AT LAST, MISS EUMENIDES TREASON, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER. Death took her gently by the arm. “Hey, wait a minute!” said Tiffany. “Miss Treason is one hundred and thirteen!” “Er… I adjusted it slightly for professional reasons,” said Miss Treason. “One hundred and eleven sounds so… adolescent.” As if to hide her ghostly embarrassment, she plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out the spirit of the ham sandwich. “Ah, it worked,” she said. “I know I– where has the mustard gone?” MUSTARD IS ALWAYS TRICKY, said Death as they began to fade. “No mustard? What about pickled onions?” PICKLES OF ALL SORTS DON’T SEEM TO MAKE IT. I’M SORRY. Behind them, the outline of a door appeared. “No relishes in the next world? That’s dreadful! What about chutneys?” said the vanishing Miss Treason. THERE’S JAM. JAM WORKS.
– Miss Treason moves on |
Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith
MISS EUMENIDES TREASON, AGED ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN? Tiffany heard the voice inside her head. It didn’t seem to have come through her ears. And she’d heard it before, making her quite unusual. Most people hear the voice of Death only once. Miss Treason stood up, without the creak of even one bone. And she looked just like Miss Treason, solid and smiling. What now lay on the dead leaves was, in this strange light, just a shadow. But a very tall dark figure was standing beside her. It was Death himself. Tiffany had seen him before, in his own land beyond the Dark Door, but you didn’t need to have met him before to know who he was. The scythe, the long hooded robe, and of course the bundle of hourglasses were all clues.
“Witches know that people die; and if they manages to die after a long time, leavin’ the world better than they went an’ found it, well then, that’s surely a reason to be happy. All the rest of it is just tidyin’ up.”
“Tiffany thought of the little spot in the woods where Granny Weatherwax lay. Remembered. And knew that You had been right. Granny Weatherwax was indeed here. And there. She was, in fact, and always would be, everywhere.