-11-

On the other side of the house, Eskel and Geralt were sweating profusely as they both chopped down the fallen tree into fireplace appropriate pieces with axes that were so blunt it was almost a crime. Geralt made a mental note to bring some tools with him and sharpen any equipment and possibly all kitchen knives just to be on the safe side.

From time to time Anais brought them cold tea and lemonade, which they gladly accepted.

"Geralt, say, do you know what she wrote in her diary? I haven't seen her blush this badly in… Actually, I think I've never seen her like that before."

Geralt grimaced at that. He had never read her diaries, but she had told him bits and pieces. And some of these pieces were certainly of a more intimate nature.

Poor Kit, he thought. From her current perspective of her younger self, he must look so old to her. And then to read about this? While he prayed that she was not all too disgusted, he took it as a good sign that she turned red instead of pale white.

It was late afternoon by the time Geralt and Eskel returned to the terrace for another refreshment. Both of them were dripping with sweat. Geralt pulled his wet shirt over his head and hung it over the back of an empty chair to dry.

Just as he was looking for Kit, who was still sitting on a chaise longue a few feet away from them, he caught her gaze as she glanced over the top of her diary. He noticed that Kit was indeed a little red, but he assumed that it was not just embarrassment. She looked quite sunburned.

She had started to write in the new diary, but had then stopped. In passing he saw what she had written:

I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm

Fuck this, I'm not okay.

Next to her on the table was a bottle of wine that was almost empty. Kit had not liked wine much when she first came here. It had taken her years to appreciate the taste, and even then, she hardly ever drank. She had probably taken to the bottle to calm her nerves rather than for the taste.

Kit took another sip from her cup and fumbled with the quill in her fingers. Exasperated, she put the writing utensil down.

"Writer's block?" Geralt asked from a respectful distance, leaning against the railing of the terrace and crossing his arms over his bare chest.

Kit hiccupped and looked at him with heavy eyelids. The alcohol and the sunburn must have gotten to her, Geralt thought. She looked very tired.

"I never thought of myself as a writer. And diaries are such a 90s thing." She hiccupped again and blushed furiously. Whether it was because of him, the alcohol or because she felt caught, Geralt did not know.

"You can certainly call yourself a writer now. We have a little library of your diaries at home."

"Such a strange idea." She paused, not elaborating whether sharing a home with him was strange, or the part about keeping diaries in the first place. "Have you ever read them?"

He shook his head. "Would never."

"So you don't know what I write about?" Another hiccup.

"You tell me sometimes. I have a vague idea. But after ten years, I dare say I know you well enough to know what's on your mind most of the time without you having to point it out to me."

At this she pressed her lips into a thin line.

"And what's on my mind right now?" she asked. She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands, looking up at him expectantly. Geralt was surprised to find her willing to talk to him. The wine really must have gotten to her, he figured.

"You are struggling with whether or not you can believe what you just read. And with your situation in general of course."

Kit nodded approvingly before picking up the old notebook.

"I did a good job of justifying why all of this was real the first time. I did all the mental gymnastics back then."

"Do you doubt it?"

"No, I can't. I literally can't. The points that I made – that this other version of me made - are valid. It all makes sense. I know for sure that this is my handwriting. And I recognize my voice in everything that's been written, even if there are some things, some references that I really don't understand. I still don't know what a smartphone is. And who is Alexa? I don't mention a lot of people by name to begin with, so I think she must be someone important, but I have no clue. None. This is so frustrating." She huffed. Another hiccup shook the table.

Geralt smiled because he actually remembered Alexa and the discussion that had followed when Kit had told him about her.

"Wrong question. Not who, but what," he explained softly. "She's not a person."

"Oh?" Kit looked at him, her eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"She's a thing, a voice in a little box. You can ask her simple questions and she will answer them." Not in a thousand years would Geralt have ever guessed that one day he would be the one to explain one of these technological marvels to Kit. How the times had changed.

It took Kit a moment to reply. "Some kind of computer program then? Like a very advanced Furby?"

