‘Here it is,’ he finally pointed. ‘This is our Jealousy boneyard, here in this grove. And the ones you was asking about, Miss Falka, they lie over there.’

The girl gasped audibly. Peg Leg glanced furtively, and saw her face changing. The white-haired man and the black-haired woman were silent and their faces inscrutable.

The girl looked long at the small barrow. It was orderly, level, tidy, edged by blocks of sandstone and slabs of spar and slate. The fir branches that the burial mound had been decorated with had turned brown. The flowers that had once been laid there were dry and yellowed.

The girl dismounted.

‘Who?’ she asked dully, still looking, not turning her head away.

‘Well, many Jealousy people helped.’ Peg Leg cleared his throat. ‘But chiefly the widow Goulue. And young Nycklar. The widow was always a good and sincere dame… And Nycklar… His dreams tormented him terribly. They wouldn’t give him rest. Until ‘e’d given the murdered ones a decent burial—’

‘Where shall I find them? The widow and Nycklar?’

Peg Leg said nothing for a long time.

‘The widow is buried there, beyond that crooked little birch,’ he said at last, looking without fear into the girl’s green eyes. ‘She died of pneumonia in the winter of the year. And Nycklar joined the army somewhere in foreign parts… Folks say he fell in the war.’

‘I forgot,’ she whispered. ‘I forgot that destiny tied both of them to me.’

She approached the small burial mound and knelt down, or rather fell onto one knee. She bent over low, very low, her forehead almost touching the stones around the base. Peg Leg saw the white-haired man make a movement, as though meaning to dismount, but the black-haired woman caught him by the arm, stopping him with a gesture and a look.

The horses snorted, shook their heads, the rings of their bits jingling.

The girl knelt for a long, long time at the foot of the burial mound, bent over, and her mouth moved in some silent litany.

She staggered as she stood up. Peg Leg held her up instinctively. She flinched hard, jerked her elbow away, and looked at him malevolently through her tears. But she didn’t say a word. She even thanked him with a nod when he held her stirrup for her.

‘Yes, noble Miss Falka,’ he dared to say. ‘Fate ran a strange course. You were in grievous strife then, in bitter times… Few of us here in Jealousy thought you’d get out of it alive… And finally you’re healthy today, my lady, and Goulue and Nycklar are in the beyond. There’s not even anyone to thank, eh? To repay for the burial mound—’

‘My name’s not Falka,’ she said harshly. ‘My name’s Ciri. And as far as thanks are concerned—’

‘Feel honoured by her,’ the black-haired woman interjected coldly, and there was something in her voice that made Peg Leg tremble.