"He's an elemental," said Miss Treason from her loom. "Aye," said Rob Anybody. "Gods, elementals, demons, spirits…sometimes it's hard to tell 'em apart wi'oot a map."

"And the dance is to welcome winter?" said Tiffany. "That doesn't make sense! The Morris dance is to welcome the coming of the summer, yes, that's—"

"Are you an infant?" said Miss Treason. "The year is round! The wheel of the world must spin! That is why up here they dance the Dark Morris, to balance it. They welcome the winter because of the new summer deep inside it!" Click-clack went the loom. Miss Treason was weaving a new cloth, of brown wool. "Well, all right," said Tiffany. "We welcomed it…him. That doesn't mean he's supposed to come looking for me!"

"Why did you join the dance?" Miss Treason demanded. "Er…There was a space, and—"

"Yes. A space. A space not intended for you. Not for you, foolish child. You danced with him, and now he wants to meet such a bold girl. I have never heard of such a thing! I want you to fetch the third book from the right on the second shelf from the top of my bookcase." She handed Tiffany a heavy black key. "Can you manage to do even that?" Witches didn't need to slap the stupid, not when they had a sharp tongue that was always ready. Miss Treason also had several shelves of books, which was unusual for one of the older witches. The shelves were high up, the books looked big and heavy, and up until now Miss Treason had forbidden Tiffany to dust them, let alone unlock the big black iron band that secured them to the shelves. People who came here always gave them a nervous look. Books were dangerous. Tiffany unlocked the bands and wiped away the dust. Ah…the books were, like Miss Treason, not everything they seemed. They looked like magic books, but they had names like An Encyclopaedia of Soup. There was a dictionary. Next to it the book Miss Treason had asked for was covered in cobwebs. Still blushing with shame and anger, Tiffany got the book down, fighting to get it free of the webs. Some of them went pling! as they snapped, and dust fell off the top of the pages. When she opened it, it smelled old and parchmenty, like Miss Treason. The title, in gold lettering that had almost rubbed away, was Chaffinch's Ancient and Classical Mythology. It was full of bookmarks. "Pages eighteen and nineteen," said Miss Treason, her head not moving. Tiffany turned to them. "'The Dacne of the Sneasos'?" she said. "Is that supposed to be 'The Dance of the Seasons'?"

"Regrettably, the artist, Don Weizen de Yoyo, whose famous masterpiece that was, did not have the same talent with letters as he had with painting," said Miss Treason. "They worried him, for some reason. I notice you mention the words before the pictures. You are a bookish child." The picture was…strange. It showed two figures. Tiffany hadn't seen masquerade costumes. There wasn't the money at home for that sort of thing. But she'd read about them, and this was pretty much what she'd imagined. The page showed a man and a woman—or, at least, things that looked like a man and a woman. The woman was labeled "Summer" and was tall and blond and beautiful, and therefore to the short, brown- haired Tiffany was a figure of immediate distrust. She was carrying what looked like a big basket shaped like a shell, which was full of fruit. The man, "Winter," was old and bent and gray. Icicles glittered on his beard. "Ach, that's wha' the Wintersmith would look like, sure enough," said Rob Anybody, strolling across the page. "Ol' Frosty."

"Him?" said Tiffany. "That's the Wintersmith? He looks a hundred years old!"

"A youngster, eh?" said Miss Treason nastily. "Dinna let him kiss ye, or yer nose might turn blue and fall off!" said Daft Wullie cheerfully. "Daft Wullie, don't you dare say things like that!" said Tiffany. "I wuz just tryin' to lighten the mood, ye ken," said Wullie, looking sheepish. "That's an artist's impression, of course," said Miss Treason. "What does that mean?" said Tiffany, staring at the picture. It was wrong. She knew it. This wasn't what he was like at all…. "It means he made it up," said Billy Bigchin. "He wouldna ha' seen him, noo, would he? No one's seen the Wintersmith."

"Yet!" said Daft Wullie. "Wullie," said Rob Anybody, turning to his brother, "ye ken I told ye aboot makin' tactful remarks?"

"Aye, Rob, I ken weel," said Wullie obediently. "What ye just said wuz not one o' them," said Rob. Wullie hung his head. "Sorry, Rob." Tiffany clenched her fists. "I didn't mean all this to happen!" Miss Treason turned her chair with some solemnity. "Then what did you mean? Will you tell me? Did you dance out of youth's inclination to disobey old age? To mean is to think. Did you think at all? Others have joined in the dance before now. Children, drunkards, youths for a silly bet…nothing happened. The spring and autumn dances are…just an old tradition, most people would say. Just a way of marking when ice and fire exchange their dominion over the world. Some of us think we know better. We think something happens. For you, the dance became real, and something has happened. And now the Wintersmith is seeking you."

