‘You’re talking rubbish, Dandelion.’

‘No, my dear. Essi made an impression on you, you can’t hide it. I don’t see anything wrong with that, actually. But beware, and don’t make a mistake. She is not what you think. If her talent has its dark sides, they certainly aren’t what you imagine.’

‘I conjecture,’ said the Witcher, trying to control his voice, ‘that you know her very well.’

‘Quite well. But not in the way you think. Not like that.’

‘Quite original for you, you’ll admit.’

‘You’re stupid,’ the bard said, stretching and placing both hands under his neck. ‘I’ve known Poppet almost since she was a child. To me she’s like… well… like a younger sister. So I repeat, don’t make any silly mistakes about her. You’d be harming her greatly, because you also made an impression on her. Admit it, you desire her?’

‘Even if I did, unlike you I’m not accustomed to talking about it,’ Geralt said sharply. ‘Or writing songs about it. I thank you for your words about her, because perhaps you have indeed saved me from a stupid mistake. But let that be an end to it. I regard the subject as exhausted.’

Dandelion lay motionless for a moment, saying nothing, but Geralt knew him too well.

‘I know,’ the poet said at last. ‘Now I know everything.’

‘You know fuck all, Dandelion.’

‘Do you know what your problem is, Geralt? You think you’re different. You flaunt your otherness, what you consider abnormal. You aggressively impose that abnormality on others, not understanding that for people who think clear-headedly you’re the most normal man under the sun, and they all wish that everybody was so normal. What of it that you have quicker reflexes than most and vertical pupils in sunlight? That you can see in the dark like a cat? That you know a few spells? Big deal. I, my dear, once knew an innkeeper who could fart for ten minutes without stopping, playing the tune to the psalm Greet us, greet us, O, Morning Star. Heedless of his–let’s face it–unusual talent, that innkeeper was the most normal among the normal; he had a wife, children and a grandmother afflicted by palsy—’

‘What does that have to do with Essi Daven? Could you explain?’

‘Of course. You wrongfully thought, Geralt, that Little Eye was interested in you out of morbid, downright perverted curiosity, that she looks at you as though you were a queer fish, a two-headed calf or a salamander in a menagerie. And you immediately became annoyed, gave her a rude, undeserved reprimand at the first opportunity, struck back at a blow she hadn’t dealt. I witnessed it, after all. I didn’t witness the further course of events, of course, but I noticed your flight from the room and saw her glowing cheeks when you returned. Yes, Geralt. I’m alerting you to a mistake, and you have already made it. You wanted to take revenge on her for–in your opinion–her morbid curiosity. You decided to exploit that curiosity.’