‘Never mind,’ she shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’ve got something wrong… But perhaps I haven’t. Tell me, what is it that reeks around here?’

‘Pelts. I hunt muskrat, beaver, coypu and otter, and cure their hides. Even hermits have to make a living.’

‘Where’s my horse?’

‘In the barn.’

The black mare greeted them with loud neighing, joined by the bleating of Vysogota’s goat, which was greatly displeased by having to share its lodgings with another resident. Ciri hugged the horse’s neck, patted it and stroked its mane. The mare snorted and pawed the straw with a hoof.

‘Where’s my saddle? Saddlecloth? Harness?’

‘Here.’

He did not protest, make any comments nor voice his opinion. He leaned on his stick and said nothing. He did not move when she grunted trying to lift the saddle, didn’t budge when she staggered beneath the weight and flopped down heavily onto the straw-covered floor with a loud groan. He did not approach her or help her to stand. He watched intently.

‘Very well,’ she said through clenched teeth, pushing away the mare, which was trying to shove its nose down her collar. ‘I get it. But I have to move on from here, dammit! I must!’

‘Where would you go?’ he asked coldly.

Still sitting on the straw next to her fallen saddle, she touched her face.

‘As far away as possible.’

He nodded, as though her answer had satisfied him, made everything clear and didn’t leave any room for speculation. Ciri struggled to her feet. She didn’t even try to reach down to pick up the saddle or harness. She just checked that there was hay and oats in the manger, and began to rub the horse’s back and sides with a wisp of straw. Vysogota stood in silence. He didn’t have to wait long. The girl staggered against the post supporting the ceiling, now as white as a sheet. Without a word he handed her his stick.

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just—’

‘It’s just you felt giddy, because you’re sick and as weak as a kitten. Let’s go back. You must lie down.’

Ciri went out again at sunset, after sleeping for a good few hours. Vysogota, returning from the river, happened upon her by the bramble hedge.

‘Don’t go too far from the cottage,’ he said curtly. ‘Firstly, you’re too weak—’

‘I’m feeling better.’

‘Secondly, it’s dangerous. There is a huge marsh all around us, endless tracts of reeds. You don’t know the paths, you might get lost or drown in the bog.’

‘And you,’ she said, pointing at the sack he was dragging, ‘know the paths, of course. And you don’t walk that far, so the swamp can’t be so huge at all. You tan hides to support yourself, I understand. Kelpie, my mare, has oats, but I don’t see any fields around here. We ate chicken and groats. And bread. Real bread, not flatbread. You couldn’t have got the bread from a trapper. So there’s a village nearby.’