING in the rain looking at Tiffany at the back door of the cottage that was now hers – no longer Granny’s – was not like her usual visitor. He was grubby, yes, but it was the grubbiness of the road rather than that of poverty, and he had a goat with him, which wasn’t usual. But he didn’t look in need. She looked closer. His clothing had once been expensive, high-class stuff. Needy, though, she thought. A few years younger than her too.

‘Are you Mistress Aching, the witch?’ he asked nervously as she opened the door.

‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, thinking to herself, Well, at least he has done some homework and he’s not come knocking asking for Granny Weatherwax, and he’s knocked at the back door just as he should; and I’ve just made myself some pottage and it will be going cold. ‘What can I do for you? I’m sure you need something?’ she continued, because a witch turned nobody away.

‘No, mistress, by your leave, but I heard people talking about you as I was walking along the road. They say you are the best witch.’

‘Well, folks can say anything,’ said Tiffany, ‘but it’s what the other witches think that matters. How can I help you?’

‘I want to be a witch!’ The last word resonated in the air as if it was alive, but the boy looked serious and unhappy, and he ploughed on doggedly, saying, ‘Mr Wiggall – my tutor – told me of one witch who became a wizard, so surely, mistress, the concept must go both ways? They say what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, don’t they?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Tiffany, uncertain of herself. ‘But many ladies do not like to deal with an unknown man, as it were, in private circumstances. A lot of our work involves being midwives, you know, with the accent on wives.’

The boy’s Adam’s apple was shaking, but he managed to say, ‘I know that in the big city the Lady Sybil Free Hospital helps women and men alike. There is no doubt about it, mistress, that when it comes to surgery, there are ladies who are sometimes glad to see the surgeon.’ The boy seemed to brighten up for a moment and said, ‘I really feel I can be a witch. I know a lot about country things, and I have very little fingers which were of great use some while ago on the road, when I had to deal with a goat in labour, and it was in trouble. I had to roll up my sleeves and fiddle about with care to get the kid lined up to leave his mother. It was messy, of course, but the kid was alive, and the old man who owned the goat was in tears of gratitude.’

‘Really,’ said Tiffany stonily, wondering when ‘good with goats’ had become a qualification for being a witch. But the boy looked like a lost soul – so she relented and invited him in for a cup of tea. The goat was shown an overgrown patch of Creepalong Minnie under the apple tree, out of the rain, and seemed content to be left outside, although Tiffany could not help noticing – as any witch would notice – that it gave her an odd look of a kind not often seen in a goat’s slotted eyes. The type of look that makes you wary of turning your back, definitely, but something . . . more than that too.

As she beckoned the boy in, she saw You stroll past the apple tree and suddenly stop, her back arching and her tail fluffing out to a remarkable size as she spotted the goat. There was a pregnant pause as the two eyed each other up – and Tiffany could have sworn she saw a quick flash of fluorescent light, greenish-yellow-purple – and then all was suddenly calm, as if there had been an agreement signed and sealed. The goat returned to its nibbling, and You subsided to her normal size and strolled past, almost brushing against the goat’s legs. Tiffany was amazed. She had seen Nanny Ogg’s cat Greebo run from You! What kind of goat was this? Perhaps, she thought with interest, this boy is also more than he seems.

As they sat at the little kitchen table, she learned that the boy’s name was Geoffrey and that he was a long way from home. She noticed that he didn’t seem to want to talk about his family, so she tried another tack.

‘I am intrigued, Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to be a witch instead of a wizard, which is something traditionally thought of as a man’s job?’

‘I’ve never thought of myself as a man, Mistress Tiffany. I don’t think I’m anything. I’m just me,’ he said quietly.

Good answer! Tiffany said to herself. Then she wondered, not for the first time, about the differences between wizards and witches. The main difference, she thought, was that wizards used books and staffs to create spells, big spells about big stuff, and they were men. While witches – always women – dealt with everyday stuff. Big stuff too, she reminded herself firmly. What could be bigger than births and deaths? But why shouldn’t this boy want to be a witch? She had chosen to be a witch, so why couldn’t he make the same choice? With a start, she realized it was her choice that counted here too. If she was going to be a sort of head witch, she should be able to decide this. She didn’t have to ask any other witches. It could be her decision. Her responsibility. Perhaps a first step towards doing things differently?

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 617