Geralt just nodded, because he was already out of his depth. He remembered how Kit had made him talk to a flat, black cylinder when they had been brought to her world for a brief period. She had another device in another room which was more box-shaped. He had understood that there was no real person behind it because the voice was so devoid of emotion and had a peculiar speech pattern that sounded strangely unnatural. But that was about the extend he had been able to grasp. Just as Alexa's programming was limited, so was his understanding of these things.

Kit let out a small 'oh' when she finally understood.

"So you believe everything in there?" Geralt nodded back at the diary. He thought it prudent to ask her as much as possible now that she was suddenly in the mood to talk and seemed to have no interest whatsoever in avoiding him. It was a nice change of pace. The mere fact that she looked into his eyes made his heart flutter.

"Yes." After some hesitation, she added, "No." She weighed the book in her hand and hiccupped again. "It makes sense. It would explain why I woke up that morning with my hair being a foot longer than it was the day before. Because time really did pass, and I just can't remember."

"But?"

She shrugged. "It's a lot. A new world. A new life." She took the cup of wine and drained the rest of it, squinting one eye to look at the bottom of her empty cup, as if she expected to find some more if she just looked hard enough.

"Don't think that new life of yours could make you happy?" She had been happy – once the initial shock had worn off and a few things had been sorted out. He had never gotten the impression that she had missed her old world at all, safe for some amenities of modernity. Of course, it had taken a while for her to accept things.

Kit tapped her fingers on the diary.

"It seems… rather nice. But," she was interrupted by another hiccup. "I feel so- so… This isn't right." She pouted.

"What exactly isn't right?" He dreaded hearing the answer. Then again he was stills surprised that she wanted to talk about it at all.

"I'm reading a diary to find out more about myself and instead I get surprise diary porn. Do you have any idea how weird that is?" She rested her forehead on the table and continued speaking in a muffled voice:

"Imagine waking up to find vivid descriptions of what you and your partner have done – things so intimate…" She hiccupped again and lifted her head to drink some more, only to remember too late that she had run out of liquid courage. "And yet here I am, knowing that you know every square inch of my body, while I'm just realizing how much of a stranger you are."

"I'm afraid I can't change that."

Kit stared grimly at the empty cup.

"Unless of course you want me to take my clothes off, to make things even," he jested, half expecting her to disappear under the table to hide her flushed face.

To his surprise, Kit just looked at him.

"I mean… you're halfway there already," she pointed out, nodding at his bare chest. "Would be a good start actually."

That left him baffled. e had not expected her to actually take him up on his offer.

"You're drunk," Geralt said for lack of options. Of course, he would not have minded giving in to her demands, but to do so while she was drunk seemed wrong to him. He wanted her back, but he also wanted her to want him, of her own free will.

"I'm not drunk," Kit protested. She pondered for a moment before adding sheepishly: "I might just not be completely sober."

Geralt sighed. A bottle of wine was more than enough to make her drunk. Combined with the sunburn on her face, it would make a rude awakening the next day had it not been for her powers.

"Not being sober means you're drunk."

"That's your opinion."

"Pretty sure it's a lot more than just an opinion." He grinned. He liked drunk Kit much more than scared Kit. "I'll make you an offer."

"One I can't refuse?" Kit asked in a deep voice, her expression stern.

Geralt came closer and rested the palms of his hands on the table opposite of her.

"When you are sober again, I'll do anything you want. You want me to undress? Just say the word. And then you can do whatever you want to me."

Kit actually looked at him, perplexed, before another hiccup caused her to put a hand over her mouth.

"I'll do anything for you," he repeated. "One word."

"One word?" she finally said, her cheeks blushing under the sunburn.

Geralt nodded.

"What word?"

He shrugged. "Preferably one that doesn't come up in a random conversation. It would be awkward if I offered myself to you like this in public." He smirked. "I'd do it though, so be careful."

Kit exhaled a shaky breath, her blue eyes wide open as she stared at him. It would have been cute if not for the circumstances.

After a moment she came to and chuckled.

"This is insane."

"Very," he agreed.

Kit stood up on unsteady legs.

