it was at least unspoiled by tourists. Maybe the forest was unspoiled because it was only fifty square kilometres. There were all kinds of small forest wildlife here, like squirrels, hares and foxes. There weren't any wolves at all, of course – real ones, that is, rather than werewolves. Fine – we could get along without wolves. There was plenty of free food around – I stopped by some wild raspberry bushes and spent ten minutes picking the slightly withered, sweet berries. Then I came across an entire colony of white cep mushrooms. More than a colony – it was a genuine mushroom megalopolis. Huge white mushrooms, not worm-eaten, no rubbishy little ones or different kinds. I'd had no idea there was treasure like that to be found only a couple of kilometres from the village.

I hesitated. If I picked all those mushrooms, I could take them home and dump them on the table, to my mother-in-law's amazement and Svetlana's delight. How Nadya would squeal in ecstasy and boast to the neighbours' kids about her clever dad!

Then I thought that I couldn't sneak a haul like that back to the house without being seen, which would mean the whole village would go dashing off, hunting for mushrooms. Including the local drunks, who would be happy to sell them on the side of the main road and buy vodka with the earnings. And the grannies, who mostly supported themselves by gathering wild food. And all the local kids.

But somewhere in this forest there were werewolves on the prowl . . .

'They'll never believe me,' I said miserably, looking at the mushroom patch.

I felt a craving for fried white mushrooms. I swallowed hard and carried on following the track.

And five minutes later I came out at a small log-built house.

Everything was just as the children had described it. A little house, tiny windows, no fence, no outbuildings, no vegetable patches. Nobody ever builds houses like that in the forest. Even the dingiest little watchman's hut has to have a lean-to shed for firewood.

'Hey, anybody home?' I shouted. 'Hello?'

Nobody answered.

'Little hut, little hut,' I muttered, citing the fairy tale. 'Turn your back to the forest and your front to me . . .'

The hut as it was stayed. But then, it was already facing me anyway. I suddenly felt very foolish.

It was time to stop playing stupid games. I'd go in and wait for the mistress of the house, if she wasn't home . . .

I walked up to the door and touched the rusty iron handle – and at that very moment, as if someone had been waiting for that touch, the door opened.

'Good day,' said a woman about thirty years old.

A very beautiful woman . . .

Somehow, from what Romka and Ksyusha had told me, I'd expected her to be older. They hadn't really said anything about her appearance, and I'd pictured some average image of 'just a woman'. That was stupid of me . . . of course, for children as young as them, 'beautiful' meant 'wearing a bright-coloured dress'. In another year or two, Ksyusha would probably have said with delight and admiration in her voice: 'The lady was so beautiful!' and compared her with the latest teenage girl's idol.

But she was wearing a check shirt, the kind that men and women can wear.

Tall – but not so tall as to make a man of average height feel insecure. Slim – but not at all skinny. Legs so long and straight I felt like shouting: 'Why the hell did you put jeans on, you fool, get into a miniskirt!' Breasts – well, no doubt some men prefer to see two huge silicone melons, and some take delight in chests as flat as a boy's. But in this particular matter any normal man should go for the golden mean. Hands . . . well, I don't know exactly how hands can be erotic. But hers certainly were. Somehow they made you think that just one touch from those slender fingers and . . .

With a figure like that, a beautiful face is an optional extra. But she was lovely. Hair as black as pitch, large eyes that smiled and enticed. All her features were regular, with just some tiny deviation from perfection that was invisible to the eye, but nonetheless allowed you to see her as a living woman and not a work of art.

'Er . . . h-hello,' I whispered.

What was wrong with me? Anyone would think I'd been