A Hat Full Of Sky

eyes.

‘Look around, eh? You can’t move down here for amulets and wands and whatnot! It’ll be bound to keep away, eh?’

Tiffany turned to look. There were sideshows all around the field. A lot of them were funfair stuff that she’d seen before at agricultural shows around the Chalk: Roll-a-Penny, Lucky Dip, Bobbing for Piranhas, that sort of thing. The Ducking Stool was very popular among young children on such a hot day. There wasn’t a fortune-telling tent, because no fortune-teller would turn up at an event where so many visitors were qualified to argue and answer back, but there were a number of witch stalls. Zakzak’s had a huge tent, with a display dummy outside wearing a Sky Scraper hat and a Zephyr Billow cloak, which had drawn a crowd of admirers. The other stalls were smaller, but they were thick with things that glittered and tinkled and they were doing a brisk trade amongst the younger witches. There were whole stalls full of dream-catchers and curse-nets, including the new self-emptying ones. It was odd to think of witches buying them, though. It was like fish buying umbrellas.

Surely a hiver wouldn’t come here, with all these witches?

She turned to Granny Weatherwax.

Granny Weatherwax wasn’t there.

It is hard to find a witch at the Witch Trials. That is, it is too easy to find a witch at the Witch Trials, but very hard to find the one you’re looking for, especially if you suddenly feel lost and all alone and you can feel panic starting to open inside you like a fern.

Most of the older witches were sitting at trestle tables in a huge roped-off area. They were drinking tea. Pointy hats bobbed as tongues wagged. Every woman seemed capable of talking while listening to all the others on the table at the same time, although this talent isn’t confined to witches. It was no place to search for an old woman in black with a pointy hat.

The sun was quite high in the sky now. The field was filling up. Witches were circling to land at the far end, and more and more people were pouring in through the gateway. The noise was intense.

Everywhere Tiffany turned, black hats were scurrying.

Pushing her way through the throng, she looked desperately for a friendly face, like Miss Tick or Miss Level or Petulia. If it came to it, an unfriendly one would do—even Mrs Earwig.

And she tried not to think. She tried not to think that she was terrified and alone in this huge crowd, and that up on the hill, invisible, the hiver now knew this because just a tiny part of it was her.

She felt the hiver stir. She felt it begin to move.

Tiffany stumbled through a chattering group of witches, their voices sounding shrill and unpleasant. She felt ill, as though she’d been in the sun too long. The world was spinning.

A remarkable thing about a hiver, a reedy voice began, somewhere in the back of her head, is that its hunting pattern mimics that of the common shark, among other creatures–

‘I do not want a lecture, Mr Bustle,’ Tiffany mumbled. ‘I do not want you in my head!’

But the memory of Simplicity Bustle had never taken much notice of other people when he was alive and it wasn’t going to begin now. It went on in its self-satisfied squeak:—in that, once it has selected its prey, it will completely ignore other attractive targets–

She could see right across the Trials field, and something was coming. It moved through the crowd like the wind through a field of grass. You could plot its progress by the people. Some fainted, some yelped and turned round, some ran. Witches stopped their gossip, chairs were overturned and the shouting started. But it wasn’t attacking anything. It was only interested in Tiffany.

Like a shark, thought Tiffany. The killer of the sea, where worse things happened.

Tiffany backed away, the panic filling her up. She bumped into witches hurrying towards the commotion and shouted at them:

‘You can’t stop it! You don’t know what it is! You’ll flail at it and wave glittery sticks and it will keep coming! It will keep coming!’

She put her hands into her pockets and touched the lucky stone. And the string. And the piece of chalk.

If this was a story, she thought bitterly, I’d trust in my heart and follow my star and all that other stuff and it would all turn out all right, right now, by tinkly Magikkkk. But you’re never in a story when you need to be.

Story, story, story…

The third wish. The Third Wish. The third wish is the important one.

In stories the genie or the witch or the magic cat… offers you three wishes.

Three wishes…

She grabbed a hurrying witch and looked into the face of Annagramma, who stared at her in terror and tried to cower away.

‘Please don’t do anything to me! Please!’ she cried. ‘I’m your friend, aren’t I?’

‘If you like, but that wasn’t me and I’m better now,’ said Tiffany, knowing she was lying. It had been her, and that was important. She had to remember that. ‘Quick, Annagramma! What’s the third wish? Quickly! When you get three wishes, what’s the third wish!’

Annagramma’s face screwed up into the affronted frown she wore when something had the nerve not to be understandable. ‘But why do—?’

‘Don’t think about it, please! Just answer!’

‘Well, er… it could be anything… being invisible or… or blonde, or anything—’ Annagramma burbled, her mind coming apart at the seams.

Tiffany shook her head and let her go. She ran to an old witch who was staring at the commotion.

‘Please, mistress, this is important! In stories, what’s the third wish! Don’t ask me why, please! Just remember!’

‘Er… happiness. It’s happiness, isn’t it?’ said the old lady. ‘Yes, definitely. Health, wealth and happiness. Now if I was you I’d—’

‘Happiness? Happiness… thank you,’ said Tiffany, and looked around desperately for someone else. It wasn’t happiness, she knew that in her boots. You couldn’t get happiness by magic, and that was another clue right there.

There was Miss Tick, hurrying between the tents. There was no time for half-measures. Tiffany pulled her round and shouted: ‘HelloMissTickYesI’mFineIHopeYouAreWellTooWhatIsTheThirdWishQuicklyThisIsImportantPleaseDon’tArgueOrAskQ uestionsThereIsn’tTime!’

Miss Tick, to her credit, hesitated only for a moment or two. ‘To have a hundred more wishes, isn’t it?’ she said.

Tiffany stared at her and then said, ‘Thank you. It isn’t, but that’s a clue, too.’

‘Tiffany, there’s a—’ Miss Tick began.

But Tiffany had seen Granny Weatherwax.

She was standing in the middle of the field, in a big square that had been roped off for some reason. No one seemed to notice her. She was watching the frantic witches around the hiver, where there was an occasional flash and sparkle of magic. She had a calm, faraway look.

Tiffany brushed Miss Tick’s arm away, ducked under the rope and ran up to her.

‘Granny!’

The blue eyes turned to her.

‘Yes?’

‘In stories, where the genie or the magic frog or the fairy godmother gives you three wishes… what’s the third wish?’

‘Ah, stories,’ said Granny. ‘That’s easy. In any story worth the tellin’, that knows about the way of the world, the third wish is the one that undoes the harm the first two wishes caused.’

‘Yes! That’s it! That’s it!’ shouted Tiffany, and the words piling up behind the question poured out. ‘It’s not