‘Miss Level has got long grey hair, has she?’ she said.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And she’s quite a tall lady, just a bit fat, and she wears quite a lot of necklaces,’ Tiffany went on. ‘And glasses on a chain. And surprisingly high-heeled boots.’

Miss Tick wasn’t a fool. She looked around the clearing.

‘Where is she?’ she said.

‘Standing by the tree over there,’ said Tiffany.

Even so. Miss Tick had to squint. What Tiffany had noticed was that witches filled space. In a way that was almost impossible to describe, they seemed to be more real than others around them. They just showed up more. But if they didn’t want to be seen, they became amazingly hard to notice. They didn’t hide, they didn’t magically fade away, although it might seem like that, but if you had to describe the room afterwards you’d swear there hadn’t been a witch in it. They just seemed to let themselves get lost.

‘Ah yes, well done,’ said Miss Tick. ‘I was wondering when you’d notice.’

Ha! thought Tiffany.

Miss Level got realer as she walked towards them. She was all in black, but clattered slightly as she walked because of all the black jewellery she wore, and she did have glasses, too, which struck Tiffany as odd for a witch. Miss Level reminded Tiffany of a happy hen. And she had two arms, the normal number.

‘Ah, Miss Tick,’ she said. ‘And you must be Tiffany Aching.’

Tiffany knew enough to bow; witches don’t curtsy (unless they want to embarrass Roland).

‘I’d just like to have a word with Miss Level, Tiffany, if you don’t mind,’ said Miss Tick, meaningfully. ‘Senior witch business.’

Ha! thought Tiffany again, because she liked the sound of it.

‘I’ll just go and have a look at a tree then, shall I?’ she said with what she hoped was withering sarcasm.

‘I should use the bushes if I was you, dear,’ Miss Level called after her. ‘I don’t like stopping once we’re airborne.’

There were some holly bushes that made a decent screen, but after being talked to as though she were ten years old Tiffany would rather have allowed her bladder to explode.

I beat the Queen of the Fairies! she thought as she wandered into the wood. All right, I’m not sure how, because it’s all like a dream now, but I did do it!

She was angry at being sent away like that. A little respect wouldn’t hurt, would it? That’s what the old witch Mistress Weatherwax had said, wasn’t it? ‘I show you respect, as you in turn will respect me.’ Mistress Weatherwax, the witch who all the other witches secretly wanted to be like, had showed her respect, so you’d think the others could make a bit of effort in that department.

She said: ‘See me.’

…and stepped out of herself and walked away towards Miss Tick and Miss Level, in her invisible ghost body. She didn’t dare look down, in case she saw her feet weren’t there. When she turned and looked back at her solid body, she saw it standing demurely by the holly bushes, clearly too far away to be listening to anyone’s conversation.

As Tiffany stealthily drew nearer she heard Miss Tick say:

‘—but quite frighteningly precocious.’

‘Oh dear. I’ve never got on very well with clever people,’ said Miss Level.

‘Oh, she’s a good child at heart,’ said Miss Tick, which annoyed Tiffany rather more than ‘frighteningly precocious’ had.

‘Of course, you know my situation,’ said Miss Level as the invisible Tiffany inched closer.

‘Yes, Miss Level, but your work does you great credit. That’s why Mistress Weatherwax suggested you.’

‘But I am afraid I’m getting a bit absent-minded,’ Miss Level worried. ‘It was terrible flying down here, because like a big silly I left my long-distance spectacles on my other nose…’

Her other nose? thought Tiffany.

Both witches froze, at exactly the same time.

‘I’m without an egg!’ said Miss Tick.

‘I have a beetle in a matchbox against just such an emergency!’ squeaked Miss Level.

Their hands flew to their pockets and pulled out string and feathers and bits of coloured cloth—

They know I’m here! thought Tiffany, and whispered, ‘See me not!’

She blinked and rocked on her heels as she arrived back in the patient little figure by the holly bushes. In the distance, Miss Level was frantically making a shamble and Miss Tick was staring around the wood.

‘Tiffany, come here at once!’ she shouted.

‘Yes, Miss Tick,’ said Tiffany, trotting forward like a good girl.

They spotted me somehow, she thought. Well, they are witches, after all, even if in my opinion they’re not very good ones—

Then the pressure came. It seemed to squash the wood flat and filled it with the horrible feeling that something is standing right behind you. Tiffany sank to her knees with her hands over her ears and a pain like the worst earache squeezing her head.

‘Finished!’ shouted Miss Level. She held up a shamble. It was quite different from Miss Tick’s, and made up of string and crow feathers and glittery black beads and, in the middle, an ordinary matchbox.

Tiffany yelled. The pain was like red-hot needles and her ears filled with the buzz of flies.

The matchbox exploded.

And then there was silence, and birdsong, and nothing to show that anything had happened apart from a few pieces of matchbox spiralling down, along with an iridescent fragment of wing case.

‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Level. ‘He was quite a good beetle, as beetles go…’

‘Tiffany, are you all right?’ said Miss Tick.

Tiffany blinked. The pain had gone as fast as it had arrived, leaving only a burning memory. She scrambled to her feet. ‘I think so, Miss Tick!’

‘Then a word, if you please!’ said Miss Tick, marching over to a tree and standing there looking stern.

‘Yes, Miss Tick?’ said Tiffany.

‘Did you… do anything?’ said Miss Tick. ‘You haven’t been summoning things, have you?’

‘No! Anyway, I don’t know how to!’ said Tiffany.

‘It’s not your little men then, is it?’ said Miss Tick doubtfully.

‘They’re not mine, Miss Tick. And they don’t do that sort of thing. They just shout “Crivens!” and then start kicking people on the ankle. You definitely know it’s them.’

‘Well, whatever it was, it seems to have gone,’ said Miss Level. ‘And we should go, too, otherwise we’ll be flying all night.’ She reached behind another tree and picked up a bundle of firewood. At least, it looked exactly like that, because it was supposed to. ‘My own invention,’ she said, modestly. ‘One never knows down here on the plains, does one? And the handle shoots out by means of this button—Oh, I’m so sorry, it sometimes does that. Did anyone see where it went?’

The handle was located in a bush, and screwed back in.

Tiffany, a girl who listened to what people said, watched Miss Level closely. She definitely had only one nose on her face, and it was sort of uncomfortable to imagine where anyone might have another one and what they’d use it for.

Then Miss Level pulled some rope out of her pocket and passed it to someone who wasn’t there.

That’s what she did, Tiffany was sure. She didn’t drop it, she didn’t throw it, she just held it out and let go, as though she’d thought she was hanging it on an invisible hook.

It landed in a coil on the moss. Miss Level looked down, then saw Tiffany staring at her and laughed nervously.

‘Silly me,’ she said. ‘I thought I was over there! I’ll forget my own head next!’

‘Well… if it’s the one on top of your neck,’ said Tiffany cautiously, still thinking about the other nose, ‘you’ve still got it.’

The old suitcase was roped to the bristle end of the broomstick, which now floated calmly a few feet above the ground.

‘There, that’ll make a nice comfy seat,’ said Miss Level, now the bag of nerves that most people turned into when they felt Tiffany staring at them. ‘If you’d just hang on behind me. Er. That’s what I normally do.’