They passed campfires surrounded by groups of witches and other participants in the sabbath conversing, greeting new arrivals, making merry and arguing. Cups and bowls were being passed around, filled from cauldrons and vats, and the pleasant aroma of cider, perry and other fermented beverages floated up, mixing with smoke. Jagna was about to stop there, but the red-haired witch restrained her with a sharp word.

A huge fire roared on the peak of Grochowa Mountain, throwing up great flames; millions of sparks flew up into the black sky like fiery bees. Below the peak was a hollow, ending in a terrace. There, beneath a cauldron on a tripod, burned a smaller campfire with faint shimmering shapes around it. Several figures were standing on the slope beneath the terrace, clearly waiting for an audience.

As they approached and passed through the veil of steam belching from the cauldron, the indistinct shapes materialised into three women holding brooms decorated with ribbons and golden sickles. A heavily bearded and very tall man—made even taller by a fur cap with a set of forked stag’s antlers attached to it—was busying himself near the cauldron. There was also another motionless, dark shape beyond the fire and steam.

“The Domina,” explained the red-haired witch, after they had joined the queue with the others, “will most probably not ask you anything; we aren’t customarily curious. If she does, remember to address her as ‘Domna.’ Remember also that names aren’t used at the sabbath, unless you’re among friends. You are joioza and bachelar to everybody else.”

The petitioner preceding them was a young woman with a thick plait hanging down beyond her waist. Although very pretty, she was disabled and walked with a limp which was distinctive enough for Reynevan to diagnose congenital hip dislocation. She passed them, wiping away tears.

“It is impolite and unwelcome to stare here,” the red-haired witch reprimanded Reynevan. “Go on. The Domina is waiting.”

Reynevan knew that the title of Domina—or Old Woman—belonged to the head witch, the leader of the flight and the sabbath’s high priestess. So although he had hoped, in his heart of hearts, to see a woman slightly less repulsive than Sprenger, Kramer and the hags with them, he had still been expecting an old crone. What he hadn’t expected was Medea. Circe. Herodias. A staggeringly attractive incarnation of mature womanhood.