"Why?" Tiffany managed. "I don't know. When you were dancing, did you see anything? Hear anything?" How could you describe the feeling of being everywhere and everything? Tiffany wondered. She didn't try. "I…thought I heard a voice, or maybe two voices," she mumbled. "Er, they asked me who I was."

"Int-ter-rest-ting," said Miss Treason. "Two voices? I will consider the implications. What I can't understand is how he found you. I will think about that. In the meantime, I expect it would be a good idea to wear warm clothing."

"Aye," said Rob Anybody, "the Wintersmith canna abide the heat. Oh, I'll be forgettin' my ain heid next! We brought a wee letter from that hollow tree down in the forest. Gi' it to the big wee hag, Wullie. We picked it up on the way past."

"A letter?" said Tiffany, as the loom clacked behind her and Daft Wullie began to pull a grubby, rolled- up envelope from his spog. "It's from that wee heap o' jobbies at the castle back hame," Rob went on, as his brother hauled. "He says he bides fine and hopes ye do likewise, an' he's lookin' forward to you bein' back hame soon, an' there's lots o' stuff about how the ships are doin' an' suchlike, no' verra interestin' in ma opinion, an' he's writ S. W. A. L. K. on the bottom, but we havena worked out what that means yet."

"You read my letter?" said Tiffany in horror. "Oh, aye," said Rob with pride. "Nae problem. Billy Bigchin here gave me a wee hint with some o' the longer words, but it was mostly me, aye." He beamed, but the grin faded as he watched Tiffany's expression. "Ach, I ken you're a wee bitty upset that we opened yon envelope thingy," he explained. "But that's okay, 'cuz we glued it up again wi' slug. Ye wouldna ever know it'd been read." He coughed, because Tiffany was still glaring at him. All women were a bit scary to the Feegles, and witches were the worst. At last, when he was really nervous, Tiffany said: "How did you know where that letter would be?" She glanced sideways at Daft Wullie. He was chewing the edge of his kilt. He only ever did this when he was frightened. "Er…would you accept a wee bittie lie?" Rob said. "No!"

"It's interestin'. There's dragons an' unicorns in it—"

"No. I want the truth!"

"Ach, it's so boring. We go to the Baron's castle an' read the letters ye sent him, an', an' ye said the postman knows to leave letters tae you in the hollow tree by the waterfall," said Rob. If the Wintersmith had got into the cottage, the air couldn't have been any colder. "He keeps the letters fra' ye in a box under his—" Rob began, and then shut his eyes as Tiffany's patience parted with a twang even louder than Miss Treason's strange cobwebs. "Don't you know it's wrong to read other people's letters?" she demanded. "Er…" Rob Anybody began. "And you broke into the Baron's cast—"

"Ah, ah, ah, no, no, no!" said Rob, jumping up and down. "Ye canna get us on that one! We just walked in through one of them little wee slits for the firin' o' the arrows—"

"And then you read my personal letters sent personally to Roland?" said Tiffany. "They were personal!"

"Oh, aye," said Rob Anybody. "But dinna fash yersel'—we willna tell anyone what was in 'em."

"We ne'er tell a soul what's in yer diary, after all," said Daft Wullie. "Not e'en the bits wi' the flowers ye draw aroound them." Miss Treason is grinning to herself behind me, Tiffany thought. I just know she is. But she'd run out of nasty tones of voice. You did that after talking to the Feegles for any length of time. You were their Kelda, her Second Thoughts reminded her. They think they have a solemn duty to protect you. It doesn't matter what you think. They're going to make your life sooo complicated. "Don't read my letters," she said, "and don't read my diary, either."

"Okay," said Rob Anybody. "Promise?"

"Oh, aye."

"But you promised last time!"

"Oh, aye."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Oh, aye, nae problemo."

"And that's the promise of an untrustworthy, lying, stealing Feegle, is it?" said Miss Treason. "Because ye believe ye're deid already, do ye no'? That's what ye people think, right?"

"Oh, aye, mistress," said Rob Anybody. "Thank ye for drawin' ma attention tae that."

"In fact, Rob Anybody, ye ha' nae intention o' keepin' any promise at all!"

"Aye, mistress," said Rob proudly. "Not puir wee weak promises like that. Becuz, ye see, 'tis oor solemn destiny to guard the big wee hag. We mus' lay doon oor lives for her if it comes to it."

"How can ye do that when ye're deid already?" said Miss Treason sharply. "That's a bit o' a puzzler, right enough," said Rob, "so probably we'll lay doon the lives o' any scunners who do wrong by her." Tiffany gave up and sighed. "I'm almost thirteen," she said. "I can look after myself."

