Sunset ^beta

The dazzle of lights outside the Manor House began to quiet down, as revellers made their way to their beds, either at home (if nearby), or in the castle (for all the traveling guests). All except for those who had drunk too much of the free ale provided at the feast, and were now stretched out on the damp grass, too inebriated to make the mile or two trek back to their beds at the nearby farms.

Well, they were tough people, shepherds. For most of them, it wouldn't be their first time sleeping out in the open. The sky was splashed with stars, holding the promise of a clear night. And even though the people had worn their finest to attend the wedding of their new Baron and his bride-to-be, their finest still mostly consisted of woolens. So the chill November air would do little to dampen their spirits or indeed, their persons.

Tiffany watched from above, perched in the large window of a tower that overlooked both the courtyard of the Manor house, and the fields beyond, as one by one the bonfires surrounding the castle were doused with great splashes of water. No doubt the clean-up was organized by Preston, leading the few others among the castle guards who hadn't overindulged, who had kept their wits about them in order to keep watch with sober minds.

Well, Tiffany was a witch. She always watched human comings and goings from a vantage point that was above and apart, but not usually quite this literally. Usually, she would be below in the crowd, patching up scraped shins and bruised ankles, breaking apart drunken brawls, finding misplaced children and returning them to their parents, and other duties of that sort.

It was a witch's job to do what's necessary, and for once, that didn't include helping revelers find their way home in the dark, making up spare bedrooms for the Baron's numerous guests, or keeping bonfires under control. In fact, she had no duties at all tonight, except to sit up with the new bride.

Letitia Keepsake hummed to herself as she bustled about the room rearranging her trouseau. She flounced about in a cloud of tufts and taffeta, smoothing out lacy edges and swaying gently as she held wedding gowns up against her body and admired her reflection in the mirror. A pile of frilly clothes grew ever higher on the chair beside the wardrobe, as she tried on frock after frock, finally selecting an armload of white dresses from amongst the large pile, and sliding behind a folding screen to try them on. After seeing the seventh version of Letitia wearing a new white dress, Tiffany huffed at her impatiently.

"Letitia! It doesn't matter what you wear tomorrow! Everyone attending the ceremony will be too drunk to remember. Besides, each of those dresses you've tried on looks exactly alike!"

Letitia turned mid-hum, and Tiffany was surprised at how girlish she looked with her hair down. Almost as if she was sixteen. Which, incidentally, was exactly her age. Only three weeks older than Tiffany--not that Tiffany minded. Oh no. She definitely felt no irritation whatever that Letitia was her elder. Technically. (Of course Tiffany had done the math--that was just being thorough. That was expected from a witch.)

Letitia frowned. "They're not alike in the least! This one has a bodice cut in the Venetian style, with French sleeves and Cornish lacework, whereas this one is clearly last-year's model. She held up two dresses, one over each arm, that appeared to Tiffany to be exactly identical. One had frilly bits that ended in ruffles around the waist, and the other had lacy bits that turned into frills. Letitia was wearing a third dress, also white, and also indistinguishable from the other two. That one had both lace and ruffles that formed sort of a criss-cross pattern along Letitia's torso.

Tiffany looked from one dress to the next, thoroughly nonplussed at the abundance of lace, frill, and flounce--so clearly unnecessary in a dress! Lacemaking was long, hard work, and for what? Merely to show off how much money you had, and how many people you could employ. There was no use for it! Could lace scrub a floor? Bandage an arm? Swaddle a baby? No! Well, technically yes, but no one in their right mind would try it. Imagine scrubbing a floor in one of those white dresses. It wouldn't be white for long! A single day of a witch's duties, and any dress that started out white would soon be a greasy brown. There was a reason witches wore midnight. (So the stains wouldn't show.)

Well. Most witches wore midnight. Tiffany herself was uncomfortably aware that she was considered frivolous by some, for insisting on wearing green. But, she argued in her mind--that was also practical! Think of the number of grass stains that could easily be avoided when your dress itself was the color of a springtime pasture. It was an important consideration for a witch whose steading consisted mainly of grass, with the occasional chalk pit thrown in for variety. There was no vanity involved, Tiffany swore. It had nothing to do with the green dress bringing out colorful flecks in her brown eyes--nothing whatsoever.

Tiffany didn't care about her looks. She didn't. And if she sniffed and turned up her nose at Letitia's finery, it was because she disapproved of the excess, not because in her heart of hearts she was a tiny bit jealous. It wasn't that, at all.

