'Here, get off!' said Brian, pushing him away. There was a groan from Annagramma. She opened her eyes, saw Tiffany and tried to scramble to her feet and back away, which meant that she went backwards like a spider. 'Please don't do that to me! Please don't!' she shouted. Tiffany ran after her and pulled her to her feet. 'I wouldn't do anything to you, Annagramma,' she said happily. 'You're my friend! We're all friends! Isn't that nice please please stop me . . .' You had to remember that pictsies weren't brownies. In theory, brownies would do the housework for you if you left them a saucer of milk. The Nac Mac Feegle . . . wouldn't. Oh, they'd try, if they liked you and you didn't insult them with milk in the saucer. They were helpful. They just weren't good at it. For example, you shouldn't try to remove a stubborn stain from a plate by repeatedly hitting it with your head. And you didn't want to see a sink full of them and your best china. Or a precious pot
rolling backwards and forwards across the floor while the Feegles inside simultaneously fought the ground-in dirt and each other. But Miss Level, once she'd got the better china out of the way, found she rather liked the Feegles. There was something unsquashable about them. And they were entirely unamazed by a woman with two bodies, too. 'Ach, that's no thin',' Rob Anybody had said. 'When we wuz raidin' for the Quin, we once found a world where there wuz people wi' five bodies each. All sizes, ye ken, for doin' a' kinds of jobs.'
'Really?' said both of Miss Level. 'Aye, and the biggest body had a huge left hand, just for openin' pickle jars.'
'Those lids can get very tight, it's true,' Miss Level had agreed. 'Oh, we saw some muckle eldritch places when we wuz raiding for the Quin/ said Rob Anybody. 'But we gave that up for she wuz a schemin', greedy, ill-fared carlin, that she was!'
'Aye, and it wuz no' because she threw us oot o' Fairyland for being completely pished at two in the afternoon, whatever any scunner might mphf mphf. . .' said Daft Wullie. 'Pished?' said Miss Level. 'Aye ... oh, aye, it means . . . tired. Aye. Tired. That's whut it means,' said Rob Anybody, holding his hands firmly over his brother's mouth. 'An' ye dinnae ken how to talk in front o' a lady, yah shammerin' wee scunner!'
'Er . . . thank you for doing the washing up,' said Miss Level. 'You really didn't need to . . .'
'Ach, it wasnae any trouble,' said Rob Anybody cheerfully, letting Daft Wullie go. 'An' I'm sure all them plates an' stuff will mend fine wi' a bit o' glue.' Miss Level looked up at the clock with no hands. 'It's getting late,' she said. 'What exactly is it you propose to do, Mr Anybody?'
'Whut?'
'Do you have a plan?'
'Oh, aye!' Rob Anybody rummaged around in his spog, which is a leather bag most Feegles have hanging from their belt. The contents are usually a mystery, but sometimes include interesting teeth. He flourished a much-folded piece of paper. Miss Level carefully unfolded it. ' “PLN”?' she said. 'Aye,' said Rob proudly. 'We came prepared! Look, it's written doon. Pee El Ner. Plan.'
'Er . . . how can I put this. .. ?' Miss Level mused. 'Ah, yes. You came rushing all this way to save Tiffany from a creature that can't be seen, touched, smelled or killed. What did you intend to do when you found it?' Rob Anybody scratched his head, to a general shower of objects. 'I think mebbe you've put yer finger on the one weak spot, mistress,' he admitted. 'Do you mean you charge in regardless?'
'Oh, aye. That's the plan, sure enough,' said Rob Anybody, brightening up.
'And then what happens?'
'Weel, gen'raly people are tryin' tae wallop us by then, so we just mak' it up as we gae along.'
'Yes, Robert, but the creature is inside her head!' Rob Anybody gave Billy a questioning look. 'Robert is a heich-heidit way o' sayin' Rob,' said the gonnagle, and to save time he said to Miss Level: 'That means kinda posh.'
'Ach, we can get inside her heid, if we have to,' said Rob. 'I'd hoped tae get here afore the thing got to her, but we can chase it.' Miss Level's face was a picture. Two pictures. 'Inside her head!' she said. 'Oh, aye,' said Rob, as if that sort of thing happened every day. 'No problemo. We can get in or oot o' anywhere. Except maybe pubs, which for some reason we ha' trouble leavin'. A heid? Easy.'
'Sorry, we're talking about a real head here, are we?' said Miss Level, horrified. 'What do you do, go in through the ears?' Once again, Rob stared at Billy, who looked puzzled. 'No, mistress. They'd be too small,' he said, patiently. 'But we can move between worlds, ye ken. We're fairy folk.' Miss Level nodded both heads. It was true, but it was hard to look at the assembled ranks of the Nac Mac Feegle and remember that they were, technically, fairies. It was like watching penguins swimming underwater and having to remember that they were birds. 'And?' she said. 'We can get intae dreams, ye see . . . And what's a mind but another world o' dreamin'?'
'No, I must forbid that!' said Miss Level. 'I can't have you running around inside a young girl's head! I mean, look at you! You're fully-grow . . . well, you're men! It'd be like, like . . . well, it'd be like you looking at her diary!' Rob Anybody looked puzzled. 'Oh, aye?' he said. 'We looked at her diary loads o' times. Nae harm done.'
