“You’ve got good boots,” said the witch.
“Tell Mistress Weatherwax what happened,” Miss Tick began. But the witch held up a hand, and Miss Tick stopped talking immediately. Tiffany was even more impressed now.
Mistress Weatherwax gave Tiffany a look that went right through her head and about five miles out the other side. Then she walked over to the stones and waved one hand. It was an odd movement, a kind of wriggle in the air, but for a moment it left a glowing line. There was a noise, a chord, as though all sorts of sounds were happening at the same time. It snapped into silence.
“Jolly Sailor tobacco?” said the witch.
“Yes,” said Tiffany.
The witch waved a hand again. There was another sharp, complicated noise. Mistress Weatherwax turned suddenly and stared at the distant pimple that was the pictsie mound.
“Nac Mac Feegle? Kelda?” she demanded.
“Er, yes. Only temporary,” said Tiffany.
“Hmmph,” said Mistress Weatherwax.
Wave. Sound.
“Frying pan?”
“Yes. It got lost, though.”
“Hmm.”
Wave. Sound. It was as if the woman was extracting her history from the air.
“Filled buckets?”
“And they filled up the log box, too,” said Tiffany.
Wave. Sound.
“I see. Special Sheep Liniment?”
“Yes, my father says it puts—”
Wave. Sound.
“Ah. Land of snow.” Wave. Sound. “A queen.” Wave. Sound. “Fighting.” Wave, sound. “On the sea?” Wave, sound, wave, sound…
Mistress Weatherwax stared at the flashing air, looking at pictures only she could see. Mrs. Ogg sat down beside Tiffany, her little legs going up in the air as she made herself comfortable.
“I’ve tried Jolly Sailor,” she said. “Smells like toenails, don’t it?”
“Yes, it does!” said Tiffany, gratefully.
“To be a kelda of the Nac Mac Feegle, you have to marry one of ’em, don’t you?” said Mrs. Ogg innocently.
“Ah, yes, but I found a way around that,” said Tiffany. She told her. Mrs. Ogg laughed. It was a sociable kind of laugh, the sort of laugh that makes you comfortable.
The noise and flashing stopped. Mistress Weatherwax stood staring at nothing for a moment and then said: “You beat the Queen, at the end. But you had help, I think.”
“Yes, I did,” said Tiffany.
“And that was—?”
“I don’t ask you your business,” said Tiffany, before she even realized she was going to say it. Miss Tick gasped. Mrs. Ogg’s eyes twinkled, and she looked from Tiffany to Mistress Weatherwax like someone watching a tennis match.