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Chapter 7
The first snows had not yet fallen, but it was bitingly cold and the man in the coarse green cloak shivered uncontrollably as he tramped up to the lonely, dilapidated hovel and banged on the door. After a moment, the rotting timbers creaked open and the old crone, face in deep shadow beneath the enormous cowl covering her head, jutted out her chin, cackled, and waved him inside. Rivulets of damp ran down the walls, and a thick pall of smoke clung to the rafters. A meagre fire spluttered in the grate, giving off the merest hint of warmth. The man in the coarse green cloak went down on his haunches and rubbed his hands in front of the last few embers. He coughed constantly. “Drink this,” she said, handing him a chipped cup filled with steaming, black liquid. He sniffed it, screwed up his f
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