“Animals like me,” boasted the monster. “And I like them, too. My cat, Glutton, ran away at the beginning but she came back later. For a long time, she was the only living creature who kept me company in my misfortune. Vereena, too—” He broke off with a grimace.

Geralt smiled. “Does she like cats too?”

“Birds.” Nivellen bared his teeth. “I gave myself away, pox on it. But what’s the harm. She isn’t another merchant’s daughter, Geralt, or another attempt to find a grain of truth in old folk tales. It’s serious. We love each other. If you laugh, I’ll sock you one.”

Geralt didn’t laugh. “You know your Vereena,” he said, “is probably a rusalka?”

“I suspected as much. Slim. Dark. She rarely speaks, and in a language I don’t know. She doesn’t eat human food. She disappears into the forest for days on end, then comes back. Is that typical?”

“More or less.” The witcher tightened Roach’s girth-strap. “No doubt you think she wouldn’t return if you were to become human?”

“I’m sure of it. You know how frightened rusalkas are of people. Hardly anybody’s seen a rusalka from up close. But Vereena and I… Pox on it! Take care, Geralt.”

“Take care, Nivellen.” The witcher prodded the mare in the side with his heel and made toward the gate. The monster shuffled along at his side.

“Geralt?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not as stupid as you think. You came here following the tracks of one of the merchants who’d been here lately. Has something happened to one of them?”

“Yes.”

“The last was here three days ago. With his daughter, not one of the prettiest, by the way. I commanded the house to close all its doors and shutters and give no sign of life. They wandered around the courtyard and left. The girl picked a rose from my aunt’s rosebush and pinned it to her dress. Look for them somewhere else. But be careful; this is a horrible area. I told you that the forest isn’t the safest of places at night. Ugly things are heard and seen.”

“Thanks, Nivellen. I’ll remember about you. Who knows, maybe I’ll find someone who—”

“Maybe yes. And maybe no. It’s my problem, Geralt, my life and my punishment. I’ve learned to put up with it. I’ve got used to it. If it gets worse, I’ll get used to that too. And if it gets far worse, don’t look for anybody. Come here yourself and put an end to it. As a witcher. Take care, Geralt.”

Nivellen turned and marched briskly toward the manor. He didn’t look round again.

III

The area was deserted, wild and ominously inhospitable. Geralt didn’t return to the highway before dusk; he didn’t want to take a roundabout route, so he took a shortcut through the forest. He spent the night on the bare summit of a high hill, his sword on his knees, beside a tiny campfire into which, every now and then, he threw wisps of monkshood. In the middle of the night he noticed the glow of a fire far away in the valley; he heard mad howling and singing and a sound which could only have been the screaming of a tortured woman. When dawn had barely broken, he made his way there to find nothing but a trampled glade and charred bones in still-warm ashes. Something sitting in the crown of an enormous oak shrieked and hissed. It could have been a harpy, or an ordinary wildcat. The witcher didn’t stop to check.