“It seems you used the word ‘relationship’? The semantic capacity of that concept is indeed astonishing. Furthermore, I hear post-coital tristesse intruding on you. A natural state, indeed, it affects all the higher creatures. A strange little tear has come to my eye too, Witcher… Cheer up, cheer up. I’m joking.”

“You lured me… As a buck is lured.”

“What?”

“You lured me. Like an insect. With magical freesia-and-apricot pheromones.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t get cross. Please, Coral.”

“I’m not. Quite the opposite. On second thought, I have to admit you’re right. Yes, it’s naturalism in its purest form. Except it’s utterly the reverse. It was you who beguiled and seduced me. At first sight. You naturalistically and animalistically treated me to a male courtship display. You hopped, stamped and fluffed up your tail—”

“That’s not true.”

“—fluffed up your tail and flapped your wings like a blackcock. You crowed and clucked—”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Didn’t.”

“Did. Embrace me.”

* * *

“Coral?”

“What?”

“Lytta Neyd… That isn’t your real name, is it?”

“My real one was troublesome.”

“Why so?”

“Try saying quickly: Astrid Lyttneyd Ásgeirrfinnbjornsdottir.”

“I get it.”

“I doubt you do.”

* * *

“Coral?”

“Uh-huh?”

“And Mozaïk? Where did she get her nickname?”

“Know what I don’t like, Witcher? Questions about other women. And particularly when the enquirer is lying in bed with me. And asks a lot of questions, instead of concentrating on the matter in hand. You wouldn’t dare doing anything like that if you were in bed with Yennefer.”

“And I don’t like certain names being mentioned either. Especially when—”

“Shall I stop?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Coral kissed his arm.

“When she arrived at school her given name was Aïk. I don’t remember her family name. Not only did she have a strange name, but she suffered from loss of skin pigment. Her cheeks were dotted with pale spots, she indeed looked like a mosaic. She was cured, naturally, after the first semester, for a sorceress cannot have any blemishes. But the spiteful nickname stuck. And quickly stopped being spiteful. She grew to like it herself. But enough of her. Talk to me and about me. Go on, right now.”

“What, right now?”

“Talk about me. What I’m like. Beautiful, aren’t I? Go on, say it!”

“Beautiful. Red-haired. And freckled.”

“I’m not freckled. I magically removed them.”

“Not all. You forgot about some of them. But I found them.”

“Where are… Oh. Well, all right. True. So, I’m freckled. And what else am I?”

“Sweet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sweet. As a honey wafer.”

“You aren’t making fun of me, are you?”

“Look at me. Into my eyes. Do you see even the slightest insincerity in them?”

“No. And that’s what worries me most.”

* * *

“Sit down on the edge of the bed.”

“Or else?”

“I want to get my own back.”