was going to be a happy ending. Change the Story, even if you don’t mean to, and the Story changes you.
Miss Tick used a lot more words than this, like “anthropomorphic personification,” but this was what ended up in Tiffany’s head.
“So…I’m not a goddess?” she said.
“Oh, I wish I had a blackboard.” Miss Tick sighed. “They really don’t survive the water, though, and of course the chalks get so soggy—”
“What we think happened in the Dance,” Granny Weatherwax began in a loud voice, “is that you and the Summer Lady got…mixed up.”
“Mixed up?”
“You may have some of her talents. The myth of the Summer Lady says that flowers grow wherever she walks,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“Where e’er,” said Miss Tick primly.
“What?” snapped Granny, who was now pacing up and down in front of the fire.
“It’s ‘where e’er she walks,’ in fact,” said Miss Tick. “It’s more…poetical.”
“Hah,” Granny said. “Poetry!”
Am I going to get into trouble about this? Tiffany wondered. “And what about the real Summer Lady? Is she going to be angry?” she asked.
Granny Weatherwax stopped pacing and looked at Miss Tick, who said: “Ah, yes…er…we are exploring every possibility—”
“That means we don’t know,” said Granny. “That’s the truth of it. This is about gods, see? But yes, since you ask, they can be a bit touchy.”
“I didn’t see her in the dance,” said Tiffany.
“Did you see the Wintersmith?”
“Well…no,” said Tiffany. How could she describe that wonderful, endless, golden, spinning moment? It went beyond bodies and thoughts. But it had sounded as though two people had said: “Who are you?” She pulled her boots back on. “Er…where is she now?” she asked as she tied the laces. Perhaps she’d have to run.
“She’s probably gone back underground for the winter. The Summer Lady doesn’t walk above ground in winter.”
“Up until now,” said Nanny Ogg cheerfully. She seemed to be enjoying this.
“Aah, Mrs. Ogg has put her finger on the other problem,” said Miss Tick. “The, er, Wintersmith and the Summer Lady are, uh, that is, they’ve never—” She looked imploringly at Nanny Ogg.
“They’ve never met except in the Dance,” said Nanny. “But now here you are, and you feel like the Summer Lady to him, walking around as bold as brass in the wintertime, so you might be…how shall I put it…?”
“…exciting his romantic propensities,” said Miss Tick quickly.
“I wasn’t going to describe it quite like that,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Yes, I suspects you weren’t!” said Granny. “I suspects you was going to use Language!”
Tiffany definitely heard the capital “L,” which entirely suggested that the language she was thinking of was not to be uttered in polite company.
Nanny stood up and tried to look haughty, which is hard to do when you have a face like a happy apple.
“I was actually going to draw Tiff’s attention to this,” she said, taking an ornament off the crowded mantelpiece. It was a little house. Tiffany had glanced at it before; it had two little doorways at the front and, at the moment, a tiny little wooden man with a top hat.
“It’s called a weather house,” Nanny said, handing it to Tiffany. “I don’t know how it works—there’s a bit of special string or something—but there’s a little wooden man who comes out if it’s going to rain and a little wooden woman who comes out when it’s going to be sunny. But they’re on a little pivoty thing, see? They can never be out at the same time, see? Never. An’ I can’t help wonderin’, when the weather’s changin’, if the little man sees the little woman out of the corner of his eye and wonders—”
“Is this about sex?” asked Tiffany.
Miss Tick looked at the ceiling. Granny Weatherwax cleared her throat. Nanny gave a huge laugh that would have embarrassed even the little wooden man.
“Sex?” she said. “Between Summer and Winter? Now there’s a thought.”
“Don’t…think…it,” said Granny Weatherwax sternly. She turned to Tiffany. “He’s fascinated by you, that’s what it is. And we don’t know how much of the Summer Lady’s power is in you. She might be quite weak. You’ll have to be a summer in winter until winter ends,” she added flatly. “That’s justice. No excuses. You made a choice. You get what you chose.”
“Couldn’t I just go and find her and say I’m sorry—?” Tiffany began.
“No. The old gods ain’t big on ‘sorry,’” said Granny, pacing up and down again. “They know it’s just a word.”
“You know what I think?” said Nanny. “I think she’s watchin’ you, Tiff. She’s sayin’ to herself,