“My grandpa killed it,” said the monster, throwing a huge log into the depths of the fireplace. “It was probably the last one in the vicinity when it got itself killed. Sit, my dear guest. You’re hungry?”

“I won’t deny it, dear host.”

The monster sat at the table, lowered his head, clasped his hairy paws over his stomach, muttered something while twiddling his enormous thumbs, then suddenly roared, thumping the table with his paw. Dishes and platters rattled like pewter and silver, chalices jingled like crystal. There was a smell of roast meat, garlic, marjoram and nutmeg. Geralt did not show any surprise.

“Yes.” The monster rubbed his hands. “This is better than servants, isn’t it? Help yourself, dear guest. Here is some fowl, here some boar ham, here terrine of… I don’t know what. Something. Here we have some hazel grouse. Pox, no, it’s partridge. I got the spells muddled up. Eat up, eat up. This is proper, real food, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.” Geralt tore the fowl in two.

“I forgot,” snorted the monster, “that you’re not timid. What shall I call you?”

“Geralt. And your name, dear host?”

“Nivellen. But they call me Degen or Fanger around here. And they use me to frighten children.”

The monster poured the contents of an enormous chalice down his throat, after which he sank his fingers in the terrine, tearing half of it from the bowl in one go.

“Frighten children,” repeated Geralt with his mouth full. “Without any reason, no doubt?”

“Of course not. Your health, Geralt!”

“And yours, Nivellen.”

“How’s the wine? Have you noticed that it’s made from grapes and not apples? But if you don’t like it, I’ll conjure up a different one.”

“Thank you, it’s not bad. Are your magical powers innate?”

“No. I’ve had them since growing this. This trap, that is. I don’t know how it happened myself, but the house does whatever I wish. Nothing very big; I can conjure up food, drink, clothes, clean linen, hot water, soap. Any woman can do that, and without using magic at that. I can open and close windows and doors. I can light a fire. Nothing very remarkable.”

“It’s something. And this… trap, as you call it, have you had it long?”

“Twelve years.”

“How did it happen?”

“What’s it got to do with you? Pour yourself some more wine.”

“With pleasure. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m just asking out of curiosity.”

“An acceptable reason,” the monster said, and laughed loudly. “But I don’t accept it. It’s got nothing to do with you and that’s that. But just to satisfy your curiosity a little, I’ll show you what I used to look like. Look at those portraits. The first from the chimney is my father. The second, pox only knows. And the third is me. Can you see it?”

Beneath the dust and spiderwebs, a nondescript man with a bloated, sad, spotty face and watery eyes looked down from the painting. Geralt, who was no stranger to the way portrait painters tended to flatter their clients, nodded.