“What saying?” he asked.

“Never mind.”

The cork sprang from a rectangular crystal bottle standing on the stool. The bath-chamber started to smell of lilac and gooseberries. The cork traced several circles and jumped back into place. The sorceress fastened the cuffs of her shirt, pulled on a dress and materialized.

“Fasten me up.” She turned her back to him while combing her hair with a tortoiseshell comb. He noticed that the comb had a long, sharp prong which could, if need be, easily take the place of a dagger.

He took a deliberately long time fastening her dress, one hook at a time, enjoying the scent of her hair, which fell halfway down her back in a black cascade.

“Going back to the bottle creature,” said Yennefer, putting diamond earrings in her ears, “it’s obvious that it wasn’t your funny incantation that drove him away. The hypothesis that he discharged his fury on your friend and left seems closer to the truth.”

“Probably,” Geralt agreed, gloomily. “I don’t think he flew off to Cidaris to do away with Valdo Marx.”

“Who’s Valdo Marx?”

“A troubadour who considers my companion, also a poet and musician, a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses.”

The sorceress turned round with a strange glimmer in her eyes. “Could it be that your friend managed to express a wish?”

“Two. Both stupid. Why do you ask? This fulfilling of wishes by genies is nonsense, after all, djinns, spirits of the lamp—”

“Clearly nonsense,” repeated Yennefer with a smile. “Of course. It’s an invention, a fairy tale devoid of any sense, like all the legends in which good spirits and fortune tellers fulfill wishes. Stories like that are made up by poor simpletons, who can’t even dream of fulfilling their wishes and desires themselves. I’m pleased you’re not one of them, Geralt of Rivia. It makes you closer in spirit to me. If I want something, I don’t dream of it—I act. And I always get what I want.”

“I don’t doubt it. Are you ready?”

“I am.” The sorceress finished fastening the straps of her slippers and stood up. Even in high heels, she wasn’t impressively tall. She shook her hair which, he found, had retained its picturesque, disheveled and curling disarray despite the furious combing.

“I’ve got a question, Geralt. The seal which closed the bottle… Has your friend still got it?”

The witcher reflected. He had the seal, not Dandilion. But experience had taught him that sorcerers shouldn’t be told too much.

“Hmm… I think so.” He deceived her as to the reason for his delay in replying. “Yes, he probably does. Why? Is the seal important?”

“That’s a strange question,” she said sharply, “for a witcher and a specialist in supernatural monstrosities. Someone who ought to know that such a seal is important enough not to touch. And not to let their friend touch.”

He clenched his jaw. The blow was well aimed.

“Oh, well.” Yennefer changed her tone to a much gentler one. “No one’s infallible and no witcher’s infallible, as we see. Everyone can make a mistake. Well, we can get it on our way. Where’s your comrade?”