Terry David John Pratchett

There was the faintest of pure sounds, high and sharp, like the breaking of a mouse’s heart.

‘What was that?’ he said.

Trymon cocked his head.

‘C sharp, I think,’ he said.

In a distant forest a wolf howled, felt embarrassed when no-one joined in, and stopped.

Miss Tick did not look like a witch. Most witches don’t, at least the ones who wander from place to place. Looking like a witch can be dangerous when you walk among the uneducated.

And for that reason she didn’t wear any occult jewelry, or have a glowing magical knife or a silver goblet with a pattern of skulls all around it, or carry a broomstick with sparks coming out of it, all of which are tiny hints that there may be a witch around. Her pockets never carried anything more magical than a few twigs, maybe a piece of string, a coin or two, and, of course, a lucky charm.

Miss Tick was running up the dusty road. Witches don’t like to be seen running. It looks unprofessional

“I can see we’re going to get along like a house on fire,” said Miss Tick. “There may be no survivors.”

Witches don’t use magic unless they really have to. It’s hard work and difficult to control. We do other things. A witch pays attention to everything that’s going on. A witch uses her head. A witch is sure of herself.

And some girl who can’t tell the difference between a wolf and her grandmother must either have been as dense as teak or come from an extremely ugly family. The stories weren’t real. But Mrs. Snapperly had died because of stories.

“There’s a headless horseman after me!” she shouted.
“He’ll no’ make it, hinny. Stand ye still! Look him in the eye!”
“He hasn’t got any eyes!”
“Crivens! Are ye a hag or no’? Look him in the eyes he hasna got!”

She kept a diary in the dairy. Cheese needed to be kept track of, and she always wrote down details of the amount of butter she’d made and how much milk she’d been using.