The smith was still staring gloomily at the rain when she came back down the stairs and clapped a warty hand on his shoulder.

He looked up at her.

“What shall I do, Granny?” he said, unable to keep the pleading out of his voice.

“What have you done with the wizard?”

“I put him out in the fuel store. Was that right?”

“It’ll do for now,” she said briskly. “And now you must burn the staff.”

They both turned to stare at the heavy staff, which the smith had propped in the forge’s darkest corner. It almost appeared to be looking back at them.

“But it’s magical,” he whispered.

“Well?”

“Will it burn?”

“Never knew wood that didn’t.”

“It doesn’t seem right!”

Granny Weatherwax swung shut the big doors and turned to him angrily.

“Now you listen to me, Gordo Smith!” she said. “Female wizards aren’t right either! It’s the wrong kind of magic for women, is wizard magic, it’s all books and stars and jommetry. She’d never grasp it. Whoever heard of a female wizard?”

“There’s witches,” said the smith uncertainly. “And enchantresses too, I’ve heard.”

“Witches is a different thing altogether,” snapped Granny Weatherwax. “It’s magic out of the ground, not out of the sky, and men never could get the hang of it. As for enchantresses,” she added. “They’re no better than they should be. You take it from me, just burn the staff, bury the body and don’t let on it ever happened.”

Smith nodded reluctantly, crossed over to the forge, and pumped the bellows until the sparks flew. He went back for the staff.

It wouldn’t move.

“It won’t move!”

Sweat stood out of his brow as he tugged at the wood. It remained unco-operatively immobile.