The sorceress’s hip was graced by an intricate tattoo with fabulously colourful details, depicting a fish with coloured stripes, its large fins giving it a triangular shape. Fish like that—called angelfish—were usually kept in aquariums and basins by wealthy people and the snobbish nouveaux riches. So Geralt—and he wasn’t the only one—had always associated them with snobbism and pretentious ostentation. Thus, it astonished him that Coral had chosen that particular tattoo. The astonishment lasted a moment and the explanation came quickly. Lytta Neyd both looked and seemed quite young. But the tattoo dated back to the years of her real youth. From the times when angelfish brought from abroad were indeed a rare attraction, when there were few wealthy people, when the nouveaux riches were still making their fortunes and few could afford an aquarium. So her tattoo is like a birth certificate, thought Geralt, caressing the angelfish with his fingertips. It’s a wonder Lytta still has it, rather than magically removing it. Why, he thought, shifting his caresses to regions some distance from the fish, a memory from one’s youth is a lovely thing. It’s not easy to get rid of such a memento. Even if now it’s passé and pompously banal.

He raised himself on an elbow and took a closer look, searching her body for other—equally nostalgic—mementos. He didn’t find any. He didn’t expect to; he simply wanted to look. Coral sighed. Clearly bored by the abstract—and not very purposeful—peregrinations of his hand, she seized it and decisively directed it to a specific place; in her opinion the only suitable one. Good for you, thought Geralt, pulling the sorceress towards him and burying his face in her hair. Fiddlesticks to stripy fish. As though there weren’t more vital things worth devoting one’s attention to. Or worth thinking about.

* * *

Perhaps model sailing ships too, thought Coral chaotically, trying hard to control her rapid breathing. Perhaps military figures too, perhaps fly-fishing. But what counts… What really counts… Is the way he holds me.

Geralt embraced her. As though she were all the world to him.

* * *

They didn’t get much sleep the first night. And even when Lytta dropped off, the Witcher found it difficult. Her arm was girdling his waist so tightly he found it hard to breathe and her leg was thrown across his thighs.

The second night she was less possessive. She didn’t hold him or hug him as tightly as before. By then she’d stopped fearing he’d run away before dawn.

* * *

“You’re pensive. You have a gloomy, male expression. The reason?”

“I’m wondering about the… hmm… naturalism of our relationship.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I said. Naturalism.”