‘Go to sleep,’ he yawned, so that his jaw creaked. ‘Go to sleep, Ciri.’

‘Tell me a story.’

‘What?’

‘Tell me a story,’ she snorted. ‘How am I supposed to sleep without a story? I mean, really!’

‘I don’t know any damned stories. Go to sleep.’

‘You’re lying. You do. What, no one told you stories when you were little? What are you laughing about?’

‘Nothing. I just recalled something.’

‘Aha! You see. Go on.’

‘What?’

‘Tell me a story.’

He laughed again, put his hands under his head and looked up at the stars twinkling beyond the branches above their heads.

‘There was once… a cat,’ he began. ‘An ordinary, tabby mouser. And one day that cat went off, all by itself, on a long journey to a terrible, dark forest. He walked… And he walked… And he walked…’

‘Don’t think,’ Ciri mumbled, cuddling up to him, ‘that I’ll fall asleep before he gets there.’

‘Keep quiet, rascal. So… he walked and he walked until he came across a fox. A red fox.’

Braenn sighed and lay down beside the Witcher, on the other side, and also snuggled up a little.

‘Very well,’ Ciri sniffed. ‘Say what happened next.’

‘The fox looked at the cat. “Who are you?” he asked. “I’m a cat,” said the cat. “Ha,” said the fox. “But aren’t you afraid, cat, to be roaming the forest alone? What will you do if the king comes a-hunting? With hounds and mounted hunters and beaters? I tell you, cat,” said the fox, “the chase is a dreadful hardship to creatures like you and I. You have a pelt, I have a pelt, and hunters never spare creatures like us, because hunters have sweethearts and lovers, and their little hands and necks get cold, so they make muffs and collars for those strumpets to wear”.’

‘What are muffs?’ Ciri asked.

‘Don’t interrupt. And the fox went on. “I, cat, know how to outwit them; I have one thousand, two hundred and eighty-six ways to outfox those hunters, so cunning am I. And you, cat, how many ways do you have?” ’

‘Oh, what a fine tale,’ Ciri said, cuddling more tightly to the Witcher. ‘What did the cat say?’

‘Aye,’ whispered Braenn from the other side. ‘What did the cat say?’

The Witcher turned his head. The dryad’s eyes were sparkling, her mouth was half-open and she was running her tongue over her lips. He could understand. Little dryads were hungry for tales. Just like little witchers. Because both of them were seldom told bedtime stories. Little dryads fell asleep listening raptly to the wind blowing in the trees. Little witchers fell asleep listening raptly to their aching arms and legs. Our eyes also shone like Braenn’s when we listened to the tales of Vesemir in Kaer Morhen. But that was long ago… So long ago…

‘Well,’ Ciri said impatiently. ‘What then?’

‘The cat said: “I, fox, don’t have any ways. I only know one thing; up a tree as quick as can be. That ought to be enough, oughtn’t it?” The fox burst out laughing. “Hah,” he said. “What a goose you are! Flourish your stripy tail and flee, for you’ll perish if the hunters trap you.” And suddenly, from nowhere, the horns began to sound! And the hunters leaped out from the bushes. And they saw the cat and the fox. And they were upon them!’