“Don’t leave yet. Stay. A few more days.”

“No, Nenneke. It’s time for me to be on my way.”

“Why the hurry? You don’t have to worry about Here-ward. And let that vagabond Dandilion go and break his neck on his own. Stay, Geralt.”

“No, Nenneke.”

The priestess snipped with scissors. “Are you in such haste to leave the temple because you’re afraid that she’ll find you here?”

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “You’ve guessed.”

“It wasn’t exactly difficult,” she muttered. “But don’t worry. Yennefer’s already been here. Two months ago. She won’t be back in a hurry, because we quarreled. No, not because of you. She didn’t ask about you.”

“She didn’t ask?”

“That’s where it hurts,” the priestess laughed. “You’re egocentric, like all men. There’s nothing worse than a lack of interest, is there? Than indifference? No, but don’t lose heart. I know Yennefer only too well. She didn’t ask anything, but she did look around attentively, looking for signs of you. And she’s mighty furious at you, that I did feel.”

“What did you quarrel about?”

“Nothing that would interest you.”

“I know anyway.”

“I don’t think so,” said Nenneke calmly, adjusting the stakes. “You know her very superficially. As, incidentally, she knows you. It’s quite typical of the relationship which binds you, or did bind you. Both parties aren’t capable of anything other than a strongly emotional evaluation of the consequences, while ignoring the causes.”

“She came looking for a cure,” he remarked coldly. “That’s what you quarreled about, admit it.”

“I won’t admit anything.”

The witcher got up and stood in full light under one of the crystal sheets in the grotto’s vault.

“Come here a minute, Nenneke. Take a look at this.” He unknotted a secret pocket in his belt, dug out a tiny bundle, a miniature purse made of goat-leather, and poured the contents into his palm.

“Two diamonds, a ruby, three pretty nephrites, and an interesting agate.” Nenneke was knowledgeable about everything. “How much did they cost you?”

“Two and a half thousand Temeria orens. Payment for the Wyzim striga.”

“For a torn neck.” The priestess grimaced. “Oh, well, it’s a question of price. But you did well to turn cash into these trinkets. The oren is weak and the cost of stones in Wyzim isn’t high; it’s too near to the dwarves’ mines in Mahakam. If you sell those in Novigrad, you’ll get at least five hundred Novigrad crowns, and the crown, at present, stands at six and a half orens and is going up.”

“I’d like you to take them.”

“For safekeeping?”

“No. Keep the nephrites for the temple as, shall we say, my offering to the goddess Melitele. And the remaining stones… are for her. For Yennefer. Give them to her when she comes to visit you again, which will no doubt be soon.”

Nenneke looked him straight in the eyes.

“I wouldn’t do this if I were you. You’ll make her even more furious, if that’s possible, believe me. Leave everything as it is, because you’re no longer in a position to mend anything or make anything better. Running away from her, you behaved… well, let’s say, in a manner not particularly worthy of a mature man. By trying to wipe away your guilt with precious stones, you’ll behave like a very, very over-mature man. I really don’t know what sort of man I can stand less.”