It was snowing. A stream of tiny ice crystals has been falling ceaselessly, covered the yard under a thick layer of glistering fluff, decorated greyish windowsills and flat rooftops, painted icy flowers on the window panes. There was something beautiful if not miraculous in it, Yennefer noticed, surprised with her own soppiness. There was indeed something marvellous in how little it took to mask all the dirt, all of the infirmity, all the imperfection the world bore. Even Kaer Morhen, vile and cold regardless of the weather, could now enrapture with its harsh beauty.

She made another step and pressed her fingertips to the glass. A frosty wind blew through the cracks in the windows, dabbed her cheeks and tickled them. The sorceress didn't fall back just yet. She corrected the black dressing gown hanging from her shoulders, tugged it tighter around her nightdress and continued looking.

"What did I say about peeping?" she grunted loudly.

She turned around and looked straight at Geralt. He stood in the middle of a sandstone arch and stared at her. The shoddy red jumper he had on him glared. The enchantress rolled her eyes. Sophisticated outfits always elicited aversion in him but hideous clothes from village fairs? Those he could wear always.

"Thought you might fancy some breakfast in bed," he explained, pointing at the tray in his hands. A little vase with few twigs of daphne he had put on it quavered and then fell.

She thanked him with a single nod and smiled subtly, once again overcoming the fear to show she was grateful. Gratitude wasn't anything that had come naturally. A part of her would quite likely always look for a catch or a tenuous sign of self-interest and hidden motives. The rule to which she had stuck for years now. So far it had never let her down.

Geralt approached without a word, placed the tray on the bed and joined at last by the window.

"There is no snow like this in Toussaint." He exhaled after a brief moment of contemplation.

"There's no snow in Toussaint to start with,'' Yennefer corrected him, recalling cloudless skies and the evergreen olive grove of Corvo Bianco. The time spent in the royal gardens of Beauclair or nefariously wasted on reading chick lit. And him, pruning grape vines, shirtless and swarthy from the sizzling sun. She pushed those thoughts aside. This was not the time nor the place for such reflections. "How is the vineyard doing?" she asked instead.

"Splendid, thank you. Olives are mellowing slowly. Barnabas-Basil says they should be ripe in two weeks' time. You can always check for yourself, you know?"

"We discussed this already," she cut him coldly, but eased off a little seeing him flinch. "I've just got my practice back. Things are coming back to normal. I've never even dared to dream about it but it really seems I can win back what I've lost, what was dishonestly taken away. It's a great chance…"

"I understand, Yen," he interrupted with no less chill than she did. "This is your life. Always has been. Only fool would think that a prospect of marriage can change a thing. I'm just for a bit surprised, I must admit. Wasn't expecting the confraternity to salvage you so quickly."

"The Lodge has nothing to do with it."

Geralt didn't respond. He didn't even look at her. He just stood there with his arms crossed and that look on his face. The one she hated so much. An unsweet, childish combination of contempt and disappointment. On the field of condescending grimaces and stares, Geralt remained an unquestionable champion.

"Is that why you invited me? So I could listen to your whining," she growled. The diamond ring on her finger itched and seemed to be even tighter than usual. She felt an heartfelt urge to take it off.

Geralt was still silent but the silly expression disappeared to Yennefer's huge satisfaction. "Yen, would you be honest if I asked you a question?" he choked up then, almost whispering.

"I'm always honest, Geralt," she whispered too.

"Will this-" he started but paused. He took few deep breaths but didn't use them on pondering.

Whatever he wanted to ask her about was decided already, she had heard it in his thoughts and had seen it twinkle in in his eye, tremble at the corner of his lips. He didn't yet knew how to say it aloud and this is where the problem was. Because there was no way to ask this sort of question rightly. Because once a question like this was asked nothing ever stayed the same.