on her scar, so it can’t have been sewn up. Amazing she wasn’t finished off by infection; more amazing that she didn’t bleed to death straight away.

I can see her dancing ahead of me, just ahead in the wind. She’s not naked, but in her furs, with her feet bare in the wind-furrows. How old is she? Fifteen? Fourteen? She’d been had many times, I could feel that, but was still narrow and tight, as only a young girl can be. That’s filthy talk, though. A filthy thing to think. I only want to see her dance, to beckon me on. Her skin is so white, her body so smooth and firm, her little tongue is red as she puts it out to catch a snow-flake.

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