‘You’re here at last,’ she said, stretching. ‘You neglect me dreadfully, Witcher. Get undressed and come here quickly. Very, very quickly.’

She passed quickly and soundlessly through the corridors. No one saw or heard her. Neither the guardsmen, idly gossiping at their posts, nor the slumbering liveried servants, nor the pages. Not even the candle flames flickered as she passed by the candelabras. The rats heard her, raised their whiskered snouts, stood up on their hind legs, and followed her with their black beady eyes. They didn’t take fright. They knew her.

She often went that way.

There was a corridor in Beauclair Palace, and at the end a chamber, the existence of which no one knew about. Neither the current lady of the castle, the Duchess Anarietta, nor the first lady of the castle, her great-grandmamma, the Duchess Ademarta. Nor the architect, the celebrated Peter Faramond, who made extensive modifications to the building, nor the master masons who worked according to Faramond’s plans and guidelines. Hell, even Chamberlain Le Goff, who was thought to know everything about Beauclair, didn’t know about the existence of that corridor.

The corridor and the chamber, disguised by a powerful illusion, were known only to the palace’s original elven builders. And later–when the elves had gone, and Toussaint became a duchy–to the small number of sorcerers linked to the ducal house. Including Artorius Vigo, a master of magical arcana and great specialist in illusions. And his young niece, Fringilla, who had a special talent for illusions.

Having passed quickly and noiselessly through the corridors of Beauclair Palace, Fringilla Vigo stopped in front of a fragment of wall between two columns decorated with acanthus leaves. A softly spoken spell and rapid gesture made the wall–which was illusory–vanish, revealing a corridor, apparently blind. At the end of the corridor, though, was a door, disguised by another illusion. And beyond the door a dark chamber.

Once inside, not wasting time, Fringilla launched a telecommunicator. The oval looking glass became cloudy and then cleared, lighting up the room, illuminating in the darkness the ancient, dust-laden tapestries on the walls. A large room plunged in subtle chiaroscuro, a round table with several women sitting around it appeared in the looking glass. Nine women.

‘Greetings, Miss Vigo,’ said Philippa Eilhart. ‘What’s new?’

‘Nothing, unfortunately,’ replied Fringilla, after clearing her throat. ‘Nothing since the last telecommunication. Not a single attempt at scanning.’

‘That’s bad,’ said Philippa. ‘Frankly speaking, we’d counted on you uncovering something. Please at least tell us… has the Witcher calmed down now? Are you capable of keeping him in Toussaint at least until May?’