She thought again of Letitia in that white dress, going about the day, performing Tiffany's duties. She had a sudden picture in her mind of the other girl, scrubbing the flagstone floor of the Aching farmhouse, on hands and knees, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, long, flowing hair tied up in a kerchief on her head (Tiffany's mind supplied a blue one), elbow-deep in a bucket of sudsy water, her lovely white skirts girded to her waist, showing off her calves and ankles (Tiff had never seen them), feet bare, no longer confined to fancy and impractical shoes. Her pretty feet were flexed, toes gripping the cold stones. (They would be pretty, right? Feet could surely be pretty as well as practical.) Knees reddening from the rough stones, calves rocking in a rhythmic motion forward and back, as she scrubbed with a rag, removing layers of farmhouse mud from a floor that generations of Achings had worn smooth with their hobnailed boots. Letitia lifted one forearm to wipe sweat from her forehead, and left a smudge of soap across her cheek. The skirts of her dress were soaking up the muddy, sudsy water, turning brown, and that flimsy material was now clinging to Letitia's thighs and the curve of her rump, and...Tiffany's face began to feel hot.

No. There were reasons that dresses like that shouldn't be worn.

Letitia stood in front of her, still inspecting the dresses, until she finally settled on one, with a flounce.

"Alright, Tiff. I know it's been a dreadful bore for you to stay with me on my hen night. But I appreciate it ever so much. It's hard, you know, moving to a new place, and it would mean so much to me to have...a friend." She spoke the last word hesitantly, as if expecting Tiffany to tell her off, or contradict her.

But Tiffany didn't have the heart.

Tiffany tried out a smile. "That would be nice."

Letitia's face brightened. "Come over here, Tiff. Want to know a secret?"

Tiffany moved closer. In the candle light, Letitia's blue eyes looked a softer, smoky grey.

"I don't want to be a Baroness, really. I'd rather be a witch--like you."

"You told me that yesterday, Letitia. That no longer qualifies as a secret," said Tiffany.

"I know." Letitia took one of Tiffany's hands in hers. Her hands were soft. "The truth is, I'm scared."

"We're all scared, Letitia. That's part of being a person."

Letitia continued, as if Tiffany hadn't interrupted. "I'm scared of leaving my home and my library. Of letting people down, of messing up abominably, and also, I'm scared of...", her voice dipped so low it came out as a whisper. "...Marriage."

"Marriage?" Tiffany echoed. She felt a tiny bit nervous, without knowing why. Although she'd known the 'facts of life' since she was seven, she still only knew them second-hand, as it were.

"Yes," Letitia hissed, still in a whisper. She took hold of Tiffany's other hand, now, and squeezed.

"Why?" Tiffany asked.

"Oh you know," Letitia answered. "Because of the...marriage part."

"Letitia." Tiffany fixed the other girl with a level stare. "Did Nanny Ogg not explain the marriage part to you? She was with you for hours the other night."

"Oh no, she did," laughed Letitia. "I understood all that well enough. But, well, what if...what if I don't like it?"

"Then, umm, I dare say that since your husband is a gentleman, he won't ask you to perform any duties you don't, umm, like." Added Tiffany awkwardly.

"Have you ever..."

Letitia trailed off, but her gaze caught Tiffany's, and Tiffany didn't look away.

"...been married?" Tiffany ventured.

"...so to speak..." Letitia replied.

"No, Letitia. I'm a witch! I have my work--of the witchly variety, not the wifely kind. And I don't have any leisure in my day to run around looking for a husband."

"Some witches have had husbands," Letitia said stubbornly.

"Well, yes, but I haven't."

"And other witches have had, well, friends." Now Letitia was blushing, a deep crimson, and no longer looking in Tiffany's eyes.

"What are you saying?" Tiffany asked sharply.

"Have you ever had...a friend?"

Tiffany's life was lonely in a way she felt powerless to change. She was responsible for everyone, but had no one she could lean on. And when it came to the most difficult battles, she always had to face them alone. She was the witch of the Chalk, not a witch. The people of the Chalk needed her, but they didn't quite love her.

