“My hands are shaking,” he says, studying them with a frown. “I must be coming down with a fever. It feels like my blood is bubbling. Sassa, you might have to cook. It needs to be done now, though, before it gets dark and the flames of the cooking fire can be seen.”
“Finish your mead,” I tell him, archly. “The honey will do you good.”
I watch him comply, no trace of guilt within me, only excited anticipation.
“By a donkey’s c**k this drink is strong,” he says, scowling into his now empty beaker. “It’s already got my head spinning. No wonder that witch Zlata is so mad!”
I take a few big draughts of my own drink and give him a mocking smile to show that it’s had no such effect on me.
“You just sit quiet,” I say, stroking his hair with one hand and his bristly cheek with the other, “let
