The table that the head waiter sat him at had a tablecloth. All the tables in the Natura Rerum—most of which were occupied—had tablecloths. Geralt couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen any in a tavern.

Although curious, he didn’t look around, not wanting to appear provincial and uncouth. However, a cautious glance revealed modest—though elegant and tasteful—decor. The clientele, whom he judged to be mainly merchants and craftsmen, were also elegantly—although not always tastefully—attired. There were ships’ captains, weather-beaten and bearded. And there was no shortage of garishly dressed noblemen. It smelled nice and elegant: of roast meat, garlic, caraway and big money.

He felt eyes on him. His witcher senses immediately signalled whenever he was being observed. He had a quick, discreet look around.

A young woman with fox-red hair was observing him, also very discreetly, and to an ordinary mortal imperceptibly. She was pretending to be completely absorbed in her meal—something tasty looking and temptingly fragrant even from a distance. Her style and body language left no doubt. Not to a witcher. He would have bet anything she was a sorceress.

The head waiter shook him out of his contemplation and sudden nostalgia.

“Today,” he announced ceremonially and not without pride, “we propose veal shank stewed in vegetables with mushrooms and beans. Saddle of lamb roast with aubergines. Bacon in beer served with glazed plums. Roast shoulder of boar, served with stewed apples. Fried duck breasts, served with red cabbage and cranberries. Squid stuffed with chicory in a white sauce served with grapes. Grilled monkfish in a cream sauce, served with stewed pears. Or as usual, our speciality: goose legs in white wine, with a choice of baked fruit, and turbot in caramelised cuttlefish ink, served with crayfish necks.”

“If you have a liking for fish,” Febus Ravenga suddenly appeared at the table out of the blue, “I heartily recommend the turbot. From the morning catch, it goes without saying. The pride and boast of our head chef.”

“The turbot in ink then.” The Witcher fought against an irrational desire to order several dishes in one go, aware it would have been in bad taste. “Thank you for the suggestion. I’d begun to suffer the agony of choice.”

“Which wine,” the head waiter asked, “would sir like to order?”

“Please choose something suitable. I’m not very au fait with wines.”

“Few are,” smiled Febus Ravenga. “And very few admit it. Never fear, we shall choose the type and vintage, Master Witcher. I’ll leave you in peace, bon appétit.”

That wish was not to come true. Neither did Geralt have the opportunity to find out what wine they would choose. The taste of turbot in cuttlefish ink was also to remain a mystery to him that day.

The red-haired woman suddenly abandoned discretion, as her eyes found his. She smiled. Spitefully, he couldn’t help feeling. He felt a quiver run through him.