"Hark at Miss Self-Reliant," said Miss Treason, but not in a particularly nasty way. "Against the Wintersmith?"

"What does he want?" said Tiffany. "I told you. Perhaps he wants to find out what kind of girl was so forward as to dance with him?" said Miss Treason. "It was my feet! I said I didn't mean to!" Miss Treason turned around in her chair. How many eyes is she using? Tiffany's Second Thoughts wondered. The Feegles? The ravens? The mice? All of them? How many of me is she seeing? Is she watching me with mice, or insects with dozens of glittery eyes? "Oh, that's all right then," said Miss Treason. "Once again, you didn't mean it. A witch takes responsibility! Have you learned nothing, child?" Child. That was a terrible thing to say to anyone who was almost thirteen. Tiffany felt herself going red again. The horrible hotness spread inside her head. That was why she walked across the room, opened the front door, and stepped outside. A fluffy snow was falling, very gently. When Tiffany looked into the pale-gray sky, she saw the flakes drifting down in soft, feathery clusters; it was the kind of snow that people back home on the Chalk called "Granny Aching shearing her sheep." Tiffany felt the flakes melting on her hair as she walked away from the cottage. Miss Treason was shouting from the doorway, but she walked on, letting the snow cool her blushes. Of course this is stupid, she told herself. But being a witch is stupid. Why do we do it? It's hard work for not much reward. What's a good day for Miss Treason? When someone brings her a secondhand pair of old boots that fit properly! What does she know about anything? Where is the Wintersmith, then? Is he here? I've only got Miss Treason's word for it! That and a made- up picture in a book! "Wintersmith!" she shouted. You could hear the snow falling. It made a strange little noise, like a faint, cold sizzle. "Wintersmith!" There was no reply. Well, what had she expected? A big booming voice? Mr. Spiky the icicle man? There was nothing but the softness of white snow falling patiently among dark trees. She felt a bit silly now, but satisfied, too. This was what a witch did! She faced what she was afraid of, and then it held no more fear! She was good at this! She turned—and saw the Wintersmith. Remember this, said her Third Thoughts, cutting in. Every little detail is important. The Wintersmith was……nothing. But the snow outlined him. It flowed around him in lines, as if traveling on an invisible skin. He was just a shape, and nothing more, except perhaps for two tiny pale purple-gray dots in the air, where you might expect to find eyes. Tiffany stood still, her mind frozen, her body waiting to be told what to do. The hand made of falling snow was reaching toward her now, but very slowly, as you would reach out toward an animal you do not want to frighten. There was…something, some strange sense of things unsaid because there was no voice to say them, a sense of striving, as if the thing were putting heart and soul into this moment, even if it did not know the meaning of heart or soul. The hand stopped about a foot away from her. It was formed into a fist, and now it turned over and the fingers opened. Something gleamed. It was the white horse, made of silver, on a fine silver chain. Tiffany's hand flew to her throat. But she'd had it on last night! Before she went…to…watch…the… dance…. It must have come off! And he'd found it! That's interesting, said her Third Thoughts that busied themselves with the world in their own way. You can't see what's hidden inside an invisible fist. How does that work? And why are those little purple- gray blurs in the air where you'd expect to find eyes? Why aren't they invisible? That's Third Thoughts for you. When a huge rock is going to land on your head, they're the thoughts that think: Is that an igneous rock, such as granite, or is it sandstone? That part of Tiffany's brain that was a little less precise at the moment watched the silver horse dangle on its chain. Her First Thought was: Take it. Her Second Thought was: Don't take it. It's a trap. Her Third Thought was: Really don't take it. It will be colder than you can imagine. And then the rest of her overruled the Thoughts entirely and said: Take it. It's part of who you are. Take it. When you hold it, you think of home. Take it! She held out her right hand. The horse dropped into it. Instinctively she closed her fingers over it. It was indeed colder than she could have imagined, and it burned. She screamed. The Wintersmith's snowy outline became a flurry of flakes. The snow around her feet erupted with a cry of "Crivens!" as a mass of Feegles grabbed her feet and carried her, upright, across the clearing and back in through the cottage's doorway. Tiffany forced her hand open and, with trembling fingers, pulled the silver horse off her palm. It left a perfect print, a white horse on pink flesh. It wasn't a burn, it was a…freeze. Miss Treason's chair rumbled around on its wheels. "Come here, child," she ordered. Still clasping her hand, trying to force back the tears, Tiffany walked over to her. "Stand right here by my chair, this instant!" Tiffany did so. This was no time to be disobedient. "I wish to look in your ear," said Miss Treason. "Brush your hair aside." Tiffany held back her hair, and winced when she heard the tickle of mouse whiskers. Then the creature was taken away. "Ah, I am surprised," said Miss Treason. "I can see nothing."