I Shall Wear Midnight by Terry Pratchett Page B

past.’
    ‘Nevertheless, I must insist that you take it,’ said the Baron, ‘if not for your sake, then for mine. It will take a burden off my soul and, believe me, it could do with a bit of shining up at this time, don’t you agree? I am going to die soon, am I not?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Very soon, I think, sir.’
    Tiffany was beginning to understand something about the Baron by now, and she wasn’t surprised when he laughed.
    ‘You know,’ he said, ‘most people would have said, “Oh, no, old chap, you’ve got ages yet, you will be up and out of here in no time, lots of life left in you!”’
    ‘Yes, sir. I’m a witch, sir.’
    ‘And in this context that means …?’
    ‘I try very hard not to have to tell lies, sir.’
    The old man shifted in his chair, and was suddenly solemn. ‘When the time comes …’ he began, and hesitated.
    ‘I will keep you company, sir, if you wish,’ said Tiffany.
    The Baron looked relieved. ‘Have you ever seen Death?’
    She had been expecting this and was ready. ‘Usually you just feel him passing, sir, but I have seen him twice, in what would have been the flesh, if he had any. He’s a skeleton with a scythe, just like in the books – in fact, I think it’s because that’s what he looks like in the books. He was polite but firm, sir.’
    ‘I’ll bet he is!’ The old man was silent for a little while and then went on. ‘Did he … drop any hints about the afterlife?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Apparently it contains no mustard, and I got the impression that it contains no pickles either.’
    ‘Really? Bit of a blow, that. I suppose that chutney is out of the question?’
    ‘I did not go into the subject of pickled condiments in any depth, sir. He had a big scythe.’
    There was a loud knocking at the door, and Miss Spruce called loudly, ‘Are you all right, sir?’
    ‘In tip-top condition, dear Miss Spruce,’ said the Baron loudly, then lowered his voice to say conspiratorially, ‘I believe our Miss Spruce does not like you very much, my dear.’
    ‘She thinks I’m unhygienic,’ said Tiffany.
    ‘Never really understood about all that nonsense,’ said the Baron.
    ‘It’s quite easy,’ said Tiffany. ‘I have to stick my hands in the fire at every opportunity.’
    ‘What? You put your hands in the fire ?’
    Now she was sorry she had mentioned it, but she knew the old man would not now be satisfied until she had shown him. She sighed and crossed over to the fireplace, pulling a large iron poker out of its stand. She admitted to herself that she liked showing off this trick occasionally, and the Baron would be an appreciative audience. But should she do it? Well, the fire trick was not that complicated and the balance of the pain was fine, and it wasn’t as if the Baron had much time left.
    She drew a bucket of water from the little well at the far end of the room. The well had frogs in it, and therefore so did the bucket, but she was kind and dropped them back into their well. No one likes boiling a frog. The bucket of water was not strictly necessary, but it did have a part to play. Tiffany coughed theatrically. ‘Do you see, sir? I have one poker and one bucket of cold water. Cold metal poker, cold bucket of water. And now … I hold in my left hand the poker, and I stick my right hand into the hottest part of the fire, like this .’
    The Baron gasped as flames burst around her hand and the tip of the poker in her other hand suddenly glowed red hot.
    With the Baron suitably impressed, Tiffany dowsed the poker in the bucket of water, from which erupted a cloud of steam. Then she stood in front of the Baron, holding up both hands, quite unscathed.
    ‘But I saw flames come up!’ said the Baron, his eyes wide. ‘Well done! Very well done! Some sort of trick, yes?’
    ‘More of a skill, sir. I put my hand in the fire and sent the heat into the poker. I just moved the heat around. The flame you saw was caused by the burning of bits of dead skin, dirt, and all