A Hat Full Of Sky

Miss Level clenched and unclenched her fists nervously. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll go up there and have a serious talk with her!’

‘I told yez, mistress, it’s not her,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy, wearily.

‘Well, at least I’ll wait until I’ve visited Mr Weavall,’ said Miss Level, standing in her kitchen. I’m nearly there… ah… he’s asleep. I’ll just eease the box out quietly… if she’s taken his money I’m going to be so angry—’

It was a good hat, Tiffany thought. It was at least as tall as Mrs Earwig’s hat, and it shone darkly. The stars gleamed.

The other packages covered the floor and the bed. She pulled out another one of the black dresses, the one covered in lace, and the cloak, which spread out in the air. She really liked the cloak. In anything but a complete dead calm, it floated and billowed as if whipped by a gale. If you were going to be a witch, you had to start by looking like one.

She twirled in it once or twice, and then said something without thinking, so that the hiver part of her was caught unawares.

‘See me.’

The hiver was suddenly thrust outside her body, Tiffany was free. She hadn’t expected it…

She felt herself to the tips of her fingers. She dived towards the bed, grabbed one of Zakzak’s best wands and waved it desperately in front of her like a weapon.

‘You stay out!’ she said. ‘Stay away! It’s my body, not yours! You’ve made it do dreadful things! You stole Mr Weavall’s money! Look at these stupid clothes! And don’t you know about eating and drinking? You stay away! You’re not coming back! Don’t you dare! I’ve got power, you know!’

So have we, said her own voice, in her own head. Yours.

They fought. A watcher would have seen only a girl in a black dress, spinning around the room and flailing her arms as if she’d been stung, but Tiffany fought for every toe, every finger. She bounced off a wall, banged against the chest of drawers, slammed into another wall—

–and the door was flung open.

One of Miss Level was there, no longer nervous, but trembling with rage. She pointed a shaking finger.

‘Listen to me, whoever you are! Did you steal Mr Weav—?’ she began.

The hiver turned.

The hiver struck.

The hiver… killed.

Chapter Eight The Secret Land

It’s bad enough being dead. Waking up and seeing a Nac Mac Feegle standing on your chest and peering intently at you from an inch away only makes things worse.

Miss Level groaned. It felt as though she was lying on the floor.

‘Ach, this one’s alive, right enough,’ said the Feegle. ‘Told yez! That’s a weasel skull ye owe me!’

Miss Level blinked one set of eyes, and then froze in horror.

‘What happened to me?’ she whispered.

The Feegle in front of her was replaced by the face of Rob Anybody. It was not an improvement.

‘How many fingers am I holdin’ up?’ he said.

‘Five,’ whispered Miss Level.

‘Am I? Ah, well, ye could be right, ye’d have the knowin’ o’ the countin’,’ said Rob, lowering his hand. ‘Ye’ve had a wee bittie accident, ye ken. You’re a wee bittie dead.’

Miss Level’s head slumped back. Through the mist of something that wasn’t exactly pain, she heard Rob Anybody say to someone she couldn’t see:

‘Hey, I wuz breakin’ it tae her gently! I did say “wee bittie” twice, right?’

‘It’s as though part of me is… a long way off,’ murmured Miss Level.

‘Aye, you’re aboot right there,’ said Rob, champion of the bedside manner.

Some memories bobbed to the surface of the thick soup in Miss Level’s mind.

‘Tiffany killed me, didn’t she,’ she said. ‘I remember seeing that black figure turn round and her expression was horrible—’

‘That wuz the hiver,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘That was no’ Tiffany! She was fightin’ it! She still is, inside! But it didnae remember you ha’ two bodies! We got tae help her, mistress!’

Miss Level pushed herself upright. It wasn’t pain she felt, but it was the… ghost of pain.

‘How did I die?’ she said, weakly.

‘There was, like, an explosion, an’ smoke an’ that,’ said Rob. ‘Not messy, really.’

‘Oh, well, that’s a small mercy, anyway,’ said Miss Level, sagging back.

‘Aye, there was just this, like, big purple cloud o’, like, dust,’ said Daft Wullie.

‘Where’s my… I can’t feel… where’s my other body?’

‘Aye, that was what got blown up in that big cloud, right enough,’ said Rob. ‘Good job ye has a spare, eh?’

‘She’s all mithered in her heid,’ whispered Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘Take it gently, eh?’

‘How do you manage, only seeing one side of things?’ said Miss Level dreamily to the world in general. ‘How will I get everything done with only one pair of hands and feet? Being in just one place all the time… how do people manage? It’s impossible…’

She shut her eyes.

‘Mistress Level, we need ye!’ shouted Rob Anybody into her ear.

‘Need, need, need,’ murmured Miss Level. ‘Everyone needs a witch. No one cares if a witch needs. Giving and giving always… a fairy godmother never gets a wish, let me tell you…’

‘Mistress Level!’ Rob screamed. ‘Ye cannae pass oot on us noo!’

‘I’m weary,’ whispered Miss Level. ‘I’m very, very pished.’

‘Mistress Level!’ Rob Anybody yelled. ‘The big wee hag is lying on the floor like a dead person, but she’s cold as ice and sweatin’ like a horse! She’s fightin’ the beast inside her, mistress! An’ she’s losin’!’ Rob peered into Miss Level’s face, and shook his head. ‘Auchtahelweit! She’s swooned! C’mon, lads, let’s move her!’

Like many small creatures, Feegles are immensely strong for their size. It still took ten of them to carry Miss Level up the narrow stairs without banging her head more than necessary, although they did use her feet to push open the door to Tiffany’s room.

Tiffany lay on the floor. Sometimes a muscle twitched.