"I'm tired, I don't feel well. I need to lie down for a while," she mumbled, staggered forward, then tripped over her own feet and wiped the empty bottle off the table, shattering it on the floor. In a split second, Geralt was by her side and caught her before she could fall and stumble right into the shards. He picked her up in one fluent motion, one arm under her knees and one behind her back. She looked at him puzzled, as if she was yet to comprehend how she had ended up there.

"Maybe don't drink an entire bottle of wine by yourself," he scolded lightly as he held her. He could feel her heart pounding in her chest. "You've got no tolerance, never had."

"I'm – I'm good. You can let me go now, please."

"Absolutely not. I've reached the limit of how many times I'll watch you hurt yourself."

"I wasn't going to…"

"It looked very much like you were going to." He carefully stepped around the broken bottle and towards the door. Kit stared at him in confusion, still clutching the diaries to her chest. "I'll bring you to your room. And then I'll leave."

"This is really not necessary," Kit protested. She wanted to argue further but was interrupted by another hiccup.

Geralt huffed as he opened the door by leaning against it with his shoulder.

"Sure. And the next thing I hear is you falling down the stairs. In case you haven't noticed, you're currently moving with about as much grace as a foal that has just been born. Not going to happen."

She gave him a pout before she lowered her gaze and made no further sound save for an occasional hiccup as he carried her through the expansive dining room.

He felt her head loll against his shoulder and could smell her breath, sweet with the flavor of the taste of the wine she had drunk. Suddenly, her fingertips brushed over one of his many scars, gently, slowly. His skin tingled under her feather-light touch. He had missed that.

"Your body is so hard. How is it possibly that anything could have left marks on you? Did you jump into a blender?"

"You know what amazes me about you? You can get drunk, so drunk, and yet your speech never slurs," he remarked instead of answering her question.

"I have many talents," she mumbled. Geralt could feel the tension slipping from her body. She must have been really tired to let her guard down this much, he thought. She looked at him, spoke with him, even talked back to him, and now she had even touched him. Things that just a few days ago he had taken for granted now felt like monumental achievements. He frantically thought about reasons to keep carrying her, to keep her in his arms. He missed her so much.

But he could not think of any good reason, so he simply decided to walk as slowly as he could.

"Blatherskite," Kit said suddenly.

"I've been called many things, but this is new. Certainly not something I have ever been accused of."

When Geralt started to climb the stairs, Kit quickly wrapped her arms around his neck, much tighter than necessary, considering they were only stairs and not Mount Gorgon. But he would never complain. Maybe he should have thought of that sooner. He remembered the self-moving metal stairs in her world. Using the wrong ones would have allowed him to carry her for hours, to keep her talking to him.

"You said any word. And I chose one," Kit pulled him from his thoughts.

He hummed. Not an insult then.

"Which one is your room?" he asked, standing at the top of the stairs.

"Second on the left."

He marched straight into her room and carefully set her down on her bed. Since Kit still had her arms around his neck, their faces were awfully close for a moment. Their eyes met and time seemed to slow down. She seemed to blush again but did not avoid his gaze. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Her lips were so close, slightly parted and inviting.

Mesmerized, Geralt was about to give in to his natural instincts, cup her face and kiss her, but then he thought better of it. Not if she was drunk. He liked that the alcohol had made her forget about her discomfort, but this went too far. The last thing he wanted to do was anything that would make her think that her reaction to waking up next to him was in any way justified.

When the spell was broken, he pulled away quickly, not wanting to lose what little goodwill he believed he had gained from this brief moment of forced closeness.

Kit fell back onto her pillows.

Geralt wanted nothing more than to lie down next to her. He slept terribly without her beside him.

But instead he went to the foot of her bed and carefully took off her shoes.

"Thanks," she mumbled and turned on her side, away from him. "The person who wrote this diary, she really loves you," she added before falling asleep.

"Fine then, blatherskite it'll be," he said and left, looking at her longingly before closing the door behind him.

Trying this again.

