Miss Level helped her off the stick and sat her on the garden seat just outside the cottage door.

‘Now just you wait there,’ said Miss Level, who dealt with emergencies by talking incessantly and using the word ‘just’ too often because it’s a calming word, ‘and I’ll just get you a drink and then we’ll just see what the matter is…’ There was a pause and then the stream of words came out of the house again, dragging Miss Level after them and ‘I’ll just check on… things. Just drink this, please!’

Tiffany drank the water and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Miss Level weaving string around an egg. She was trying to make a shamble without Tiffany noticing.

Strange images were floating around Tiffany’s mind. There were scraps of voices, fragments of memories… and one little voice that was her own, small and defiant and getting fainter:

You’re not me. You just think you are! Someone help me!

‘Now, then,’ said Miss Level, ‘let’s just see what we can see—’

The shamble exploded, not just into pieces but into fire and smoke.

‘Oh, Tiffany,’ said Miss Level, frantically waving smoke away. ‘Are you all right?’

Tiffany stood up slowly. It seemed to Miss Level that she was slightly taller than she remembered.

‘Yes, I think I am,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think I’ve been all wrong, but now I’m all right. And I’ve been wasting my time, Miss Level.’

‘What—?’ Miss Level began.

Tiffany pointed a finger at her. ‘I know why you had to leave the circus, Miss Level,’ she said. ‘It was to do with the clown Floppo, the trick ladder and… some custard…’

Miss Level went pale. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

‘Just by looking at you!’ said Tiffany, pushing past her into the dairy. ‘Watch this, Miss Level!’

She pointed a finger. A wooden spoon rose an inch from the table. Then it began to spin, faster and faster until, with a cracking sound, it broke into splinters. They whirled away across the room.

‘And I can do this!’ Tiffany shouted. She grabbed a bowl of curds, tipped them out on the table and waved a hand at them. They turned into a cheese.

‘Now that’s what cheesemaking should be!’ she said. ‘To think that I spent stupid years learning the hard way! That’s how a real witch does it! Why do we crawl in the dirt, Miss Level? Why do we amble around with herbs and bandage smelly old men’s legs? Why do we get paid with eggs and stale cakes? Annagramma is as stupid as a hen but even she can see it’s wrong. Why don’t we use magic? Why are you so afraid?’

Miss Level tried to smile. “Tiffany, dear, we all go through this,’ she said, and her voice was shaking. ‘Though not as… explosively as you, I have to say. And the answer is… well, it’s dangerous.’

‘Yes, but that’s what people always say to scare children,’ said Tiffany. ‘We get told stories to frighten us, to keep us scared! Don’t go into the big bad wood help me because it’s full of scary things, that’s what we’re told. But really, the big bad wood should be scared of us! I’m going out!’

‘I think that would be a good idea,’ said Miss Level weakly. ‘Until you behave.’

‘I don’t have to do things your way,’ snarled Tiffany, slamming the door behind her.

Miss Level’s broomstick was leaning against the wall a little way away. Tiffany stopped and stared at it, her mind on fire.

She’d tried to keep away from it. Miss Level had wheedled her into a trial flight with Tiffany clinging on tightly with arms and legs while both of Miss Level ran alongside her, holding onto ropes and making encouraging noises. They had stopped when Tiffany threw up for the fourth time.

Well, that was then!

She grabbed the stick, swung a leg over it—and found that her other foot stuck to the ground as though nailed there. The broomstick twisted around wildly as she tried to pull it up and, when the boot was finally tugged off the ground, turned over so that Tiffany was upside down. This is not the best position in which to make a grand exit.

She said, quietly, ‘I am not going to learn you, you are going to learn me. Or the next lesson will involve an axe!’

The broomstick turned upright, then gently rose.

‘Right,’ said Tiffany. There was no fear this time. There was just impatience. The ground dropping away below her didn’t worry her at all. If it didn’t have the sense to stay away from her, she’d hit it…

As the stick drifted away, there was whispering in the long grass of the garden.

‘Ach, we’re too late, Rob. That wuz the hiver, that wuz.’

‘Aye, but did ye see that foot? It’s nae won yet—oor hag’s in there somewhere! She’s fighting it! It cannae win until it’s taken the last scrap o’ her! Wullie, will ye stop tryin’ to grab them apples!’

‘It’s sorry I am tae say this, Rob, but no one can fight a hiver. ‘Tis like fightin’ yoursel. The more you fight, the more it’ll tak’ o’ ye. And when it has all o’ ye–’

‘Wash oot yer mouth wi’ hedgehog pee, Big Yan! That isnae gonna happen–’

‘Crivens! Here comes the big hag!’

Half of Miss Level stepped out into the ruined garden.

She stared up at the departing broomstick, shaking her head.

Daft Wullie was stuck out in the open where he’d been trying to snag a fallen apple. He turned to flee and would have got clean away if he hadn’t run straight into a pottery garden gnome. He bounced off, stunned, and staggered wildly, trying to focus on the big, fat, chubby-cheeked figure in front of him. He was far too angry to hear the click of the garden gate and soft tread of approaching footsteps.

When it comes to choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn’t think twice. He doesn’t think at all.

‘What’re ye grinnin’ at, pal?’ he demanded. ‘Oh aye, you reckon you’re the big man, eh, jus’ ‘cos yez got a fishin’ rod?’ He grabbed a pink pointy ear in each hand and aimed his head at what turned out be quite a hard pottery nose. It smashed anyway, as things tend to in these circumstances, but it did slow the little man down and cause him to stagger in circles.

Too late, he saw Miss Level bearing down on him from the doorway. He turned to flee, right into the hands of also Miss Level.

Her fingers closed around him.

‘I’m a witch, you know,’ she said. ‘And if you don’t stop struggling this minute I will subject you to the most dreadful torture. Do you know what that is?’

Daft Wullie shook his head in terror. Long years of juggling had given Miss Level a grip like steel. Down in the long grass, the rest of the Feegles listened so hard it hurt.

Miss Level brought him a little closer to her mouth. ‘I’ll let you go right now without giving you a taste of the twenty-year-old MacAbre single malt I have in my cupboard,’ she said.

Rob Anybody leaped up. ‘Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi’! D’ye no’ have a drop of mercy in you?’ he shouted. ‘Ye’re a cruel hag indeed tae—’ He stopped. Miss Level was smiling. Rob Anybody looked around, flung his sword on the ground and said: ‘Ach, crivens!’

The Nac Mac Feegle respected witches, even if they did call them hags. And this one had brought out a big loaf and a whole bottle of whisky on the table for the taking. You had to respect someone like that.

‘Of course, I’d heard of you, and Miss Tick mentioned you,’ she said, watching them eat, which is not something to be done lightly. ‘But I always thought you were just a myth.’

‘Aye, weel, we’ll stay that way if ye dinnae mind,’ said Rob Anybody, and belched. ‘ ‘Tis bad enough wi’ them arky-olly-gee men wantin’ to dig up oour mounds wi’oot them folklore ladies wantin’ to tak’ pichoors o’ us an’ that.’