She had thought for a minute that she and Roland were friends, that they had an understanding that went past the relationship of witch and Baron. She'd saved him from the fairy queen when they were both small. She remembered him from before he gained his title, before he grew too haughty to play children's games with the farmers' children. She had thought that maybe he loved her. But now he was getting married, so in a way, she was losing him, too. Although she had to admit to herself that maybe it had been some time coming. Maybe his marriage was just making plain what had already occurred--a slight calcification in his words when he spoke to her, a formality that had not been there before, a distance that was growing by the day.

And true, Tiffany had a sisterhood of witches--Annagramma and Petulia, Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg, but... they weren't exactly friends, were they? More like...long distance colleagues. She couldn't exactly drop in at their cottages after a hard day of work, to share a cup of tea, or to sit down by their fireplace and recount the day, to maybe ask one of them to rub her neck, if it was sore, or just sit in silent companionship for a while.

But Letitia---she would be there. She would be nearby. Could she be...a friend?

When it came right down to it, they were just two girls, alone.

One was the Witch of the Chalk. The other would be the Baroness. But, weren't they both alone, in ways the other could understand? You could count scores of farmers, tradespeople, wives, and other citizens, but when it came to the Hag of the Hills, or the Baroness of the Chalk, the number stopped at One, and went no further.

"Not exactly. Roland was my friend, but well, we've grown apart in recent months--not that I'm blaming you!--and then there was Annagramma. I might not go so far as to call her a friend, but she was certainly--mphh!!" Tiffany lost the rest of her sentence as Letitia kissed her.

Letitia's mouth was warm and sweet. Her breath at once reminded Tiffany of the clover-sweet breath of bees in meadows in spring, the warm breath of cows in chilly midwinter air, and the sweet scent of hay in a barn. It was at once startling, and at the same time familiar, reminding Tiffany of home.

Letitia's soft lips pressed against Tiffany's own, and her soft hands came up to caress Tiffany's face. The skirts of her silk dress pressed against Tiffany's homespun, brushing together with a sussuration of cloth, and Tiffany was lost in sensations of softness and warmth. She could feel the warmth of Letitia's body through the curtains of lace in her impractical--but really lovely, how could Tiffany deny it?--dress, and she could feel the weight of Letitia's body pressed against her own.

Tiffany's mind spun as she searched for a word in the old dictionary that she had read and memorized at nine, that would describe the sensations of the kiss. Plenitude, superfluity, and munificence were all words that presented themselves to her mind. And she had time to think that she would set aside each one and examine it in her mind tomorrow, turn it over and measure the weight and heft of each word against the memory of this experience, to see which could compare. She would take her time and look at each one thoroughly, because this, this kiss, was better than any word Tiffany had yet learned. And she loved words.

Their lips broke apart after a few minutes. Tiffany found that her arms had somehow found their way around Letitia's waist, and Letitia's hands had found their way into Tiffany's nut-brown hair. The girls were both slightly breathless.

"Well?" asked Letitia.

Tiffany didn't answer, but instead she dived back in towards Letitia's mouth. Letitia gasped a soft "Oh!", and opened her mouth. Tiffany didn't really mean to, but her bottom lip slipped into Letitia's mouth, and her tongue slipped in a little with it. Letitia's mouth opened wider, and Tiffany's tongue slipped in again, and this time, Letitia grasped it lightly with her teeth, before letting it go.

They met in a crush of lips that were hungrier this time. Bolder, too. Less timid and, well, maidenly, and more eager to explore. More--more witchly. If that was a word--Tiffany didn't know. She may have made that one up. Her (usually) sharp mind was fuzzing around the edges, and supplying her with new vocabulary she wasn't sure could be found in any dictionary on the Chalk. Oh well, let her mind make up words. Perhaps they could be found in newer, larger volumes somewhere in the City--at the moment, Tiffany didn't care. She was more concerned with feeling what her lips could do against Letitia's.

The softness was still there, but now a certain amount of wetness was also involved, and -- Tiffany was darned if that wetness didn't make her feel certain things--sensations she didn't have names for, but suspected might be found in this new dictionary. The sensations weren't confined to her lips either, or to her cheeks and nose, where they repeatedly brushed and nuzzled against Letitia's own, but seemed to involve her insides, especially around her stomach region. And in her guts. And spreading through her chest. And--most worryingly--they also seemed to involve her 'passionate parts'--those bits she'd never really given much thought to, assuming she'd never need to use them. Now she was becoming aware that her parts might be a bit more passionate than she'd given them credit for.

