“They set fire to it. Only it’s not that easy to burn my house,” Arina replied, straightening her dress. “This is my land. The village I come from used to stand here. I was born here and apparently I’ll die here. Burn the house, do whatever you like to it—it will just spring back up out of the ground.”

I believed her.

The house had a well-lived-in feel to it. Apparently Arina must have made her base here, wisely deciding that no one would bother to check the site of her burnt-out home. There was an open packet of cheap sweets on the table, and in the sideboard a carton of milk and half a loaf of white bread, carefully wrapped in a clean rag.

“But they carried off all the books,” Arina sighed. “I’ve begun restoring my library little by little, but I don’t know myself what for. After all, I won’t have time to finish the job.”

I stepped towards the bookshelves and touched the spine of one of the books.

Aliada Ansata.

The Witch’s Herbal.

None of the others had anything to do with magic. Ten volumes of Pushkin, including two or three volumes printed in his lifetime. The fourth volume of Harry Potter, a collection of Ralph Stout’s detective stories, and a little volume of Bunin’s verse, Leaf Fall—also an old pre-Revolutionary edition. Apparently witches sometimes simply wanted something to read.

“I’m sorry, Arina,” I said sincerely. “For your house—and for you.”

“No need to feel sorry for me,” she replied calmly. “My day is done. Either the Tiger will polish me off or old age will get me, as soon as the magic dries up. It’s easier for you Magicians. You’ll just start to age like everyone else. You’re still young.”

“Arina, I don’t want to destroy the Twilight,” I said.

The witch said nothing for a moment. Then she asked: “Why not?”

“For numerous reasons. In short, I don’t believe that the Twilight works evil . . . or only evil,” I corrected myself.

“Did the Tiger seem benign to you?” Arina asked me.

“None of us are benign when someone’s trying to destroy us.”