“Sauerkraut!” he declared, scooping some from a barrel using wooden tongs. “Try it, Geralt. Excellent, isn’t it? It’s a tasty and salutary thing, cabbage like this. In winter, when vitamins are lacking, it protects one from scurvy. It is, furthermore, a splendid antidepressant.”

“How so?”

“You eat a big pot of sauerkraut, drink a jug of sour milk… and soon afterwards depression becomes the least of your worries. You forget about depression. Sometimes for a long time. Who are you staring at? Who’s that girl?”

“An acquaintance. Wait here. I’ll have a brief word with her and I’ll be back.”

The girl he’d spotted was Mozaïk, whom he’d met at Lytta Neyd’s. The sorceress’s shy pupil with the slicked-down hair in a modest, though elegant dress the colour of rosewood. And cork wedge-heeled shoes in which she moved quite gracefully, bearing in mind the slippery vegetable scraps covering the uneven cobbled street.

He approached, surprising her by a stall of tomatoes as she filled a basket hanging from the crook of her arm.

“Greetings.”

She blanched slightly on seeing him, despite her already pale complexion. And had it not been for the stall she would have taken a step or two back. She made a movement as though trying to hide the basket behind her back. No, not the basket. Her hand. She was hiding her forearm and hand, which were tightly wrapped up in a silk scarf. He noticed her behaviour and an inexplicable impulse made him take action. He grabbed the girl’s hand.

“Let go,” she whispered, trying to break free.

“Show me. I insist.”

“Not here…”

She let him lead her away from the market to somewhere they could be alone. He unwound the scarf. And couldn’t contain himself. He swore. Crudely, and at great length.

The girl’s left hand was turned over. Twisted at the wrist. The thumb stuck out to the left, the back of her hand was facing downwards. And the palm upwards. A long, regular life-line, he noticed involuntarily. The heart-line was distinct, but dotted and broken.

“Who did that to you? Did she?”

“You did.”

“What?”

“You did!” She jerked her hand away. “You used me to make a fool of her. She doesn’t let something like that slide.”

“I couldn’t—”

“—have predicted it?” She looked him in the eyes. He had misjudged her—she was neither timid, nor anxious. “You could and should have. But you preferred to play with fire. Was it worth it, though? Did it give you satisfaction, make you feel better? Give you something to boast about to your friends in the tavern?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t find the words. But Mozaïk, to his astonishment, suddenly smiled.