It's never really dark in my bedroom, there is always a little light coming in, no matter how well I close the curtains. And sometimes, when I wake up at night, there seems to be someone in my room. He doesn't do anything, he just sits by my bed and watches me. I freeze in shock, try to pretend that I'm still asleep, pray that he can't tell that I'm watching him through my not quite closed eyelids, while trying to think of what to do and how he even got in here in the first place. I can only assume that all of this is happening because I'm not fully awake – because after a few excruciatingly long moments, I always realize that there never was anyone in the room. And that it was just the shadows playing a trick on me by making the pile of clothes on my desk chair look vaguely like a person. I guess this is one of those things that could have been avoided altogether by putting my clothes away, but who does that? Everyone has that chair for things they only wore once, right? Right!?

Anyway, this is exactly how I felt when I woke up two days ago with a naked man next to me. I felt the same kind of fear and panic. But I quickly realized that this time there was actually a man and it wasn't just in my head. I have never felt this level of panic before. Can you imagine if your bones were suddenly made of ice? That's the closest I can come to describing what I felt. The body of a stranger pressed against mine, the unmistakable feeling of naked skin against skin. A room that was unfamiliar to me, filled with unfamiliar scents. I was in the wrong place without the slightest idea how I had gotten there.

My heart was beating so fast and so hard that I could hear nothing but my pulse drumming in my ears. I thought I was going to pass out, I thought that my heart could not possibly go on like this for another second before it would explode.

Oddly enough, there is a gap where I don't know exactly what happened. I know that I tried to get out of bed, that I hit my head on the wardrobe. But I only know these things because I was told or guessed them from context.

The next thing I remember is me sitting on the floor, shaking, struggling to breathe, not realizing I was bleeding, and this old man hovering over me. I could see his lips moving, but still couldn't hear anything but my own heartbeat and a faint ringing in my ears. Stress-induced tinnitus, perhaps?

The entire situation now feels like a distant memory, like something that didn't even happen to me, but that I witnessed, like in a movie, happening to someone else. Except for one thing. I remember, and I do remember it vividly, looking into those golden eyes. Eyes like I had never seen them before, such an interesting shade with pupils like those of a cat. Golden irises that moved like stirred honey. At first, I thought I wasn't seeing right because things kept swimming in front of my eyes and I had to concentrate really hard to focus. Then something happened.

Did I maybe recognize these eyes? I'm still not quite sure. Do you know that feeling when you leave a room to do something, but by the time you walk through the door, you have forgotten what it was that you wanted to do? This felt similar.

My first instinct was to ask him, but I couldn't. My mouth was so dry they could have shot a remake of Dune in there.

He's a smart man, I can see that now. There was nothing he could have ever done to calm me down except leave the room. Which he did. A very smart man indeed.

I have no idea for how long I was alone before I was able to move again. There was a wardrobe full of clothes that clearly weren't mine (except they apparently were), but I put them on anyway. There was also a mirror. Believe it or not, but it wasn't until I saw my reflection that I realized that I was bleeding – even though I'd been holding a tissue over the wound the entire time. I'm telling you, living with just two functioning brain cells is hard.

But what I did notice was my hair. You didn't see that coming, did you? Serious case of bedhead, sure, but that wasn't what got me. It was long. It was so long! Literally a foot longer than it was yesterday. How could that be? Of all the strange things to have happened in that short time frame, this was the one that made me question my sanity the most. Not the unfamiliar room, not the naked stranger, not me being naked together with the naked stranger. No, it was the length of my damn hair.

When I finally made it out of the bedroom, dreading my next encounter with the naked man (who was now dressed and therefore in need of a new nickname), I think I finally began to actually perceive things in a more normal way. The artist formerly known as the Naked Man still scared the shit out of me, even though literally nothing he did was in any way hostile or threatening. In hindsight, I see what I couldn't at the time: He was nothing but gentle and caring. He tended to my wound and then proceeded to shake my world like a snow globe. He told me that I was 45, not 20, that he was my husband, and that I had just forgotten everything that had happened in the last 25 years. You know, like you do sometimes.

I think at this point I had already lost one of my two remaining braincells from exhaustion, and the last one wasn't doing a very good job on its own. Geralt (the artist formerly known as the Naked Man) tried to explain things to me, basic stuff. Like how I lost my memory (a magic spell transmitted through enhanced and specially bred scorpions, lol, of course), how he is my husband – you know, just the basics you need to hear when you wake up from the equivalent of a 25-year coma during which you were sleepwalking (and sleepmarrying apparently and worse).

