Something was chafing her shoulder. She turned her head. A Study of the Midwife’s Art. She quickly looked the other way so as not to tempt fate. On Hot, Sulphurous Waters. The temperature was rising indeed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the frontis-piece of the book her head was resting on. Remarks on Inevitable Death. Even better, she thought.

The Witcher was fighting with her underwear. She lifted her hips, but this time gently, so it would look like an accidental movement and not provocative assistance. She didn’t know him and didn’t know how he reacted to women. Whether he didn’t, perhaps, prefer the kind that pretend they don’t know what they want, to those that do. And whether it would discourage him if her knickers were hard to take off.

The Witcher, however, wasn’t betraying any signs of discouragement. On the contrary, one might say. Seeing that it was high time, Fringilla spread her legs enthusiastically and vigorously, knocking over a tower of books and fascicles, which slid down on them like an avalanche. A copy of Mortgage Law bound in embossed leather came to rest against her buttock and a copy of Codex Diplomaticus decorated with brass edgings against Geralt’s wrist. Geralt assessed and exploited the situation at once, placing the bulky tome where it belonged. Fringilla squealed, because the edgings were cold. But only for a moment.

She sighed loudly, let go of the Witcher’s hair, spread her arms and seized a book in each hand, her left grabbing Descriptive Geometry, her right An Outline Study of Reptiles and Amphibians. Geralt, holding her hips, knocked over another pile of books with an unwitting kick, but was nonetheless too occupied to worry about the volumes falling on him. Fringilla, moaning spasmodically, thrashed her head from side to side over the pages of Remarks on Inevitable…

The books subsided with a rustle, the sharp scent of old dust making their noses tingle.

Fringilla screamed. The Witcher didn’t hear it, because her thighs were clenched against his ears. He threw off the bothersome History of Wars and The Journal of All the Arts Necessary for a Happy Life. Impatiently fighting with the buttons and fastenings of her bodice, he wandered from the south to the north, unintentionally reading the inscriptions on covers, spines, frontispieces and title pages. Under Fringilla’s waist was The Exemplary Farmer. Under her armpit, not far from her small, charming, jauntily pert breast, On Ineffective and Recalcitrant Shire Reaves. Under her elbow Economics; or, a Simple Exposition on how to Create, Divide up and Consume Wealth.

He read Remarks on Inevitable Death with his mouth on her neck and his hands near Shire Reaves… Fringilla emitted a difficult to classify sound; neither a scream, a moan nor a sigh.