The Baron gave a polite little cough and said, ‘Indeed, at one point I harboured hopes that you and the boy might make a more … intimate arrangement?’
‘We are good friends,’ said Tiffany carefully. ‘We were good friends and I trust that we will continue to be … good friends.’ She hurriedly had to stop the pain wobbling dangerously.
The Baron nodded. ‘Jolly good, Miss Tiffany Aching, but please don’t let the bond of friendship prevent you from giving him a righteous kick up the arse if he needs one.’
‘I will take some pleasure in doing so, sir,’ said Tiffany.
‘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.’