Lytta Neyd was a redhead. A classic, natural redhead. Her hair’s mellow, light russet evoked associations with a fox’s summer coat. If one were to catch a red fox and place it alongside her—Geralt was quite convinced about this—the two of them would prove to be identically coloured and indistinguishable from each other. And when the sorceress moved her head, lighter, yellowish accents lit up among the red, identical to a fox’s fur. That type of red hair was usually accompanied by freckles—usually in excess. That wasn’t the case with Lytta.

Geralt felt an anxiety, forgotten and dormant, suddenly awaking somewhere deep inside him. He had a strange and inexplicable inclination towards redheads in his nature, and several times that particular colouring had made him do stupid things. Thus he ought to be on his guard, and the Witcher made a firm resolution in that regard. His task was actually made easier. It was almost a year since he’d stopped being tempted by that kind of stupid mistake.

Erotically alluring red hair wasn’t the sorceress’s only attractive attribute. Her snow-white dress was modest and utterly without effects, which was the aim, the intended aim, and without the slightest doubt deliberate. Its simplicity didn’t distract the attention of the observer, but focused it on her attractive figure. And the plunging cleavage. To put it concisely, Lytta Neyd could easily have posed for an engraving accompanying the chapter “Impure Desire” in the illustrated edition of the prophet Lebioda’s Good Book.

To put it even more concisely, Lytta Neyd was a woman whom only a complete idiot would have wanted to have relations with for longer than two days. It was curious that women like that were usually pursued by hordes of men inclined to stay for much longer.

She smelled of freesias and apricots.

Geralt bowed and then pretended the statue in the fountain was more interesting than her figure and cleavage.

“Come in,” repeated Lytta, pointing at a malachite-topped table and two wicker armchairs. She waited for him to sit down, then as she was taking her place showed off a shapely calf and a lizard skin sandal. The Witcher pretended his entire attention was absorbed by the carafes and fruit bowl.

“Wine? It’s Nuragus from Toussaint, in my opinion more compelling than the overrated Est Est. There is also Côte-de-Blessure, if you prefer red. Pour please, Mozaïk.”

“Thank you.” He took a goblet from the girl with the slicked-down hair and smiled at her. “Mozaïk. Pretty name.”

He saw terror in her eyes.

Lytta Neyd placed her goblet on the table. With a bang, meant to focus his attention.

“What brings the celebrated Geralt of Rivia to my humble abode?” She tossed her shock of red curls. “I’m dying to find out.”