Tiffany already knew she'd gotten some things wrong about Letitia. She had always thought of the girl as 'wet'--about as colorless and bland as a glass of water. Letitia had often been literally wet as well, due to her incessant weeping, and the watercolor painting Roland had seemed so entranced with. But then Tiffany had learned that Letitia was the type of witch who could soothe an unquiet ghost by giving it a teddy bear to hold.

And not only that, she was self-taught. She had learned everything out of fairy stories, shoddy manuals, and the Boffo catalogue, sources notorious for their inaccuracies and for the liberties they take with the truth--and yet somehow, Letitia had made it work for her. Tiffany wasn't sure how, to be honest. But then again, things had happened in Tiffany's own life that she wasn't sure she could explain, exactly. Defeating the queen of the fairies with a frying pan, for example. Kissing away the winter. Maybe it was as they say--stories create their own magic.

Letitia's lips were still exploring Tiffany's own. Tiffany felt a flood of warmth pooling through her chest and gut, and she suddenly felt weaker in the knees, as if she'd really like to recline. Or at least sit down. She opened her eyes, which had been shut, and took a quick glance around the room, but the only really comfortable spot to sit was in on the old four-poster bed, covered in curtains, and made up for the wedding night.

Letitia definitely had some witch-like tendencies, and she must have been practicing the First Sight as well, because she noticed where Tiffany's eyes had led, and when they traveled back to meet hers, she smiled. Her eyes looked soft, and her hair shone. She brought her hands down to Tiffany's waist and gave her midsection a quick squeeze, and her cheek a kiss, then she flounced across the room and threw herself on the bed in a soft puff of white.

She plopped down, with a squeal, and her frilly dress puffed out all around her, but Tiff found she didn't mind it as much anymore. Lacy dresses were, maybe, alright in their own way. They certainly framed Letitia's round face and her pink cheeks very nicely. And those lips, those red lips. And the way the pattern in the front crossed over her bodice, that was very nice, wasn't it? Also the way the smooth material clung to her curves. It was all--well, it was a sight.

"Come join me on the bed, Tiff!" Letitia cried with a giggle. "After all, this is my hen night. We're supposed to have fun. Let's brighten this place up a little." Letitia waved her hand at the candelabra on the wall. "Abracadabra!" The candles all burst into flames, some glowing orange, blue, and gold.

"That shouldn't work," observed Tiffany.

"It doesn't always," replied Letitia. "I had to practice a great deal, and I still muck it up about half the time. I wish I were a great witch like you, Tiffany. I've seen how the other witches look at you, and how the men all tip their hats to you and respect you. I don't think I've been respected a day in my life."

She looked glum, and Tiffany remembered guiltily the type of thoughts she'd had upon first hearing of Letitia. They were mean thoughts, she could see that now. People always looked at Tiffany and never saw past the pointy hat to the person underneath. And maybe she had done the same to Letitia and her pretty dresses. She hadn't tried hard enough to remember that there was a person underneath them.

But here, in the bedroom, in the bed, they didn't have to be either of those things. Tiffany could lay her hat aside, and Letitia could take off her finery. They could both let their hair down, and just be women, together.

"You have talents too, Letitia, and any witch worth her broomstick can see that." Tiffany gestured at the candles glowing on the wall, casting colorful splashes across the bed sheets, and Letitia's white dress.

"I've never gotten the colors right before," said Letitia shyly.

"I've always loved fire," breathed Tiffany. "Did you know that in the old days, people used to get married by holding hands and jumping through a fire together? You had to really trust the person you leapt with."

"Huh," said Letitia. "My mother arranged my match. She thought it would be advantageous." Advantageous to whom, Letitia didn't say, but Tiffany could guess.

'What is the sound of trust?' wondered Tiffany. She thought maybe 'trust' sounded like the whoosh of a fire roaring in your ears as you leaped over it, hand in hand with the person you love.

Tiffany found herself drawing closer. She sat on the edge of the bed, and tried to resist the urge to thread her hands into Letitia's hair. It looked so soft, like the rest of her. Luxurious. The candlelight set off shadows on the planes of her face and across her chest--which was larger than Tiffany's, she couldn't help observing. With her First Sight. A witch can't help but observe what's right in front of her nose, not that Tiffany was trying to look at her bodice. She was trying to look anywhere else. But there was a very interesting pattern in the lace, now that Tiff observed it closely. The lace maker appeared to have worked several fantastical creatures over the curves of, well, the curves, if you know what I mean. This lace had been made by someone with too much time on their hands and an active imagination. Someone who read fairy tales and perhaps had an entire library at her disposal. Someone like--("She made this dress herself," Tiffany's Second Thoughts supplied. "And you were too busy judging her to notice.")

