Condwiramurs remained politely silent.

‘Need a man,’ explained the small sorceress bluntly.

Me too, thought the novice. Dammit, as soon as I get back to the academy I’ll let someone take me. Celibacy is good, but for no longer than a semester.

Nimue cleared her throat.

‘If you’ve broken your fast and finished daydreaming, let’s go to the library.’

‘Let’s get back to your dream.’

Nimue opened a portfolio, flicked through several sepia watercolours and took one of them out. Condwiramurs recognised it at once.

‘The audience at Loc Grim?’

‘Of course. The double is being presented at the imperial court. Emhyr pretends he’s been tricked, puts a brave face on it. Here, look, the ambassadors of the Northern Kingdoms, for whom the charade is being played out. Here, in turn, we see the Nilfgaardian dukes who have suffered an affront: the emperor spurned their daughters, disregarding their dynastic proposals. Greedy for revenge, they whisper, leaning towards each other. They’re hatching a plot and a murder. The double stands with her head bowed, and the artist, to underscore the mystery, has even decorated her with a handkerchief to hide her facial features.

‘And we know nothing more about the bogus Ciri,’ continued the sorceress a moment later. ‘None of the legend’s versions tell us what became of the double afterwards.’

‘It’s safe to guess, though,’ said Condwiramurs sadly, ‘that the girl’s fate was unenviable. When Emhyr obtained the original–and we know he did, don’t we?–he got rid of the counterfeit. When I dreamed, I didn’t sense tragedy, and actually I ought to have sensed something, if… On the other hand, what I see in dreams is not necessarily the real truth. Like anybody, I dream dreams. Desires. Longings… and fears.’

‘I know.’

They talked until lunchtime, looking through portfolios and fascicles of prints. The Fisher King had been lucky with his catch, because there was grilled salmon for lunch. For supper too.

Condwiramurs slept badly that night. She had overeaten.

She didn’t dream anything. She was a little downhearted and embarrassed about that, but Nimue wasn’t at all concerned. We have time, she said. There are plenty of nights ahead of us.

The tower of Inis Vitre had several bathrooms, truly luxurious, shining with marble and glistening with brass, heated by a hypocaust located somewhere in the cellars. Condwiramurs had no problem occupying the baths for hours, but every now and again would meet Nimue in the sweathouse, a tiny wooden hut with a jetty leading out towards the lake. They would sit on benches, wet, inhaling the steam that belched from stones sprinkled with water, swishing themselves lazily with birch twigs, as salty sweat dripped into their eyes.

‘If I understood right,’ Condwiramurs wiped her face, ‘my practice here in Inis Vitre is meant to explain all the gaps in the legend of the Witcher and the witcher girl?’

‘That’s right.’