After repeating the operation several times, he threw down the pitchfork.

“Leave him,” he ordered. “Let him crawl out by himself.”

“That won’t be easy,” adjudged Tarp. “And it’ll take some time.”

“Let it. There’s no rush.”

A mon retour (hé! je m’en désespere!)

Tu m’as reçu d’un baiser tout glacé.

Pierre de Ronsard

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Just at that moment, the Novigradian schooner Pandora Parvi, a beautiful ship indeed, was sailing to its mooring place under full sail. Beautiful and swift, thought Geralt, descending the gangway onto the busy wharf. He had seen the schooner in Novigrad, asked around and knew it had set sail from there two whole days after the galley Stinta, on which he had sailed. In spite of that, he had essentially reached Kerack at the same time. Perhaps I ought to have waited and boarded the schooner, he thought. Two days more in Novigrad. Who knows, perhaps I would have acquired some more information?

Vain digressions, he decided. Perhaps, who knows, maybe. What has happened has happened, nothing can change it now. And there’s no sense going on about it.

With a glance, he bade farewell to the schooner, the lighthouse, the sea and the horizon, darkening with storm clouds. Then he set off for the town at a brisk pace.

* * *

Just at that moment, two porters were coming out carrying a sedan chair, a dainty construction with delicate lilac curtains. It had to be Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday. On those days Lytta Neyd saw patients: usually wealthy, upper-class ladies, who arrived in sedan chairs like that.

The doorman let him in without a word. Just as well. Geralt wasn’t in the best of moods and would certainly have retaliated with a word. Or even two or three.

The patio was deserted and the water in the fountain burbled softly. There was a carafe and some cups on a small malachite table. Without further ado, Geralt poured himself a cup.

When he raised his head, he saw Mozaïk. In a white coat and apron. Pale. With her hair slicked down.

“It’s you,” she said. “You’re back.”

“It certainly is,” he confirmed dryly. “I most certainly am. And this wine is most certainly a little sour.”

“Such a pleasure seeing you again.”

“Coral? Is she here? And if so, where?”

“I saw her between the thighs of a patient a moment ago,” she shrugged. “She’s most certainly still there.”

“You indeed have no choice, Mozaïk,” he responded calmly, looking her in the eyes. “You’ll have to become a sorceress. In sooth, you have a great predisposition for it and the makings of one. Your caustic wit wouldn’t be appreciated in a weaving manufactory. Nor yet in a bawdy house.”

“I’m learning and growing.” She withstood his gaze. “I don’t cry myself to sleep any longer. I’ve done all my crying. I’m over that stage.”