‘I trust you,’ he said, without moving. ‘And I shall never forget what was between us. I trust you, Fringilla. I won’t stay with you, but I think I loved you too… In my own way. Please keep utterly secret what you are about to find out. Vilgefortz’s hideout is in—’

‘Wait,’ she interrupted. ‘You’ll tell me later, you’ll disclose it later. Now, before you leave, say goodbye to me. The way you ought to say goodbye. Not with paltry letters, not with mumbled apologies. Say goodbye to me the way I desire.’

She took off her lynx fur coat and tossed it down on a pile of straw. She violently tore off her blouse, beneath which she was naked. She fell onto the fur, pulling him after her, onto her. Geralt caught her by the nape of her neck, lifted up her skirt, and suddenly realised there would be no time to take his gloves off. Fringilla was fortunately not wearing gloves. Or knickers. Even more fortunately she wasn’t wearing spurs either, for soon after the heels of her riding boots were literally everywhere. It doesn’t bear thinking what might have happened had she been wearing spurs.

When she screamed he kissed her. Stifling the scream.

The horses, scenting their furious passion, neighed, stamped and thumped against their stalls until hay and dust fell from the ceiling.

‘Rhys-Rhun citadel, in Nazair, by Lake Muredach,’ Fringilla Vigo ended triumphantly. ‘That’s where Vilgefortz’s hide-out is. I got it out of the Witcher before he rode away. We have enough time to overtake him. He has no chance of getting there before April.’

The nine women gathered in the columned chamber of Montecalvo Castle nodded, favouring Fringilla with looks of great appreciation.

‘Rhys-Rhun,’ repeated Philippa Eilhart, baring her teeth in a predatory smile and playing with the sardonyx cameo brooch fastened to her dress. ‘Rhys-Rhun in Nazair. Well, see you soon, Master Vilgefortz… See you soon!’

‘When the Witcher gets there,’ hissed Keira Metz, ‘he’ll find rubble which by then won’t even be stinking of ash.’

‘Or dead bodies.’ Sabrina Glevissig smiled enchantingly.

‘Well done, Miss Vigo,’ nodded Sheala. ‘Over three months in Toussaint… But it was probably worth it.’

Fringilla Vigo’s eyes swept over the sorceresses sitting at the table. Over Sheala, Philippa and Sabrina Glevissig. Over Keira Metz, Margarita Laux-Antille and Triss Merigold. Over Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean, whose eyes, ringed with garish elven makeup, expressed absolutely nothing. Over Assire var Anahid, whose eyes expressed anxiety and concern.

‘It was,’ she admitted.

Quite sincerely.