Something that called itself Tiffany flew across the treetops.

It thought it was Tiffany. It could remember everything—nearly everything—about being Tiffany. It looked like Tiffany. It even thought like Tiffany, more or less. It had everything it needed to be Tiffany…

…except Tiffany. Except the tiny part of her that was… me.

It peered from her own eyes, tried to hear with her own ears, think with her own brain.

A hiver took over its victim not by force, exactly, but simply by moving into any space, like the hermit elephant7 It just took you over because that was what it did, until it was in all the places and there was no room left…

Except–

–it was having trouble. It had flowed through her like a dark tide but there was a place, tight and sealed, that was still closed. If it had the brains of a tree, it would have been puzzled.

If it had the brains of a human, it would have been frightened…

Tiffany brought the broomstick in low over the trees, and landed it neatly in Mrs Earwig’s garden. There really was nothing to it, she decided. You just had to want it to fly.

Then she was sick again or, at least, tried to be, but since she’d thrown up twice in the air there wasn’t much left to be sick with. It was ridiculous! She wasn’t frightened of flying any more, but her stupid stomach was!

She wiped her mouth carefully and looked around.

She’d landed on a lawn. She’d heard of them, but had never seen a real one before. There was grass all round Miss Level’s cottage, but that was just, well, the grass of the clearing. Every other garden she’d seen was used for growing vegetables, with perhaps just a little space for flowers if the wife had got tough about it. A lawn meant you were posh enough to afford to give up valuable potato space.

This lawn had stripes.

Tiffany turned to the stick and said, ‘Stay!’ and then marched across the lawn to the house. It was a lot grander than Miss Level’s cottage but, from what Tiffany had heard, Mrs Earwig was a more senior witch. She’d also married a wizard, although he didn’t do any wizarding these days. It was a funny thing, Miss Level said, but you didn’t often meet a poor wizard.

She knocked at the door and waited.

There was a curse-net hanging in the porch. You’d have thought that a witch wouldn’t need such a thing, but Tiffany supposed they used them as decoration. There was also a broomstick leaning against the wall, and a five-pointed silver star on the door. Mrs Earwig advertised.

Tiffany knocked on the door again, much harder.

It was instantly opened by a tall, thin woman, all in black. But it was a very decorative rich, deep black, all lacy and ruffled, and set off with more silver jewellery than Tiffany imagined could exist. She didn’t just have rings on her fingers. Some fingers had sort of silver finger gloves, designed to look like claws. She gleamed like the night sky.

And she was wearing her pointy hat, which Miss Level never did at home. It was taller than any hat that Tiffany had ever seen. It had stars on it, and silver hatpins glittered.

All of this should have added up to something pretty impressive. It didn’t. Partly it was because there was just too much of everything, but mostly it was because of Mrs Earwig. She had a long sharp face and looked very much as though she was about to complain about the cat from next door widdling on her lawn. And she looked like that all the time. Before she spoke, she very pointedly looked at the door to see if the heavy knocking had made a mark.

‘Well?’ she said, haughtily, or what she probably thought was haughtily. It sounded a bit strangled.

‘Bless all in this house,’ said Tiffany.

‘What? Oh, yes. Favourable runes shine on this our meeting,’ said Mrs Earwig hurriedly. ‘Well?’

‘I’ve come to see Annagramma,’ said Tiffany. There really was too much silver.

‘Oh, are you one of her girls?’ said Miss Earwig.

‘Not… exactly,’ said Tiffany. ‘I work with Miss Level.’

‘Oh, her,’ said Mrs Earwig, looking her up and down. ‘Green is a very dangerous colour. What is your name, child?’

‘Tiffany.’

‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Earwig, not approving at all. ‘Well, you had better come in.’ She glanced up and made a tch! sound. ‘Oh, will you look at that? I bought that at the craft fair over in Slice, too. It was very expensive!’

The curse-net was hanging in tatters.

‘You didn’t do that, did you?’ Mrs Earwig demanded.

‘It’s too high, Mrs Earwig,’ said Tiffany.

‘It’s pronounced Ah-wij,’ said Mrs Earwig coldly.

‘Sorry, Mrs Earwig.’

‘Come.’

It was a strange house. You couldn’t doubt that a witch lived in it, and not just because every doorframe had a tall pointy bit cut out of the top of it to allow Mrs Earwig’s hat to pass through. Miss Level had nothing on her walls except circus posters, but Mrs Earwig had proper big paintings everywhere and they were all… witchy. There were lots of crescent moons and young women with quite frankly not enough clothes on, and big men with horns and, ooh, not just horns. There were suns and moon on the tiles of the floor, and the ceiling of the room Tiffany was led into was high, blue and painted with stars. Mrs Earwig (pronounced Ah-wij) pointed to a chair with gryphon’s feet and crescent-shaped cushions.

‘Sit there,’ she said. ‘I will tell Annagramma you are here. Do not kick the chairlegs, please.’

She went out via another door.

Tiffany looked around—

–the hiver looked around–

–and thought: I’ve got to be the strongest. When I am strongest, I shall be safe. That one is weak. She thinks you can buy magic.

‘Oh, it really is you,’ said a sharp voice behind her. ‘The cheese girl.’ Tiffany stood up.

–the hiver had been many things, including a number of wizards, because wizards sought power all the time and sometimes found, in their treacherous circles, not some demon who was so stupid that it could be tricked with threats and riddles, but the hiver, which was so stupid that it could not be tricked at all. And the hiver remembered–

Annagramma was drinking a glass of milk. Once you’d seen Mrs Earwig, you understood something about Annagramma. There was an air about her that she was taking notes about the world in order to draw up a list of suggestions for improvements.

‘Hello,’ said Tiffany.

‘I suppose you came along to beg to be allowed to join after all, have you? I suppose you might be fun.’

‘No, not really. But I might let you join me,’ said Tiffany. ‘Are you enjoying that milk?’

The glass of milk turned into a bunch of thistles and grass. Annagramma dropped it hurriedly. When it hit the floor, it became a glass of milk again, and shattered and splashed.

Tiffany pointed at the ceiling. The painted stars flared, filling the room with light. But Annagramma stared at the spilled milk. ‘You know they say the power comes?’ said Tiffany, walking around her. ‘Well, it’s come to me. Do you want to be my friend? Or do you want to be… in my way? I should clean up that milk, if I was you.’

She concentrated. She didn’t know where this was coming from, but it seemed to know exactly what to do.

Annagramma rose a few inches off the floor. She struggled and tried to run, but that only made her spin. To Tiffany’s dreadful delight, the girl started to cry.