Now that she observed more closely, maybe everything about Letitia was more interesting than she had at first believed. Her hair, for instance. Yes, it was the standard fairy-tale blonde prescribed by the books, but the way she'd braided it up in interesting ways, twisting little strands of it around her head--that was unusual, wasn't it? (Maybe even a witch's First Sight can be blind at times.)

Tiff looked closer at the bodice. (She couldn't help that it was right there!) And there, over the left breast, (where Letitia's heart would be), Tiffany saw a familiar figure on a broomstick, pointy hat and all. A witch stylized in lace, flying over a stand of pine trees under an early crescent moon.

Letitia again saw where Tiffany was looking, and she smiled and took Tiffany's hand in hers and put it up against her chest. Tiffany traced the pattern in the lace with careful fingers, and Letitia threaded her fingers into Tiffany's and pressed Tiffany's hand to her breast, then bent forward to kiss her again.

"Letitia, isn't this all rather...uncustomary?" Tiffany managed to ask, although the truth was she didn't know what was customary. When Nanny Ogg had given Letitia 'the talk', Tiffany wasn't in the room.

"Tiffany," Letitia frowned. "Didn't Nanny Ogg teach you anything?"

"Of course she did," Tiffany answered stiffly.

Witches never lied, precisely, but sometimes they stretched the truth. Nanny Ogg had taught Tiffany many things. Often indirectly. (Just being in her presence could be an education.) But none of the things she'd taught seemed to pertain to hen nights and whether it was customary for the hens to kiss each other, and, well, Tiffany felt out of her depth. But 'out of her depth' was more or less the normal state of being a witch.

"Well, come on then, friend," said Letitia, and her smile was so warm, and so inviting. And her hair looked so soft, and well, Letitia herself was rather mesmerizing, too. Tiffany found herself leaning toward her, and returning the smile. "It's common for girls to practice some things before they get married, with their friends."

"That is not a custom, here on the Chalk," Tiffany retorted.

She wasn't sure what sort of things two girls could practice, seeing as how (to her mind) they lacked one of the necessary parts. You know--the one the man brought to the marriage. True, she'd never seen one in person (and she wasn't sure she'd want to), but it did seem like an important bit to have. At least, that was the impression she'd gotten from everything she'd heard about the subject.

"But it is the custom among witches!" answered Letitia, "Or so I've been told. Don't you know about dancing without your drawers on? Nanny said that she and Mistress Weatherwax were quite the pair for a number of years. And that their friendship outlasted all of her marriages."

"But..." Tiffany trailed off.

"Don't you know how it works, Tiffany?"

"Of course I do! I know where the knobbly bits on a man are supposed to go in--I've seen plenty of babies coming out, remember?"

Tiffany knew a thing or two about farm animals, and she suspected that the same process that worked for sheep worked for people, but she'd never really seen it happen. Or wanted to. She'd seen a great many things, some of them grisly and nasty, and others strange beyond belief, but nothing in her experience had ever explained to her why people engaged in lovemaking. She'd always assumed they did it to get babies. What other purpose did it serve?

"And what about Roland?" Tiffany asked, perplexed by this new information.

"I intend to marry Roland. After all, the Chalk can't have a new Baron without a Baroness--it's traditional. But what I still wish, above all else, is to be a witch! I may be cursed with blonde hair and a sizable dowry, and a title, so I have to marry a Baron--and as Barons go, he's a good one, really--but still. Roland is a bit of a sop, don't you think?"

Tiffany had always thought so, even when she'd tried to convince herself that he was really interesting.

"And, if what Nanny told me about stag night is true, he'll spend most of the next week smelling of swine. No amount of washing or witchcraft can make that smell go away in a hurry."

She was right again. Not even Petulia would welcome that smell on her wedding night.

"So, I'd rather spend my time with you," Letitia continued, looking up at her shyly.

Tiffany bent down toward Letitia's mouth again, as Letitia grasped Tiffany by the back of the neck, and leaned upward to give her a kiss. Letitia's hands found the back of Tiffany's dress, and began to fiddle with the clasps keeping it in place, until she had loosened the dress enough to begin to slide it over Tiffany's shoulders. Tiffany didn't move away, but allowed Letitia to work. Letitia continued kissing her, as her hands shucked the dress over Tiffany's hips, until she was wearing only an undershirt and petticoat.

