‘… abomination, shame and disgrace,’ the elderly gentleman smelling of vinegar continued. ‘One enormous laxity, sir.’

‘Indeed,’ Geralt nodded tentatively, wiping his plate with a hunk of bread.

‘May I request silence, noble ladies, noble lords,’ Drouhard called, walking into the middle of the room. ‘The celebrated Master Dandelion, in spite of being a little bodily indisposed and weary, shall now sing for us his celebrated ballad about Queen Marienn and the Black Raven! He shall do it at the urgent plea of Miss Veverka, the miller’s daughter, whom, he said, he may not refuse.’

Miss Veverka, one of the less comely girls on the bench, became beautified in the blink of an eye. Uproar and applause erupted, drowning out further laxity from the elderly gentleman smelling of vinegar. Dandelion waited for total silence, played a striking prelude on his lute, after which he began to sing, without taking his eyes off Miss Veverka, who was growing more beautiful with each verse. Indeed, Geralt thought, that whoreson is more effective than all the magical oils and creams Yennefer sells in her little shop in Vengerberg.

He saw Essi steal behind the crowded semicircle of Dandelion’s audience and cautiously vanish through the door to the terrace. Driven by a strange impulse, he slipped nimbly out from behind the table and followed her.

She stood, leaning forward, resting her elbows on the railing of the jetty, head drawn into her delicate, upraised shoulders. She was gazing at the rippling sea, glistening from the light of the moon and the fires burning in the harbour. A board creaked beneath Geralt’s foot. Essi straightened up.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he said, stiffly, searching for that sudden grimace on her lips to which she had treated the young man in brocade a moment earlier.

‘You aren’t disturbing me,’ she replied, smiling and tossing back her lock of hair. ‘I’m not seeking solitude here, but fresh air. Was all that smoke and airlessness bothering you too?’

‘A little. But I’m more bothered by knowing that I offended you. I came here to apologise, Essi, to try to regain the chance of a pleasant conversation.’

‘You deserve my apology,’ she said, pressing her hands down on the railing. ‘I reacted too impetuously. I always react too impetuously, I don’t know how to control myself. Excuse me and give me another chance. For a conversation.’

He approached and leaned on the railing beside her. He felt the warmth emanating from her, and the faint scent of verbena. He liked the scent of verbena, although the scent of verbena was not the scent of lilac and gooseberry.

‘What do you connect with the sea, Geralt?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Unease,’ he answered, almost without thinking.

‘Interesting. And you seem so calm and composed.’

‘I didn’t say I feel unease. You asked for associations.’

‘Associations are the image of the soul. I know what I’m talking about, I’m a poet.’

‘And what do you associate with the sea, Essi?’ he asked quickly, to put an end to discussions about the unease he was feeling.