“He’s renovated it, I see,” remarked Geralt. “With spells, or did he have you working at it?”

“Spells, chiefly.”

“What’s he like, this Irion?”

“Decent. He helps people. But he’s a recluse, doesn’t say much. He rarely leaves the tower.”

On the door, which was adorned with a rosace inlaid with pale wood, hung a huge knocker in the shape of a flat bulging-eyed fish-head holding a brass ring in its toothed jaws. Caldemeyn, obviously well-versed with the workings of its mechanics, approached, cleared his throat and recited:

“Alderman Caldemeyn greets you with a case for Master Irion. With him greets you, Witcher Geralt, with respect to the same case.”

For a long moment nothing happened; then finally the fish-head moved its toothed mandibles and belched a cloud of steam.

“Master Irion is not receiving. Leave, my good people.”

Caldemeyn waddled on the spot and looked at Geralt. The witcher shrugged. Carrypebble picked his nose with serious concentration.

“Master Irion is not receiving,” the knocker repeated metallically. “Go, my good—”

“I’m not a good person,” Geralt broke in loudly. “I’m a witcher. That thing on the donkey is a kikimora, and I killed it not far from town. It is the duty of every resident wizard to look after the safety of the neighborhood. Master Irion does not have to honor me with conversation, does not have to receive me, if that is his will. But let him examine the kikimora and draw his own conclusions. Carrypebble, unstrap the kikimora and throw it down by the door.”

“Geralt,” the alderman said quietly. “You’re going to leave but I’m going to have to—”

“Let’s go, Caldemeyn. Carrypebble, take that finger out of your nose and do as I said.”

“One moment,” the knocker said in an entirely different tone. “Geralt, is that really you?”

The witcher swore quietly.

“I’m losing patience. Yes, it’s really me. So what?”

“Come up to the door,” said the knocker, puffing out a small cloud of steam. “Alone. I’ll let you in.”

“What about the kikimora?”

“To hell with it. I want to talk to you, Geralt. Just you. Forgive me, Alderman.”

“What’s it to me, Master Irion?” Caldemeyn waved the matter aside. “Take care, Geralt. We’ll see each other later. Carrypebble! Into the cesspool with the monster!”

“As you command.”

The witcher approached the inlaid door, which opened a little bit—just enough for him to squeeze through—and then slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness.

“Hey!” he shouted, not hiding his anger.

“Just a moment,” answered a strangely familiar voice.

The feeling was so unexpected that the witcher staggered and stretched out his hand, looking for support. He didn’t find any.

The orchard was blossoming with white and pink, and smelled of rain. The sky was split by the many-colored arc of a rainbow, which bound the crowns of the trees to the distant, blue chain of mountains. The house nestled in the orchard, tiny and modest, was drowning in hollyhocks. Geralt looked down and discovered that he was up to his knees in thyme.