‘Um, don’t you have any gems or beads or amulets or anything?’

‘No, sorry,’ said Tiffany.

‘Um, you must at least have a shamble, surely?’

‘Um, can’t get the hang of them,’ said Tiffany. She hadn’t meant the ‘um’, but around Petulia it was catching.

‘Um… a black dress, perhaps?’

‘I don’t really like black. I prefer blue or green,’ said Tiffany. ‘Um…’

‘Um. Oh well, you’re just starting,’ said Petulia generously. ‘I’ve been Crafty for three years.’

Tiffany looked desperately at the nearest half of Miss Level.

‘In the craft,’ said Miss Level helpfully. ‘Witchcraft.’

‘Oh.’ Tiffany knew she was being very unfriendly, and Petulia with her pink face was clearly a nice person, but she felt awkward in front of her and she couldn’t work out why. It was stupid, she knew. She could do with a friend. Miss Level was nice enough, and she managed to get along with Oswald, but it would be good to have someone around her own age to talk to.

‘Well, I’d love to come,’ she said. ‘I know I’ve got a lot to learn.’

The passengers inside the stagecoach had paid good money to be inside on the soft seats and out of the wind and the dust and, therefore, it was odd that so many got out at the next stop and went and sat on the roof. The few who didn’t want to ride up there or couldn’t manage the climb sat huddled together on the seat opposite, watching the new traveller like a group of rabbits watching a fox and trying not to breathe.

The problem wasn’t that he smelled of ferrets. Well, that was a problem, but compared to the big problem it wasn’t much of one. He talked to himself. That is, bits of him talked to other bits of him. All the time.

‘Ah, it’s fair boggin’ doon here. Ah’m tellin ye! Ah’m sure it’s my turn to be up inna heid!’

‘Hah, at least youse people are all cushy in the stomach, it’s us in the legs that has tae do all the work!’

At which the right hand said: ‘Legs? Youse dinnae know the meanin’ of the word “work”! Ye ought tae try being stuck in a glove! Ach, blow this forra game o’ sojers! Ah ‘m gonna stretch ma legs!’

In horrified silence the other passengers watched one of the man’s gloved hands drop off and walk around on the seat.

‘Aye, weel, it’s nae picnic doon here inna troosers, neither. A ‘m gonna let some fresh air in right noo!’

‘Daft Wullie, don’t you dare do that–’

The passengers, squeezing even closer together, watched the trousers with terrible fascination. There was some movement, some swearing-under-the-breath in a place where nothing should be breathing, and then a couple of buttons popped and a very small red-headed blue man stuck his head out, blinking in the light.

He froze when he saw the people.

He stared.

They stared.

Then his face widened into a mad smile.

‘Youse folks all right?’ he said, desperately. ‘That’s greaaat! Dinnae worry aboout me, I’m one o’ they opper-tickle aloosyon’s, ye ken?’

He disappeared back into the trousers, and they heard him whisper: ‘I’m thinkin’ I fooled ‘em easily, no problemo!’

A few minutes later, the coach stopped to change horses. When it set off again, it was minus the inside passengers. They got off, and asked for their luggage to be taken off, too. No thank you, they did not want to continue their ride. They’d catch the coach tomorrow, thank you. No, there was no problem in waiting here in this delightful little, er, town of Dangerous Corner. Thank you. Goodbye.

The coach set off again, somewhat lighter and faster. It didn’t stop that night. It should have done, and the rooftop passengers were still eating their dinner in the last inn when they heard it set off without them. The reason probably had something to do with the big heap of coins now in the driver’s pocket.

Tiffany walked through the woods while Petulia flew unsteadily alongside in a series of straight lines. Tiffany learned that Petulia was nice, had three brothers, wanted to be a midwife for humans as well as pigs when she grew up, and was afraid of pins. She also learned that Petulia hated to disagree about anything.

So parts of the conversation went like this: Tiffany said, ‘I live down on the Chalk.’ And Petulia said, ‘Oh, where they keep all those sheep? I don’t like sheep much, they’re so kind of… baggy.’

Tiffany said, ‘Actually, we’re very proud of our sheep.’

And then you could stand back as Petulia reversed her opinions like someone trying to turn a cart round in a very narrow space: ‘Oh, I didn’t really mean I hate them. I expect some sheep are all right. We’ve got to have sheep, obviously. They’re better than goats, and woollier. I mean, I actually like sheep, really. Sheep are nice.’

Petulia spent a lot of time trying to find out what other people thought so that she could think the same way. It would be impossible to have an argument with her. Tiffany had to stop herself from saying ‘The sky is green’ just to see how long it would take for Petulia to agree. But she liked her. You couldn’t not like her. She was restful company. Besides, you couldn’t help liking someone who couldn’t make a broomstick turn corners.

It was a long walk through the woods. Tiffany had always wanted to see a forest so big that you couldn’t see daylight through the other side, but now she’d lived in one for a couple of weeks it got on her nerves. It was quite open woodland here, at least around the villages, and not hard to walk though. She’d had to learn what maples and birches were, and she’d never before seen the spruces and firs that grew higher up the slopes. But she wasn’t happy in the company of trees. She missed the horizons. She missed the sky. Everything was too close.

Petulia chattered nervously. Old Mother Blackcap was a pig-borer, cow-shouter and all-round veterinary witch. Petulia liked animals, especially pigs because they had wobbly noses. Tiffany quite liked animals too, but no one except other animals liked animals as much as Petulia.

‘So… what’s this meeting about?’ she said, to change the subject.

‘Um? Oh, it’s just to keep in touch,’ said Petulia. ‘Annagramma says it’s important to make contacts.’

‘Annagramma’s the leader, then, is she?’ said Tiffany.

‘Um, no. Witches don’t have leaders, Annagramma says.’

‘Hmm,’ said Tiffany.

They arrived at last at a clearing in the woods, just as the sun was setting. There were the remains of an old cottage there, now covered mostly in brambles. You might miss it completely if you didn’t spot the rampant growth of lilac and the gooseberry bushes, now a forest of thorns. Someone had lived here once, and had a garden.

Someone else, now, had lit a fire. Badly. And they had found that lying down flat to blow on a fire because you hadn’t started it with enough paper and dry twigs was not a good idea, because it would then cause your pointy hat, which you had forgotten to take off, to fall into the smoking mess and then, because it was dry, catch fire.

A young witch was now flailing desperately at her burning hat, watched by several interested spectators.

Another one, sitting on a log, said: ‘Dimity Hubbub, that is literally the most stupid thing anyone has ever done anywhere in the whole world, ever.’ It was a sharp, not very nice voice, the sort most people used for being sarcastic with.

‘Sorry, Annagramma!’ said Miss Hubbub, pulling off the hat and stamping on the point.

‘I mean, just look at you, will you? You really are letting everyone down.’