“Careful, Geralt,” chuckled Dandilion. “You’re starting to fall into their jargon. It’s an infectious mannerism.”

The woman, controlling her shaking hands with difficulty, turned several pages. The witcher and the poet leaned over the table. The etching did, in effect, show the ball-thrower: horned, hairy, tailed and smiling maliciously.

“The deovel,” recited the woman. “Also called ‘willower’ or ‘sylvan.’ For livestock and domestic fowl, a tiresome and great pest is he. Be it your will to chase him from your hamlet, takest thou—”

“Well, well,” murmured Dandilion.

“—takest thou of nuts, one fistful,” continued the woman, running her finger along the parchment. “Next, takest thou of iron balls a second fistful. Of honey an utricle, of birch tar a second. Of gray soap a firkin; of soft cheese another. There where the deovel dwelleth, goest thou when ‘tis night. Commenceth then to eat the nuts. Anon, the deovel who hath great greed, will hasten and ask if they are tasty indeed. Givest to him then the balls of iron—”

“Damn you,” murmured Dandilion. “Pox take—”

“Quiet,” said Geralt. “Well, Grandma. Go on.”

“…having broken his teeth he will be attentive as thou eatest the honey. Of said honey will he himself desire. Givest him of birch tar, then yourself eateth soft cheese. Soon, hearest thou, will the deovel grumbleth and tumbleth, but makest of it as naught. Yet if the deovel desireth soft cheese, givest him soap. For soap the deovel withstandeth not—”

“You got to the soap?” interrupted Geralt with a stony expression, turning toward Dhun and Nettly.

“In no way,” groaned Nettly. “If only we had got to the balls. But he gave us what for when he bit a ball—”

“And who told you to give him so many?” Dandilion was enraged. “It stands written in the book, one fistful to take. Yet ye gaveth of balls a sackful! Ye furnished him with ammunition for two years, the fools ye be!”

“Careful.” The witcher smiled. “You’re starting to fall into their jargon. It’s infectious.”

“Thank you.”

Geralt suddenly raised his head and looked into the eyes of the girl standing by the woman. Lille didn’t lower her eyes. They were pale and wildly blue. “Why are you bringing the devil offerings in the form of grain?” he asked sharply. “After all, it’s obvious that he’s a typical herbivore.”

Lille didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question, girl. Don’t be frightened, you won’t get the mange by talking to me.”

“Don’t ask her anything, sir,” said Nettly, with obvious unease in his voice. “Lille… She… She be strange. She won’t answer you; don’t force her.”

Geralt kept looking into Lille’s eyes, and Lille still met his gaze. He felt a shiver run down his back and creep along his shoulders.

“Why didn’t you attack the devil with stancheons and pitchforks.” He raised his voice. “Why didn’t you set a trap for him? If you’d wanted to, his goat’s head would already be spiked on a pole to frighten crows away. You warned me not to kill him. Why? You forbade it, didn’t you, Lille?”