The other odd thing was my wound. The tissue I had held to my forehead was soaked in blood. And yet, when I went to clean my face a little later, there was nothing there. No wound, no swelling, not even a bruise or a scratch. Even the pain was gone. Just how? Lacerations don't usually disappear like that, I should have needed stitches.

It was a tough morning. Geralt scared me, although I couldn't tell you why right now. It's not like he did anything except take care of me and try to make me eat. The more I think about it, the more this first morning seems to fade like an old photograph, the panic now seems completely misplaced.

And I wonder if it's because something in me remembers him, and that something simply needed a way to bypass the panic of that very first shock?

I gladly fled to Anais, this woman who I didn't even know, but who appeared like a lifeboat to my personal Titanic. Realistically, she seemed like a sensible choice simply because she too was a woman. Again, no idea why, but I liked her immediately. She is younger than me (at least considering my supposed real age), but she seems so calm, so wise and gentle. Do you know that feeling when you meet someone new and you just hit it off with them? I didn't talk that much but I had this very distinct feeling that I could trust her and that I was welcome.

Staying with her and getting some distance from that brutal awakening helped me more than I can put into words.

But before I was able to make my great escape, Geralt, the now fully clothed man, forced me to look at a painting of the two of us. I have no words to describe just how fucking weird this painterstyle medieval porn picture was. Honestly, it scared me and I thought he was a total pervert. Just a little later he offered to braid my hair for me and I allowed it (not sure if that is the right word – could I really have said no not knowing what I do know now?) because I was afraid of what would happen if I said no.

Anais, the woman I immediately trusted, kept telling me that he was a great guy, but there was no way I could trust her opinion. The ick factor was just way too high.

And now I feel foolish.

He has been nothing but kind and patient with me. And now he's even helping Anais, didn't hesitate a single second. Anais praises him so much that I'm almost convinced I've married a saint (feels incredibly strange to write that down).

But did I? Am I really in a world full of magic monsters and husbands? Maybe I should make a list.

Pro this is real

My hair is way longer than it should be – while this isn't an indication that 25 years have passed, it does mean that some years have passed

I have a tattoo that I definitely shouldn't have

I have a wound that healed so quickly, it certainly wasn't normal

People around here seem to know me even though I don't know them

There is a painting of Geralt and me in a way that is (in my opinion) not suitable for public display – where did that come from?

According to this diary, I have already struggled with this concept once before and quite neatly deduced that this world is not fake. The points I made still hold true. No electricity, an empty sky, the general impossibility of faking something this big so convincingly…

I don't remember my family, my friends – and thinking about them (or trying to) doesn't make me sad. Or happy, or really anything at all. It is a very strange emptiness. Even if everything around me is fake, nobody can change what's inside me, what I feel… Cogito Ergo Sum never gets old

This diary was definitely written by me. It's my handwriting, it's my voice – even if there are things that I'm not familiar with. There are places where while reading I know how a sentence is going to end, or I have a sudden intuition about what's going to happen next. It is such a strange feeling, a dissonance between not knowing anything at all and yet having a vague idea that I do. Somehow.

The things that I was so sure happened just a few days ago – they suddenly feel like very old memories. Two days ago I was stressing about an essay I had to write. I understand now that this isn't my reality anymore. I probably did write this essay at some point (possibly 25 years ago?)

I'm not 20 anymore. The memories I thought of as current have a weird aftertaste after having read my diary. It's like reading the diary made me see that my brain is trying to trick me. To what end? No idea.

Contra this is real:

It's batshit crazy

Geralt gave me these diaries today and told me that if I don't believe him, then maybe I'd believe myself. And… I do believe. Because I've been through this before, because I've done the mental gymnastics trying to explain it to myself and failed. I still can't believe it though. Not really. I mean… come on.

And now I don't see Geralt the way I saw him that morning anymore. He doesn't look like a threat, he doesn't even look as old anymore. Maybe the white hair misled me in my panic?

And the things I have written about him, about us… The range is wide, from heartbreakingly lovely to kinky, it's all in there.

