‘To catch the moment,’ said the other part of Miss Level, coming in. ‘The way you tie the knots, the way the string runs—’

‘—the freshness of the egg, perhaps, and the moisture in the air—’ said the first Miss Level.

‘—the tension of the twigs and the kinds of things that you just happen to have in your pocket at that moment—’

‘—even the way the wind is blowing,’ the first Miss Level concluded. ‘All these things make a kind of… of picture of the here and now when you move them right. And I can’t tell you how to move them, because I don’t know.’

‘But you do move them,’ said Tiffany, getting lost. ‘I saw you—’

‘I do it but I don’t know how I do,’ said Miss Level, picking up a couple of twigs and taking a length of thread. Miss Level sat down at the table opposite Miss Level, and all four hands started to put a shamble together.

‘This reminds me of when I was in the circus,’ she said. ‘I was—’

‘—walking out for a while with Marco and Falco, the Flying Pastrami Brothers,’ the other part of Miss Level went on. ‘They would do—’

‘—triple somersaults fifty feet up with no safety net. What lads they were! As alike as two—’

‘—peas, and Marco could catch Falco blindfolded. Why, for a moment I wondered if they were just like me—’

She stopped, went a bit red on both faces and coughed. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘one day I asked them how they managed to stay on the high wire and Falco said, “Never ask the tight-rope walker how he keeps his balance. If he stops to think about it, he falls off.” Although actually—’

‘—he said it like this, “Nev-ah aska tightaroper walkerer…” because the lads pretended they were from Brindisi, you see, because that sounds foreign and impressive and they thought no one would want to watch acrobats called The Flying Sidney and Frank Cartwright. Good advice, though, wherever it came from.’

The hands worked. This was not a lone Miss Level, a bit flustered, but the full Miss Level, all twenty fingers working together.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘it can be helpful to have the right sort of things in your pocket. I always carry a few sequins—’

‘—for the happy memories they bring back,’ said Miss Level from the other side of the table, blushing again.

She held up the shamble. There were sequins, and a fresh egg in a little bag made of thread, and a chicken bone and many other things hanging or spinning in the threads.

Each part of Miss Level put both its hands into the threads and pulled…

The threads took up a pattern. Did the sequins jump from one thread to another? It looked like it. Did the chicken bone pass through the egg? So it seemed.

Miss Level peered into it.

She said: ‘Something’s coming…’

The stagecoach left Twoshirts half full and was well out over the plains when one of the passengers sitting on the rooftop tapped the driver on the shoulder.

‘Excuse me, did you know there’s something trying to catch us up?’ he said.

‘Bless you, sir,’ said the driver, because he hoped for a good tip at the end of the run, ‘there’s nothing that can catch us up.’

Then he heard the screaming in the distance, getting louder.

‘Er, I think he means to,’ said the passenger as the carter’s wagon overtook them.

‘Stop! Stop, for pity’s sake stop!’ yelled the carter as he sailed past.

But there was no stopping Henry. He’d spent years pulling the carrier’s cart around the villages, very slowly, and he’d always had this idea in his big horse head that he was cut out for faster things. He’d plodded along, being overtaken by coaches and carts and three-legged dogs, and now he was having the time of his life.

Besides, the cart was a lot lighter than usual, and the road was slightly downhill here. All he was really having to do was gallop fast enough to stay in front. And, finally, he’d actually overtaken the stagecoach. Him, Henry!

He only stopped because the stagecoach driver stopped first. Besides, the blood was pumping through Henry now, and there were a couple of mares in the team of horses pulling the coach who he felt he’d really like to get to know—find out when was their day off, what kind of hay they liked, that kind of thing.

The carter, white in the face, got down carefully and then lay on the ground and held on tight to the dirt.

His one passenger, who looked to the coach driver like some sort of scarecrow, climbed unsteadily down from the back and lurched towards the coach.

‘I’m sorry, we’re full up,’ the driver lied. They weren’t full, but there was certainly no room for a thing that looked like that.

‘Ach, and there wuz me willin’ to pay wi’ gold,’ said the creature. ‘Gold such as this here,’ it added, waving a ragged glove in the air.

Suddenly there was plenty of space for an eccentric millionaire. Within a few seconds he was seated inside and, to the annoyance of Henry, the coach set off again.

Outside Miss Level’s cottage, a broomstick was heading through the trees. A young witch—or, at least, someone dressed as a witch: it never paid to jump to conclusions—was sitting on it side-saddle.

She wasn’t flying it very well. It jerked sometimes and it was clear the girl was no good at making it turn corners because sometimes she stopped, jumped off and pointed the stick in a new direction by hand. When she reached the garden gate she got off again quickly and tethered the stick to it with string.

‘Nicely done, Petulia!’ said Miss Level, clapping with all four hands. ‘You’re getting quite good!’

‘Um, thank you, Miss Level,’ said the girl, bowing. She stayed bowed, and said, ‘Um, oh dear…’

Half of Miss Level stepped forward.

‘Oh, I can see the problem,’ she said, peering down. ‘Your amulet with the little owls on it is tangled up with your necklace of silver bats and they’ve both got caught around a button. Just hold still, will you?’

‘Um, I’ve come to see if your new girl would like come to the sabbat tonight,’ said the bent Petulia, her voice a bit muffled.

Tiffany couldn’t help noticing that Petulia had jewellery everywhere; later she found that it was hard to be around Petulia for any length of time without having to unhook a bangle from a necklace or, once, an earring from an ankle bracelet (nobody ever found out how that one happened). Petulia couldn’t resist occult jewellery. Most of the stuff was to magically protect her from things, but she hadn’t found anything to protect her from looking a bit silly.

She was short and plump and permanently red-faced and slightly worried.

‘Sabbat? Oh, one of your meetings,’ said Miss Level. That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Tiffany?’

‘Yes?’ said Tiffany, not quite sure yet.

‘Some of the girls meet up in the woods in the evenings,’ said Miss Level. ‘For some reason the craft is getting popular again. That’s very welcome, of course.’

She said it as if she wasn’t quite sure. Then she added: ‘Petulia here works for Old Mother Blackcap, over in Sidling Without. Specializes in animals. Very good woman with pig diseases. I mean, with pigs that’ve got diseases, I don’t mean she has pig diseases. It’ll be nice for you to have friends here. Why don’t you go? There, everything’s unhooked.’

Petulia stood up and gave Tiffany a worried smile.

‘Um, Petulia Gristle,’ she said, holding out a hand.

‘Tiffany Aching,’ said Tiffany, shaking it gingerly in case the sound of all the bangles and bracelets jangling together deafened everyone.

‘Um, you can ride with me on the broomstick, if you like,’ said Petulia.

‘I’d rather not,’ said Tiffany.

Petulia looked relieved, but said: ‘Um, do you want to get dressed?’

Tiffany looked down at her green dress. ‘I am.’