“You know who I am,” he cut her off. “And the sword stays where it is. To act as a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That hasty actions have perilous consequences.”

“There’s no weapons here, so—”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted bluntly. “Let’s not kid ourselves, missus. A peasant’s cottage and farmyard is an arsenal; many have died from hoes, not to mention flails and pitchforks. I heard that someone was killed with the plunger from a butter churn. You can do harm with anything if you want to. Or have to. And while we’re on the subject, leave that pot of boiling water alone. And move away from the stove.”

“I meant nothing,” the woman said quickly, evidently lying. “And it’s not boiling water, it’s borscht. I meant to offer you some—”

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry. So don’t touch the pot and move away from the stove. Sit down by the children. And we’ll wait nicely for the man of the house.”

They sat in a silence broken only by the buzzing of flies. The medallion twitched.

“A pan of cabbage in the oven is almost ready,” said the woman, interrupting the awkward silence. “I must take it out and stir it, or it’ll burn.”

“Her.” Geralt pointed to the smallest of the girls. “She can do it.”

The girl stood up slowly, glaring at him from under a flaxen fringe. She took hold of a long-handled fork and bent over towards the stove door. And suddenly launched herself at Geralt like a she-cat. She aimed to pin him by his neck to the wall with the fork, but he dodged, jerked the fork handle, and knocked her over. She began to metamorphosise before even hitting the floor.

The woman and the other two girls had already managed to transform. Three wolves—a grey she-wolf and two cubs—bounded towards the Witcher, with bloodshot eyes and bared fangs. They bounded apart, quite like wolves, attacking from all sides. He dodged, shoved the bench at the she-wolf, fending the cubs away with blows of his fists in his silver-studded gloves. They howled and flattened themselves against the floor, baring their fangs. The she-wolf howled savagely and leaped again.

“No! Edwina! No!”

She fell on him, pressing him to the wall. But now in human form. The wolf-girls immediately fled and hunkered down by the stove. The woman remained, crouching before him, staring with embarrassed eyes. He didn’t know if she was ashamed because of attacking him, or because the attack had failed.

“Edwina! What is the meaning of this?” bellowed a bearded man of impressive height, arms akimbo. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a witcher!” the woman snorted, still on her knees. “A brigand with a sword! He came for you! The murderer! He reeks of blood!”