Worse and slightly shameful were ‘apparitions’–dreams of which dream-readers only remembered fragments, only snatches of meaning, dreams after which all that remained the next morning was a vague sense of a signal having been received. If an ‘apparition’ repeated itself too often one could be certain one was dealing with a dream of significant oneiric value. Then the dream-reader–through concentration and auto-suggestion–tried hard to force herself to re-dream the specific ‘apparition’ exactly. The best results occurred by making oneself re-dream it immediately on waking–which was called ‘snagging’. If the dream couldn’t be ‘snagged’ all that remained was an attempt at evoking a given dream vision during one of the next periods of sleep, by concentrating and meditating before falling asleep. That method of programming dreams was called ‘anchoring’.

After twelve nights spent on the island Condwiramurs already had three lists, three sets of dreams. There was a list of successes worth boasting about–a list of ‘apparitions’ which the dream-reader had successfully ‘snagged’ or ‘anchored’. That included the dreams about the rebellion on the Isle of Thanedd and the journey of the Witcher and his company through the blizzard on the Malheur pass, through the spring downpours and soft roads in the Sudduth valley. There was also–the novice hadn’t admitted to Nimue–a list of failures, dreams that in spite of her efforts still remained enigmas. And there was a list of works in progress–a list of dreams that were waiting for their turn.

And there was one dream, strange, but very pleasant, which kept returning in snatches and flashes, in elusive sounds and silky touches.

A nice, tender dream.

Very well, thought Condwiramurs, closing her eyes. I’m ready.

‘I think I know what occupied the Witcher while he wintered in Toussaint.’

‘Well, well.’ Nimue raised her eyes from above her spectacles and the leather-bound grimoire she was leafing through. ‘Have you finally dreamed something?’

‘I’ll say!’ Condwiramurs said cockily. ‘I’ve dreamed it! The Witcher Geralt and a woman with short black hair and green eyes. I don’t know who it could have been. Perhaps that duchess Dandelion writes about in his memoirs?’

‘You must have been reading inattentively.’ The sorceress cooled her novice’s enthusiasm somewhat. ‘Dandelion describes Duchess Anarietta precisely, and other sources confirm that she had–and I quote–“hair of chestnut tones, blazing like gold itself.” ’

‘And so it isn’t her,’ the novice agreed. ‘My woman had black hair. Like coal itself. And the dream was… Hmmm… interesting.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘They conversed. But it wasn’t an ordinary conversation.’

‘Was there something extraordinary about it?’

‘For most of it she had her legs slung over his shoulders.’

‘Tell me, Geralt, do you believe in love at first sight?’

‘Do you?’

‘I do.’

‘Now I know what brought us together. The attraction of opposites.’

‘Don’t be cynical.’

‘Why not? Cynicism is meant to be proof of intelligence.’

‘Not true. Cynicism–in spite of all its pseudo-intelligent aura–is repulsively insincere. I can’t stand insincerity of any kind. Since we’re on the subject… Tell me, Witcher, what do you love most about me?’