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.

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.

Do you want to be turned into a frog?”
“Well, now, let me see . . .” said the toad sarcastically. “Better skin, better legs, likelihood of being kissed by a princess one hundred percent improved . . . why, yes. Whenever you’re ready, madam.”

She used words as if they cost money

It was very unusual for Granny Aching to say more than a sentence. She used words as if they cost money.

Granny’s silence was warm, and brought you inside. Granny Aching might sometimes have had trouble remembering the difference between children and lambs, but in her silence you were welcome and belonged. All you had to bring was a silence of your own.

The terror took her. But because she was Tiffany, she ran toward it, raising the pan.

Big women were valued on the Chalk. Farmers liked big wives. Farmwork was hard, and there was no call for a wife who couldn’t carry a couple of piglets or a bale of hay

this where I learn about the witches’ school?” said Tiffany.
There was a moment of silence.
“Witches’ school?” said Mistress Weatherwax.
“Um,” said Miss Tick.
“You were being metapahorrical, weren’t you?” said Tiffany.
“Metapahorrical?” said Mrs. Ogg, wrinkling her forehead.
“She means metaphorical,” mumbled Miss Tick.
“It’s like stories,” said Tiffany. “It’s all right. I worked it out. This is the school, isn’t it? The magic place? The world. Here. And you don’t realize it until you look. Do you know the pictsies think this world is heaven? We just don’t look. You can’t give lessons on witchcraft. Not properly. It’s all about how you are . . . you, I suppose.”