He crumpled around Teatime's suddenly out-thrust fist. And then, just like the others had done, he faded.
"Rather a charitable act there, I feel," Teatime said as the man vanished. "But it is nearly Hogswatch, after all."
Death, pillow slipping gently under his red robe, stood in the middle of the nursery carpet...
It was an old one. Things ended up in the nursery when they had seen a complete tour of duty in the rest of the house. Long ago, someone had made it by carefully knotting long bits of brightly colored rag into a sacking base, giving it the look of a deflated Rastafarian hedgehog. Things lived among the rags. There were old rusks, bits of toy, buckets of dust. It had seen life. It may even have evolved some.
Now the occasional lump of grubby melting snow dropped onto it.
Susan was crimson with anger.
"I mean, why?" she demanded, walking around the figure. "This is Hogswatch! It's supposed to be jolly, with mistletoe and holly, and-and other things ending in olly! It's a time when people want to feel good about things and eat until they explode! It's a time when they want to see all their relatives-"
She stopped that sentence.
"I mean it's a time when humans are really human," she said. "And they don't want a...a skeleton at the feast! Especially one, I might add, who's wearing a false beard and has got a damn cushion shoved up his robe! I mean, why?"
Death looked nervous.
ALBERT SAID IT WOULD HELP ME GET INTO THE SPIRIT OF THE THING. ER...IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN- There was a small squelchy noise.
Susan spun around, grateful right now for any distraction.
"Don't think I can't hear you! They're grapes, understand? And the other things are satsumas! Get out of the fruit bowl!"
"Can't blame a bird for trying," said the raven sulkily, from the table.
"And you, you leave those nuts alone! They're for tomorrow!"
SKQUEAF, said the Death of Rats, swallowing hurriedly.
Susan turned back to Death. The Hogfather's artificial stomach was now at groin level.
"This is a nice house," she said. "And this is a good job. And it's real, with normal people. And I was looking forward to a real life, where normal things happen! And suddenly the old circus comes to town. Look at yourselves. Three Stooges, No Waiting! Well, I don't know what's going on, but you can all leave again, right? This is my life. It doesn't belong to any of you. It's not going to-"
There was a muffled curse, a rush of soot, and a skinny old man landed in the grate.
"Bum!" he said.
"Good grief!" raged Susan. "And here is Pixie Albert! Well, well, well! Come along in, do! If the real Hogfather doesn't come soon there's not going to be room."
HE WON'T BE JOINING US, said Death. The pillow slid softly onto the rug.
"Oh, and why not? Both of the children did letters to him," said Susan. "There're rules, you know."
YES. THERE ARE RULES. AND THEY'RE ON THE LIST. I CHECKED IT.
Albert pulled the pointy hat off his head and spat out some soot.
"Right. He did. Twice," he said. "Anything to drink around here?"
"So what have you turned up for?" Susan demanded. "And if it's for business reasons, I will add, then that outfit is in extremely poor taste-"
THE HOGFATHER IS...UNAVAILABLE.
"Unavailable? At Hogswatch?"
YES.
"Why?"
HE IS...LET ME SEE...THERE ISN'T AN ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE HUMAN WORD, SO...LET'S SETTLE FOR...DEAD. YES. HE IS DEAD.
Susan had never hung up a stocking. She'd never looked for eggs laid by the Soul Cake Duck. She'd never put a tooth under her pillow in the serious expectation that a dentally inclined fairy would turn up.
It wasn't that her parents didn't believe in such things. They didn't need to believe in them. They knew they existed. They just wished they didn't.
Oh, there had been presents, at the right time, with a careful label saying who they were from. And a superb egg on Soul Cake Morning, filled with sweets. Juvenile teeth earned no less than a dollar each from her father, without argument.* But it was all straightforward. But it was all straightforward.
She knew now that they'd been trying to protect her. She hadn't known then that her father had been Death's apprentice for a while, and that her mother was Death's adopted daughter. She'd had very dim recollections of being taken a few times to see someone who'd been quite, well, jolly, in a strange, thin way. And the visits had suddenly stopped. And she'd met him later and, yes, he had his good side, and for a while she'd wondered why her parents had been so unfeeling and- She knew now why they'd tried to keep her away. There was far more to genetics than little squirmy spirals.
She could walk through walls when she really had to. She could use a tone of voice that was more like actions than words, that somehow reached inside people and operated all the right switches. And her hair...
That had only happened recently, though. It used to be unmanageable, but at around the age of seventeen she had found it more or less managed itself.
