Hotspurn suddenly seized her, pulled her close and began to undo her blouse. Unceremoniously, but unhurriedly. Ciri pushed him away.

‘Indeed!’ she snapped. ‘A wonderful time for that too!’

‘It’s always a good time for that. Especially for me, right now. I told you, it’s my spine. There may be complications tomorrow…’

‘What are you doing? Oh, damn it…’

This time she pushed him away harder. Too powerfully. Hotspurn blanched, bit his lip and groaned in pain.

‘I’m sorry. But if somebody is wounded they ought to lie still.’

‘Being close to you makes me forget the pain.’

‘Stop that!’

‘Falka… Be nice to a suffering man.’

‘You’ll really suffer if you don’t take your hand away. This second!’

‘Quiet… The thugs are liable to hear us… Your skin is like silk… Don’t wriggle.’

Oh, dammit, thought Ciri, let it be. In any case, what difference does it make? I’m curious. I can be curious. There’s no real feeling in it. I’ll treat him functionally and that’s that. And forget him unpretentiously.

She yielded to his touch and the pleasure it brought. She turned her head away, but decided that was exaggeratedly modest and fraudulently prudish; she didn’t want to be a goody-goody being seduced. She looked him straight in the eyes, but that seemed too bold and provocative; she didn’t want to be like that either. So she simply closed her eyes, hugged him around the neck and helped him with the buttons, because he was having difficulty with them and wasting time. The touch of fingers was joined by the touch of lips. She was close to forgetting about the entire world when Hotspurn suddenly froze stiff. For a while she lay patiently, remembering that he was wounded and the wound must be bothering him. But it went on a little too long. His saliva was cooling on her nipples.

‘Hey, Hotspurn? Are you asleep?’

Something oozed onto her chest and side. She touched it with her fingers. Blood.

‘Hotspurn!’ she shoved him off her. ‘Hotspurn, have you died?’

Foolish question, she thought. I mean, I can see.

I can see he’s died.

‘He died with his head on my breast.’ Ciri turned her head away. The glow from the fireplace played red on her disfigured cheek. Perhaps there was a blush there too. Vysogota could not be certain.

‘The only thing I felt then,’ she added, still turned away, ‘was disappointment. Does that shock you?’

‘No. Actually not.’

‘I understand. I’m trying not to embellish the story, not correct anything. Not keep anything back. Although occasionally I feel like it, especially that last part.’ She sniffed, rubbing a knuckle into the corner of her eye.