When he entered the cottage, he found Ciri rummaging around in his chests. He let her; even encouraged her. Firstly, it was quite a new activity–after riding Kelpie and leafing through books. Secondly, there were plenty of his daughters’ things in the chests, and the girl needed warm clothing. Several changes of clothing, for in the cold and damp it took many days before the laundry finally dried.

Ciri was selecting, trying on, putting aside and discarding various items of clothing. Vysogota was sitting at the table. He ate two boiled potatoes and a chicken wing. In silence.

‘Good workmanship.’ She showed him some objects he hadn’t seen in years and had even forgotten he had. ‘Did these also belong to your daughter? Was it a hobby of hers?’

‘Yes, she loved it. She couldn’t wait for the winter.’

‘Can I take them?’

‘Take what you want,’ he shrugged. ‘They’re of no use to me. If they’ll come in handy and if the boots fit… But are you packing, Ciri? Are you preparing to go?’

She fixed her eyes on the pile of clothing.

‘Yes, Vysogota,’ she said after a brief silence. ‘I’ve decided. Because you see… There’s no time to lose.’

‘Your dreams.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted, a moment later. ‘I saw very unpleasant things in my dreams. I’m not certain if they’ve taken place, or are yet to happen. I have no idea if I can prevent it… But I must go. You see, once I felt aggrieved that the people closest to me didn’t come to my aid. Left me at the mercy of fate… But now I think they’re the ones that need my help. I have to go.’

‘Winter’s coming.’

‘That’s precisely why I must go. If I stay I’ll be stuck here until spring… until the spring I’ll be fretting in idleness and uncertainty, plagued by nightmares. I have to go, right now, to try to find the Tower of the Swallow. That teleporter. You worked out it’ll take me a fortnight to reach the lake. I’d be there before the November full moon…’

‘You can’t leave your hideout now,’ he said with effort. ‘Not now. They’ll capture you. Ciri… Your pursuers… they are very close. You cannot now—’

She threw a blouse down onto the floor and sprang up.

‘You’ve learned something,’ she said sharply. ‘From the peasant who took the pelts. Tell me.’

‘Ciri—’

‘Tell me, please!’

He told her. He was later to regret it.

‘The devil must have sent them, good sir hermit,’ mumbled the peasant, breaking off from counting the pelts. ‘Must of been the devil. They’ve been galloping through the forests since the Equinox, searching for some maid. Frightening folk, yelling and threatening, but always riding on, never tarrying long enough to do too much harm. But now they’ve thought up summat new: in some villages and settlements they’ve left some, what were it… Sent trees. They ain’t no trees, good sir, sent or otherwise, just simply three or four good-for-nothing scoundrels, naught but trouble. They say they’re going to lie in wait the whole winter, to see if the maid they’re hunting doesn’t creep out of some hidey-hole and venture into the village. Then that tree’s s’pposed to nab ‘er.’