Tiffany felt her face turning red, as Letitia gazed in her eyes, and began to undress as well. Not that she minded seeing nudity, exactly. She'd grown up on a farm, running around naked in the grass with the other children. She used to bathe in a tin washtub in the kitchen, along with her other brothers and sisters. She'd attended births, (both human and animal). She'd seen all the parts, up close and personal, but it was usually in some barn, covered in muck and blood, with sleet or rain pouring down outside, and a farmer rambling on about shearing, or an auntie nearby telling the mother to "push, push!". There was no romance, no mystery involved.

And while Tiff was curious about love, there were only so many babies you could watch emerge from a woman's passionate parts, before the whole idea of marriage made one feel a bit seasick. Now that she thought about it, maybe there was a reason that her first (and only) kiss was with an ice man impersonating a human. It had been lovely and romantic, but... it had never been real. He wasn't the type of creature you settled down and built a life with, was he?

And maybe there was a reason she had pretended to fancy Roland. It's true they had been friends for a while, since they were both outsiders among the children of the Chalk, but there was no chance that he would actually marry the daughter of one of his tenant farmers, witch or no. It just wasn't done. Everyone around her had teased her about the romance between them, but had she really believed it? Had they? Or was Roland a convenient cover to explain her lack of a real beau?

Tiffany wasn't sure that she had ever wanted Roland for himself. He was fine for sending her letters on violet-scented stationary. He would do in a pinch if a Hero was necessary--provided the only requirement for heroics was to show up, not to have a working knowledge of swordsmanship. But. Roland had been more of a pen-pal than a suitor, really. Had she ever wanted to see Roland naked--his wobbly bits on full display? She grimaced.

Letitia rolled over and laid her head in Tiffany's lap, her silky blonde hair spilling over Tiffany's knees, and her cheek against Tiffany's thigh. She took one of Tiffany's hands and caressed it in her own.

Then, Letitia surprised Tiffany by putting her hand up Tiffany's skirts, and down her drawers. The sensation was unlike anything Tiffany had felt before. Both her First and Second Thoughts seemed to go silent, and she found herself instead concentrating on the feeling of Letitia's mouth whispering kisses over her thighs, her fingers exploring Tiffany in places she'd never been touched before. Places she'd barely given a thought to, except when she was washing up. But now, these part of Tiffany seemed very alive, desperate to be touched, eager for contact, while her brain--usually the most active part of her--seemed to have gone sluggish.

Letitia gripped Tiffany's thigh, and Tiffany began breathing hard as the fingers of Letitia's other hand continued to caress and tease her. They dipped inside Tiffany, and there was that wetness again. Tiffany found herself moving against Letitia's hand, until it made contact with her most sensitive part, and then a burst of feeling shot through Tiffany from her lips to her toes. "Oh!" she gasped, and she felt her muscles letting go. Letitia's hand stayed in that spot, moving back and forth in slow circles, as Tiffany gave small moans and whimpers. Letitia worked against her gently and rhythmically, opening her up, moving in small round circles, or dipping back inside her. Letitia's lips moved across Tiffany's thigh. Tiffany took Letitia's breast in her hand once again, the softness filling her palm, the nipple hand against the tips of her fingers, as she gently rolled it back and forth, enjoying the gasps that Letitia now made.

They continued to move against each other, until Tiffany fell back with a gasp and a shudder. Letitia finished touching herself, then crawled up to lie beside Tiffany on the bed.

Tiffany leaned her head into Letitia's hair, then onto her shoulder, and let her forehead rest against the crook of Letitia's neck, still soft, but now slightly sweaty, and smelling so nice. So warm, so reassuring. Tiffany hadn't rested her head against anyone's shoulder since she was very small. It felt good. She felt something in her let go and unwind. Something that felt so small, almost forgotten, like a lamb's bleat, or a child's tears. That tiny, distant piece of Tiffany felt safe in Letitia's arms.

Letitia took Tiffany's hand again. She seemed fond of hand-holding, but Tiffany found that she didn't mind at all.