'You looked at her diary?' said Miss Level, horrified. 'Why?' Really, she thought later, she should have expected the answer. "Cuz it wuz locked,' said Daft Wullie. 'If she didnae want anyone tae look at it, why'd she keep it at the back o' her sock drawer? Anyway, all there wuz wuz a load o' words we couldnae unnerstan' an' wee drawings o' hearts and flowers an' that.'
'Hearts? Tiffany?' said Miss Level. 'Really?' She shook herself. 'But you shouldn't have done that! And going into someone's mind is even worse!'
'The hiver is in there, mistress,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy meekly. 'But you said you can't do anything about it!'
'She might. If we can track her doon,' said the gonnagle. 'If we can find the wee bitty bit o' her that's still her. She's a bonny fighter when she's roused. Ye see, mistress, a mind's like a world itself. She'll be hidin' in it somewhere, lookin' oot through her own eyes, listenin' wi' her own ears, tryin' to make people hear, tryin' no' to let
yon beast find her . . . and it'll be hunting her all the time, trying tae break her doon Miss Level began to look hunted herself. Fifty small faces, full of worry and hope and broken noses, looked up at her. And she knew she didn't have a better plan. Or even a PLN. 'All right,' she said. 'But at least you ought to have a bath. I know that's silly, but it will make me feel better about the whole thing.' There was a general groan. 'A bath? But we a' had one no' a year ago,' said Rob Anybody. 'Up at the big dew pond for the ships!'
'Ach, crivens!' said Big Yan. 'Ye cannae ask a man tae take a bath again this soon, mistress! There'll be nothin' left o' us!'
'With hot water and soap!' said Miss Level. 'I mean it! I'll run the water and I. . . I'll put some rope over the edge so you can climb in and out, but you will get clean. I'm a wi- a hag, and you'd better do what I say!'
'Oh, all reet!' said Rob. 'We'll do it for the big wee hag. But ye're no' tae peek, OK?'
'Peek?' said Miss Level. She pointed a trembling finger. 'Get into that bathroom now!' Miss Level did, however, listen at the door. It's the sort of thing a witch does. There was nothing to hear at first but the gentle splash of water, and then: "This is no' as bad as I thought!'
'Aye, very pleasin'.'
'Hey, there's a big yellow duck here. Who 're ye pointin' that beak at, yer scunner-' There was a wet quack and some bubbling noises as the rubber duck sank. 'Rob, we oughtae get one o' these put in back in the mound. Verra warmin' in the winter time.'
'Aye, it's no' that good for the ship, havin' tae drink oot o' that pond after we 've been bathin'. It's terrible, hearin' a ship try tae spit.'
'Ach, it'll make us softies! It's nae a guid wash if ye dinnae ha' the ice formin' on yer held!'
' Who 're you callin' a softie?' There followed a lot more splashing and water started to seep under the door. Miss Level knocked. 'Come on out now, and dry yourselves off!' she commanded. 'She could be back at any minute!' In fact it wasn't for another two hours, by which time Miss Level had got so nervous that her necklaces jingled all the time. She'd come to witching later than most, being naturally qualified by reason of the two bodies, but she'd never been very happy about magic. In truth, most witches could get through their whole life without having to do serious, undeniable magic (making shambles and curse-nets and dreamcatchers didn't really count, being rather more like arts-and-crafts, and most of the rest of it was practical medicine, common sense and the ability to look stern in a pointy hat). But being a witch and wearing the big black hat was like being a policeman. People saw the uniform, not you. When the mad axeman was running down the street you weren't allowed to back away muttering, 'Could you find someone else? Actually, I mostly just do, you know, stray dogs and
road safety . . .' You were there, you had the hat, you did the job. That was a basic rule of witchery: It's up to you. She was two bags of nerves when Tiffany arrived back, and stood side by side holding hands with herself to give herself confidence. 'Where have you been, dear?'
'Out,' said Tiffany. 'And what have you been doing?'
'Nothing.'
'I see you've been shopping.'
'Yes.'
'Who with?'
'Nobody.'
'Ah, yes,' Miss Level trilled, completely adrift. 1 remember when I used to go out and do nothing. Sometimes you can be your own worst company. Believe me, I know-' But Tiffany had already swept upstairs. Without anyone actually seeming to move, Feegles started to appear everywhere in the room. 'Well, that could ha' gone better,' said Rob Anybody. 'She looked so different!' Miss Level burst out. 'She moved differently! I just didn't know what to do! And those clothes!'
'Aye. Sparklin' like a young raven,' said Rob. 'Did you see all those bags? Where could she have got the money? / certainly don't have that kind of-' She stopped, and both of Miss Level spoke at once. 'Oh, no -'
'- surely not! She wouldn't -'
'- have, would she?'
'I dinnae ken whut ye're talkin' aboot,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy, 'but whut she would dae isnae the point. That's the hiver doin' the thinkin'!' Miss Level clasped all four hands together in distress. 'Oh dear ... I must go down to the village and check!' One of her ran towards the door. 'Well, at least she's brought the broomstick back,' muttered the Miss Level who stayed. She started to wear the slightly unfocused expression she got when both her bodies weren't in the same place. They could hear noises from upstairs. 'I vote we just tap her gently on the heid,' said Big Yan. 'It cannae give us any trouble if it's gone sleepies, aye?' 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 Secret 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.
