I Shall Wear Midnight

‘Well done, young lady,’ said the Baron, ‘and thank you for not chiding me for using the word “arse” or asking me the meaning of the word “metaphorical”.’

‘No, sir. I know what “metaphorical” means, and “arse” is a traditional usage — nothing to be ashamed of.’

The Baron nodded. ‘It has a commendable grown-up sharpness to it. “Ass”, on the other hand, is quite frankly for spinsters and little children.’

Tiffany turned the words on her tongue for a moment, and said, ‘Yes, sir. I think that is probably the long and the short of it.’

‘Very good. Incidentally, Miss Tiffany Aching, I cannot conceal my interest in the fact that you do not curtsy in my presence these days. Why not?’

‘I am a witch now, sir. We don’t do that sort of thing.’

‘But I am your baron, young lady.’

‘Yes. And I am your witch.’

‘But I have soldiers out there who will come running if I call. And I am sure you know, too, that people around here do not always respect witches.’

‘Yes, sir. I know that, sir. And I am your witch.’

Tiffany watched the Baron’s eyes. They were a pale blue, but right now there was a foxy glint of mischief in them.

The worst thing you could possibly do right now, she told herself, would be to show any kind of weakness at all. He’s like Granny Weatherwax: he tests people.

As if he was reading her mind exactly at that point, the Baron laughed. ‘Then you are your own person, Miss Tiffany Aching?’

‘I don’t know about that, sir. Just lately I feel as if I belong to everybody.’

‘Hah,’ said the Baron. ‘You work very hard and conscientiously, I’m told.’

‘I am a witch.’

‘Yes,’ said the Baron. ‘So you have said, clearly and consistently and with some considerable repetition.’ He leaned both skinny hands on his walking-stick and looked at her over the top of them. ‘It is true then, is it?’ he said. ‘That some seven years ago you took an iron skillet and went into some sort of fairyland, where you rescued my son from the Queen of the Elves — a most objectionable woman, I have been given to understand?’

Tiffany hesitated about this. ‘Do you want it to be so?’ she said.

The Baron chuckled and pointed a skinny finger at her. ‘Do I want it to be? Indeed! A good question, Miss Tiffany Aching, who is a witch. Let me think … let us say … I want to know the truth.’

‘Well, the bit about the frying pan is true, I must admit, and well, Roland had been pretty well knocked about so I, well, had to take charge. A bit.’

‘A … bit?’ said the old man, smiling.

‘Not an unreasonably large bit,’ said Tiffany quickly.

‘And why didn’t anybody tell me this at the time, pray?’ said the Baron.

‘Because you are the Baron,’ said Tiffany simply, ‘and boys with swords rescue girls. That’s how the stories go. That’s how stories work. No one really wanted to think the other way round.’

‘Didn’t you mind?’ He wasn’t taking his eyes off her, and he hardly seemed to blink. There was no point in lying.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A bit.’

‘Was it a reasonably large bit?’

‘I would say so, yes. But then I went off to learn to be a witch, and it didn’t seem to matter any more. That’s the truth of it, sir. Excuse me, sir, who told you this?’

‘Your father,’ said the Baron. ‘And I am grateful to him for telling me. He came to see me yesterday, to pay his respects, seeing as I am, as you know, dying. Which is, in fact, another truth. And don’t you dare tell him off, young lady, witch or otherwise. Promise me?’

Tiffany knew that the long lie had hurt her father. She’d never really worried about it, but it had worried him.

‘Yes, sir, I promise.’

The Baron was silent for a moment, staring at her. ‘You know, Miss Tiffany Aching, who is, by regular repetition, a witch, I am at a time when my eyes are cloudy, but my mind, somehow, sees further than you think. But perhaps it is not too late for me to make amends. Under my bed is a chest bound with brass. Go and open it. Go on! Do that now.’

Tiffany pulled out the chest, which felt as if it was full of lead.

‘You will find some leather bags,’ said the old man behind her.

‘Take one of them out. It will contain fifteen dollars.’ The Baron coughed. ‘Thank you for saving my son.’

‘Look, I can’t take—’ Tiffany began, but the Baron banged his stick on the floor.

‘Shut up and listen, please, Miss Tiffany Aching. When you fought the Queen of the Elves, you were not a witch and therefore the tradition against witches taking money does not apply,’ he said sharply, his eyes glittering like sapphires. ‘With regard to your personal services to myself, I believe you have been paid in food and clean used linen, second-hand footwear and firewood. I trust my housekeeper has been generous? I told her not to stint.’

‘What? Oh, oh yes, sir.’ And that was true enough. Witches lived in a world of second-hand clothes, old sheets (good for making bandages), boots with some life left in them and, of course, hand-me-downs, hand-me- outs, hands-me-ups, hand-me-rounds and hand-me-overs. In such a world, the pickings to be had from a working castle were like being given the key to a mint. As for the money … she turned the leather bag over and over in her hands. It was very heavy.

‘What do you do with all that stuff, Miss Tiffany Aching?’

‘What?’ she said absentmindedly, still looking at the bag. ‘Oh, er, trade it, pass it on to people who need it … that sort of thing.’

‘Miss Tiffany Aching, you are suddenly vague. I believe that you were engrossed in thinking that fifteen dollars isn’t much, is it, for saving the life of the Baron’s son?’

‘No!’

‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then, shall I?’

‘You will take it from me as a no, sir! I am your witch!’ She glared at him, panting. ‘And I am trying to balance a rather difficult ball of pain, sir.’

‘Ah, Granny Aching’s granddaughter. I humbly beg your forgiveness, as I occasionally should have asked for hers. But nevertheless, will you please do me the favour and honour of taking that bag, Miss Tiffany Aching, and putting its contents to such use as you may determine in memory of me. I’m sure it’s more money than you have ever seen before.’

‘I don’t often see any money at all,’ she protested, stunned by this.

The Baron banged his stick on the floor again, as if applauding. ‘I doubt very much if you have ever seen money like this,’ he said merrily. ‘You see, although there are fifteen dollars in the bag, they are not the dollars that you are used to, or would be if you were used to them at all. They are old dollars, from before they started mucking about with the currency. The modern dollar is mostly brass, in my opinion, and contains as much gold as sea water. These, however, are the real shilling, if you’ll excuse my little joke.’

Tiffany excused his little joke, because she didn’t get it. He smiled at her puzzlement. ‘In short, Miss Tiffany Aching, if you take these coins to the right dealer, he should pay you, oh, I would estimate somewhere in the region of five thousand Ankh-Morpork dollars. I don’t know what that would be in terms of old boots, but quite possibly it could buy you an old boot the size of this castle.’

And Tiffany thought: I can’t take this. Apart from anything else the bag had become extremely heavy. Instead, she said, ‘That’s far too much for a witch.’

‘But not too much for a son,’ said the Baron. ‘Not too much for an heir, not too much for continuity down the generations. Not too much for removing a lie from the world.’

‘But it can’t buy me another pair of hands,’ said Tiffany, ‘or change one second of the past.’

‘Nevertheless, I must insist that you take it,’ said the Baron, ‘if not for your sake, then for mine. It will take a burden off my soul and, believe me, it could do with a bit of shining up at this time, don’t you agree? I am going to die soon, am I not?’