That had lost her several young men. Someone's hair rearranging itself into a new style, the tresses curling around themselves like a nest of kittens, could definitely put the crimp on any relationship.
She'd been making good progress, though. She could go for days now without feeling anything other than entirely human.
But it was always the case, wasn't it? You could go out into the world, succeed on your own terms, and sooner or later some embarrassing old relative was bound to turn up.
Grunting and swearing, the gnome clambered out of another drain pipe, jammed its hat firmly on its head, threw its sack onto a snowdrift and jumped down after it.
"'s a good one," he said. "Ha, take 'im weeks to get rid of that one!"
He took a crumpled piece of paper out of a pocket and examined it closely. Then he looked at an elderly figure working away quietly at the next house.
It was standing by a window, drawing with great concentration on the glass.
The gnome wandered up, interested, and watched critically.
"Why just fern patterns?" he said, after a while. "Pretty, yeah, but you wouldn't catch me puttin' a penny in your hat for fern patterns."
The figure turned, brush in hand.
"I happen to like fern patterns," said Jack Frost coldly.
"It's just that people expect, you know, sad big-eyed kids, kittens lookin' out of boots, little doggies, that sort of thing."
"I do ferns."
"Or big pots of sunflowers, happy seaside scenes..."
"And ferns."
"I mean, s'posing some big high priest wanted you to paint the temple ceiling with gods 'n' angels and such like, what'd you do then?"
"He could have as many gods and angels as he liked, provided they-"
"-looked like ferns?"
"I resent the implication that I am solely fern fixated," said Jack Frost. "I can also do a very nice paisley pattern."
"What's that look like, then?"
"Well...it does, admittedly, have a certain ferny quality to the uninitiated eye." Frost leaned forward. "Who're you?"
The gnome took a step backward.
"You're not a tooth fairy, are you? I see more and more of them about these days. Nice girls."
"Nah. Nah. Not teeth," said the gnome, clutching his sack.
"What, then?"
The gnome told him.
"Really?" said Jack Frost. "I thought they just turned up."
"Well, come to that, I thought frost on the windows just happened all by itself," said the gnome. "'ere, you don't half look spiky. I bet you go through a lot of bed sheets."
"I don't sleep," said Frost icily, turning away. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a large number of windows to do. Ferns aren't easy. You need a steady hand."
"What do you mean dead?" Susan demanded.
"How can the Hogfather be dead? He's...isn't he what you are? An-"
ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION. YES. HE HAS BECOME SO. THE SPIRIT OF HOGSWATCH.
"But...how? How can anyone kill the Hogfather? Poisoned sherry? Spikes in the chimney?"
THERE ARE...MORE SUBTLE WAYS.
"Coff. Coff. Coff. Oh dear, this soot," said Albert loudly. "Chokes me up something cruel."
"And you've taken over?" said Susan, ignoring him. "That's sick!"
Death contrived to look hurt.
"I'll just go and have a look somewhere," said Albert, brushing past her and opening the door.
She pushed it shut quickly.
"And what are you doing here, Albert?" she said, clutching at the straw. "I thought you'd die if you ever came back to the world!"
AH, BUT WE ARE NOT IN THE WORLD, said Death. WE ARE IN THE SPECIAL CONGRUENT REALITY CREATED FOR THE HOGFATHER. NORMAL RULES HAVE TO BE SUSPENDED. HOW ELSE COULD ANYONE GET AROUND THE ENTIRE WORLD IN ONE NIGHT?
"'s right," said Albert, leering. "One of the Hogfather's Little Helpers, me. Official. Got the pointy green hat and everything." He spotted the glass of sherry and couple of turnips that the children had left on the table, and bore down on them.
Susan looked shocked. A couple of days earlier she'd taken the children to the Hogfather's Grotto in one of the big shops in The Maul. Of course, it wasn't the real one, but it had turned out to be a fairly good actor in a red suit. There had been people dressed up as pixies, and a picket outside the shop by the Campaign for Equal Heights.*
None of the pixies had looked anything like Albert. If they had, people would have only gone into the Grotto armed.
"Been good, 'ave yer?" said Albert, and spat into the fireplace.
Susan stared at him.
Death leaned down. She stared up into the blue glow of his eyes.
YOU ARE KEEPING WELL? he said.
"Yes."
SELF-RELIANT? MAKING YOUR OWN WAY IN THE WORLD?.
"Yes!"
GOOD. WELL, COME, ALBERT. WE WILL LOAD THE STOCKINGS AND GET ON WITH THINGS.
A couple of letters appeared in Death's hand.
SOMEONE CHRISTENED THE CHILD TWYLA?.