We made love. And talked. And our lies became more and more mendacious.

Two months. From October to Yule.

Two month of furious, greedy, wild love.

Roach’s horseshoes thudded on the flags of the courtyard at Beauclair Palace.

He passed through corridors quickly and soundlessly. No one saw or heard him. Not the guardsmen with halberds, killing time on their sentry duty by chatting and gossiping, nor the slumbering lackeys and pages. Even the candle flames didn’t flicker when he passed by the candelabras.

He was near the palace kitchen. But he didn’t go in, didn’t join the company, who were inside, disposing of a small cask and something fried. He remained in the shadows, listening.

Angoulême was speaking.

‘There’s something bewitched about this place, this fucking Toussaint. Some kind of charm hangs over the whole valley. Especially over the palace. I was surprised at Dandelion, I was surprised at the Witcher, but now I’m nauseous and I’ve got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Shit, I even caught myself… Eh, I’m not going to tell you that. Seriously, let’s get out of here. Let’s get out of here as fast as possible.’

‘Tell that to Geralt,’ said Milva. ‘It’s him you should tell.’

‘Yes, talk to him,’ said Cahir somewhat sarcastically. ‘During one of those brief moments when he’s free. Between the two activities he’s been engaging in for two months to help him forget.’

‘As for you,’ snorted Angoulême, ‘you’re mainly available in the park, playing at hoops with the barons’ daughters. Pshaw, no two ways about it, there’s something bewitched about this bloody Toussaint. Regis disappears somewhere at night, aunty has her tight-lipped baron—’

‘Shut it, you brat! And don’t call me aunty!’

‘Come, come,’ Regis interjected placatingly. ‘Girls, take it easy. Milva, Angoulême. Let there be concord. United we stand, divided we fall. As Her Grace the Duchess, lady of this country, this palace, this bread, dripping and gherkins, says: Another drop, anyone?’

Milva sighed heavily.

‘We’ve stayed here too long! Too long, I tell you, too long we’ve sat here in idleness. It’s driving us mad.’

‘Well said,’ said Cahir. ‘Very well said.’

Geralt cautiously withdrew. Soundlessly. Like a bat.

He passed through corridors quickly and soundlessly. No one saw or heard him. Neither the guards, nor the liveried servants nor the pages. Not even the candle flames flickered as he passed by the candelabras. The rats heard him, raised their whiskered snouts, and stood up on their hind legs. But they didn’t take fright. They knew him.

He often went that way.

In the alcove it smelled of charms and witchcraft, ambergris and roses, and woman’s sleep. But Fringilla wasn’t asleep.

She sat up in bed, threw off the eiderdown, enthralling him with the sight and taking possession of him.