Wintersmith by Terry Pratchett Page A

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 Itold 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 bigwee 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,