Tiffany found that a very useful thing to say. It’s hard to remember, it was all a bit of a dream. It was all a bit of a dream, I can’t be certain.
The overjoyed Baron, however, was very certain. Obviously this—this Queen woman, whoever she was, had been stealing children but Roland had beaten her, oh yes, and helped these two young children to get back as well.
Her mother had insisted on Tiffany’s going to bed, even though it was broad daylight. Actually, she didn’t mind. She was tired, and lay under the covers in that nice pink world halfway between asleep and awake.
She heard the Baron and her father talking downstairs. She heard the story being woven between them as they tried to make sense of it all. Obviously the girl had been very brave (this was the Baron speaking), but well, she was nine, wasn’t she? And didn’t even know how to use a sword! Whereas Roland had had fencing lessons at his school…
And so it went on. There were other things she heard her parents discussing later, when the Baron had gone. There was the way Ratbag now lived on the roof, for example.
Tiffany lay in bed and smelled the ointment her mother had rubbed into her temples. Tiffany must have been hit on the head, she’d said, because of the way she kept on touching it.
So…Roland with the beefy face was the hero, was he? And she was just like the stupid princess who broke her ankle and fainted all the time? That was completely unfair!
She reached out to the little table beside her bed where she’d put the invisible hat. Her mother had put down a cup of broth right through it, but it was still there. Tiffany’s fingers felt, very faintly, the roughness of the brim.
We never ask for any reward, she thought. Besides, it was her secret, all of it. No one else knew about the Wee Free Men. Admittedly Wentworth had taken to running through the house with a tablecloth around his waist shouting, “Weewee mens! I’ll scone you in the boot!” but Mrs. Aching was still so glad to see him back, and so happy that he was talking about things other than sweets, that she wasn’t paying too much attention to what he was talking about.
No, she couldn’t tell anyone. They’d never believe her, and suppose that they did, and went up and poked around in the pictsies’ mound? She couldn’t let that happen.
What would Granny Aching have done?
Granny Aching would have said nothing. Granny Aching often said nothing. She just smiled to herself, and puffed on her pipe, and waited until the right time.
Tiffany smiled to herself.
She slept, and didn’t dream.
And a day went past.
And another day.
On the third day it rained. Tiffany went into the kitchen when no one was about and took down the china shepherdess from the shelf. She put it in a sack, then slipped out of the house and ran up onto the downs.
The worst of the weather was going to either side of the Chalk, which cut through the clouds like the prow of a ship. But when Tiffany reached the spot where an old stove and four iron wheels stood out of the grass, and cut a square of turf, and carefully chipped out a hole for the china shepherdess, and then put the turf back…it was raining hard enough to soak in and give the turf a chance of surviving. It seemed the right thing to do. And she was sure she caught a whiff of tobacco.
Then she went to the pictsies’ mound. She’d worried about that. She knew they were there, didn’t she? So, somehow, going to check that they were there would be sort of showing that she doubted if they would be, wouldn’t it? They were busy people. They had lots to do. They had the old kelda to mourn. They were probably very busy. That’s what she told herself. It wasn’t because she kept wondering if there really might be nothing down the hole but rabbits. It wasn’t that at all.
She was the kelda. She had a duty.
She heard music. She heard voices. And then sudden silence as she peered into the gloom.
She carefully took a bottle of Special Sheep Liniment out of her sack and let it slide into darkness.
Tiffany walked away and heard the faint music start up again.
She did wave at a buzzard, circling lazily under the clouds, and she was sure a tiny dot waved back.
On the fourth day Tiffany made butter and did her chores. She did have help.
“And now I want you to go and feed the chickens,” she said to Wentworth. “What is it I want you to do?”
“Fee’ the cluck-clucks,” said Wentworth.
“Chickens,” said Tiffany severely.
“Chickens,” said Wentworth obediently.
“And wipe your nose not on your sleeve! I gave you a handkerchief. And on the way back see if you can carry a whole log, will you?”