‘Tomorrow we’ll need to collect more firewood.’

It seems I’ve unconsciously carried over my characters from last week. The Old Mother must have reneged on her cat spell. She might be sorry now.

‘Tomorrow, we’ll need to collect more firewood,’ he said, tilting his head towards the ragged pile at the edge of the camp.

In the overcast dusk, and with her weakening eyesight, she found it hard to judge what was left. They had collected bundles yesterday, rain-wet and much of it fresh green – branches snapped off in the gale. The same storm wh...