Letitia stroked Tiffany's hair. Her hand that had been inside Tiffany now smelled of honey and clover. "Nanny Ogg told me something about witches and cackling," Letitia hummed in Tiffany's ear. "I don't know what that is, but it sounds unpleasant." Letitia shuddered. " 'Witches aren't meant to be alone,' she said--the same thing you told me the other night."

"You're not alone," said Tiffany. "You'll be marrying Roland tomorrow. You'll live with him, and I expect you'll have plenty of company. You won't have to worry about cackling."

"I think she meant you, Tiff. It's not good for you to be alone."

Tiffany sat up on an elbow. "I'm always alone, Letitia. I'm the witch of the Chalk. This is my steading--there's no one but me. And I could ask for help, but then the rest of them would know I'm not good enough. They won't say it to my face, but you know they'll be exchanging words behind my back. That's what witches do--they gossip. Like it or not, if there's anything that needs doing here, it falls on my shoulders."

"That's not true. You're not alone--there's me. I've been alone for so long, and now I don't have to be, and neither do you...Tiffany, why are you crying? Don't cry!"

Letitia put Tiffany's head back down on her shoulder, and rocked her a bit, crooning like a mother trying to comfort a small child, talking until her words replaced the fears in the child's head.

"There there, Tiff. We'll have plenty of good times together, you'll see. You know what we should do? We should visit the city to see the zoological gardens. I hear they have a magnificent herd of unicorns. And afterward, if we stay for a show, we can summon a coach to take us home. Of course, we'll have to bring along our own pumpkin, to be on the safe side. You never know whether one can be found in the city. Mice, on the other hand, should be in abundance."

Tiffany looked at her, astonished. "Does that really work for you?"

"Of course! I mean, I have to sacrifice a shoe. But it's worth it for a night of fun. And if I manage to misplace the shoe in a good location, I can usually retrieve it without too much trouble. The trick is to hide it behind an urn, or in some shrubbery--somewhere no one will notice. Otherwise it gets pinched by street urchins and the like. But if a shoe or two goes missing, I hope they end up on the feet of a child that needs them. In fact, sometimes I bring along extra shoes to leave behind, in hopes they find the right pair of feet."

Tiffany barely knew what to answer to this. On the one hand, she couldn't imagine owning more than one pair of footwear at a time--her own boots should take a solid decade to wear through, even wit the amount of tromping she did in them--and on the other hand, she also sincerely wished that Letitia's abandoned shoes found the right feet. She had a vision in her mind of the orphans and street children of the city walking around in Letitia's fancy dress shoes.

"You leave them--high-heeled slippers?" She giggled.

"Goodness, no!" laughed Letitia. "I have sensible shoes made for them. There's more than one old shoemaker spending his retirement at Keepsake Manor. They like to keep busy somehow, so I supply them with leather and thread. It keeps them happy. And if I didn't bring all those shoes to the City, I'd have to find a place to store them all, and that would be a hardship. It's better to come up with a show to see or a parade to attend every other month or so. Keeps the hallways much clearer."

"That sounds exceedingly practical."

Tiffany supposed that fairy-tale princessing could be its own kind of Boffo. It kept people, for instance, from noticing or feeling offended at the redistribution of goods from the Manor back to the streets. No one accused absent minded shoe-losing princesses, or fairy godmothers of condescending charity. That's just what princesses did. You couldn't argue with the stories.

The castle was truly quiet now, and the stillness of the night lay thick around them, and seemed to fold them into the bed with a gentle caress, like a mother folds a sleeping child into a blanket. A single candle lit the room from the bed stand, and through the window, Tiffany could see the constellation of the Hunter rising in the sky over the castle grounds. over the rolling meadows, the turf, the stubble of the wheat fields, the hills of the Chalk. Her country. She felt it in her bones.

And this girl beside her--beneath her, below her--would be her land's Baroness. The two of them had duties on the Chalk. Duties that only they could fulfill. And wouldn't it be nice if Field and Manor meet? If cottage and castle, pointy hat and frilly dress, were in accord? Brown hair and blonde, brown eye and blue. Lace and simple homespun. The one born to a shepherding family as old as the waves that had once covered these hills, and the other a stranger, new to these parts, but with an open heart, and a willingness to learn, wishing to be the best she could be. Wouldn't it be nice to have---a friend?

"Letitia," said Tiffany seriously. "I would jump through a fire with you."

'What is the sound that love makes?' Tiffany asked herself, vaguely, as sleep overcame her. And the answer seemed to come from her Third Thoughts: "Letitia."