“Aucassin…” she said, shouting over the wind. “Do you know… where we’re…”

He pulled her closer to his chest, knowing he should, that she was expecting it.

“No, Nicolette. I don’t.”

He didn’t. But he had his suspicions. Informed ones. And he wasn’t even particularly astonished when a soft cry from the girl informed him that they had company.

The witch on their left, a woman in the prime of life wearing a married woman’s cap, was flying on a broom, the rush of air blowing her sheepskin jerkin about. Moving a little closer, she greeted them with a raised hand. After a moment’s hesitation, they waved back and she overtook them.

Two witches flying to their right didn’t greet them and probably hadn’t even noticed them, so absorbed were they with each other. They were very young, with plaits flying behind them, sitting astride a sleigh runner, one behind the other. They were kissing passionately and voraciously; it looked as though the one in front would break her neck trying to reach the mouth of the one behind. While the one behind was utterly preoccupied with the breasts of the one in front, which she had pulled out of her unbuttoned blouse.

Nicolette cleared her throat and coughed strangely, fidgeting on the bench as though wanting to move further away from Reynevan. He knew why she was doing it and was aware of his own excitement. The erotic scene wasn’t to blame, or at least not that alone. Huon of Sagar had warned him about the side effects of the ointment and Reynevan remembered it had also been mentioned in Prague. All the specialists were in agreement that when rubbed into the skin, the flying ointment acted as a powerful aphrodisiac.

The sky was suddenly teeming with witches flying in a skein, the apex of which was vanishing somewhere among the luminescence of the clouds. The witches, bonae feminae (although there were also several wizards in the skein) were flying astride various objects, from classic brooms and pokers, to benches, shovels, pitchforks and fence posts. Myriad bats and night birds darted in front of and behind the flyers.

“Hey! Confrater! Greetings!”

He looked back. And, strangely, wasn’t surprised.

The witch who had shouted to him was wearing a black pointed hat with her flame-red hair streaming out from under it. Her dirty-green woollen shawl fluttered behind her like a train. Flying beside her was the young witch with the foxy face who had made the prophesy. Bringing up the rear was the swarthy Jagna, rocking on a poker and none too sober, naturally.

Nicolette cleared her throat loudly and looked back. Reynevan shrugged and made an innocent face. The red-haired witch laughed. Jagna burped.