Nimue stopped before the picture hanging nearest the door, portraying a group gathered beneath a great tree. She looked at the canvas, then at Condwiramurs, and her mute gaze was unusually eloquent.

‘Dandelion.’ The novice, realising at once what was expected, didn’t make her wait. ‘Singing a ballad beneath the oak Bleobheris.’

Nimue smiled and nodded, and took a step, stopping before the next painting. A watercolour. Symbolism. The silhouettes of two women on a hill. Gulls circling above them, and below a procession of shadows on the hillside.

‘Ciri and Triss Merigold, the prophetic vision in Kaer Morhen.’

A smile, a nod, a step, the next painting. A rider at gallop on a horse down an avenue of misshapen alders extending the arms of their boughs towards him. Condwiramurs felt a shudder running through her.

‘Ciri… Hmm… It’s probably her ride to meet Geralt on the farm of the halfling Hofmeier.’

The next painting, a darkened oil. A battle scene.

‘Geralt and Cahir defending the bridge on the Yaruga.’

Then things went more quickly.

‘Yennefer and Ciri, their first meeting in the Temple of Melitele. Dandelion and the dryad Eithne, in Brokilon Forest. Geralt’s company in a blizzard on the Malheur pass—’

‘Bravo, splendid,’ interrupted Nimue. ‘Excellent knowledge of the legend. Now you know the other reason it’s you that’s here and not anybody else.’

A large canvas portraying the Battle of Brenna overlooked the small ebony table they sat down at. It showed a key moment of the battle; that is, somebody’s vulgarly heroic death. The painting was beyond a doubt the work of Nikolai Certosa, which could be ascertained by the atmosphere, the perfect attention to detail and the lighting effects typical for that artist.

‘Indeed, I know the legend of the Witcher and the witcher girl,’ replied Condwiramurs. ‘I know it, I have no hesitation in saying, thoroughly. I loved that story when I was a young girl. I became engrossed in it. I even dreamed of being Yennefer. I’ll be frank, though, even if it was love at first sight, even if it was explosively torrid… my love wasn’t everlasting.’

Nimue raised her eyebrows.

‘I first became acquainted with the story,’ continued Condwiramurs, ‘in popular abridgements and versions for young people, précis cut and cleaned up ad usum delphini. Later, naturally, I studied the so-called serious and complete versions. Extensive to the point of superfluity, and at times also beyond. Then passion was replaced by cool reflection and wild desire by something like marital duty. If you know what I mean.’

Nimue confirmed she did with a barely perceptible nod.