Part 10 (2/2)
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 G.o.ds 'n' angels and such like, what'd you do then?”
”He could have as many G.o.ds 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, brus.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s 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?.
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