He's still a stranger, but not quite as strange anymore. Something in me clearly recognizes him through my writing about him. He's been hovering around the property all day and I find myself looking for him all the time when just a few hours ago all I wanted to do was run away. Most of the things in this diary relate to him, directly or indirectly.

And yet, I have trouble looking him in the eye. At first it was because I was afraid. And now it's… I don't even know. Because this stranger has seen me naked, has done things to me so intimate, that require so much trust that I cannot even imagine it when I look into his unfamiliar face. I feel violated, even though the facts clearly speak a different language.

Just to confuse me even more, he took off his sweaty shirt and I swear it happened in slow motion in a way that would have made Pamela Anderson green with envy even in her Baywatch heyday. So, does my own diary make me horny for my supposed husband? There are definitely many (very many) descriptions in here that should at least make me rightfully curious. Or is it because Anais speaks so highly of him and thereby gave him some sort of seal of approval?

Stumbling into his arms didn't help with my confusion. Something about the way he held me made me… excited? Breathless? And then, suddenly, warm, calm and cozy. Which is quite something considering that I've felt so restless that I can hardly sleep at night.

I know I technically saw him completely naked, though I really didn't. I can't remember, not really anyway, because I was mostly preoccupied with banging my head into furniture and then going into shock. So it was only then that I saw all these scars. Where did they come from? Most of them are faint, so they are probably really old. What did he do to end up looking like that? Even though they're mostly healed now, I imagine they must have been very painful once, and somehow that thought makes me really sad. Why is that? I don't even know him and yet the idea that he must have been in pain makes me just so… sad.

But aside from that: He's a stranger. They are all stranger, although I already feel quite close to Anais. She lost her husband not so long ago, and we've talked about it a lot. That, and the baby she's expecting – something he, Erasmus, never even knew about before he died. I really want to help her. Actually, it's more of an urge. I wonder if that is because some part of me remembers her, or if it's just empathy for the situation she's in.

I feel trapped in a strange vacuum. I realize that the life I thought I had isn't there anymore. At the same time, I don't think I've quite arrived here yet. Nothing has ever prepared me for this. So what do I do?

Huh, you know what? Actually, writing it all down has helped. Seems like past/future me had a good idea here.

Since it was getting late, Anais asked Geralt and Eskel to stay for dinner. Both of them were spent and it did not take any arm-twisting to get them to agree. A somewhat dazed Kit, who had slept off the bottle of wine and the sunburn, had joined them.

"I wouldn't mind enjoying that lovely view a little longer," Eskel said to Anais before, after a moment's hesitation, he turned his head to watch the sun set behind the mountains that surrounded Toussaint.

When Anais briefly went to get a deck of cards and Eskel left to relieve himself, Kit asked Geralt in a hushed voice:

"Since when is Eskel in love with her?"

Geralt looked at her, surprised that she had noticed it. And maybe also because after what had happened earlier, he had not been sure if she felt any desire to acknowledge his existence.

It was true though, Eskel had never said a word, but it was obvious to everyone who knew him that he had fallen completely for Anais. At least, it was obvious to everyone but Anais herself. Naturally, Eskel had never mentioned it. After all, she had been married. And now that she was without a husband, it would have taken some serious lack of empathy to try to get close to her.

Geralt was surprised that Kit had figured it out so quickly without really knowing either of them. The signs were there if you knew what to look for, but someone who had just joined their group should never have guessed. Except for her of course, he thought. She had always had a knack for reading people. He remembered their last visit to the palace and how she had given him a brief introduction to the people around them and had found it easy to pinpoint their most important characteristics. It seemed that the memory loss had not changed that.

"How do you know?" Geralt asked her.

"The way he looks at her, as if she were she sun. But he tries to hide it, tries to be funny and masks his compliments. And she's too deep in mourning to notice. And too much in love with her dead husband."

Geralt nodded.

"Would you notice if someone looked at you like that?"

Kit chuckled uncomfortably.

"Don't be silly. Nobody would…" But then she stopped and looked at Geralt, realizing that he very well would – and probably did. Something she would have noticed had she not been so busy trying to avoid his glance. Which was exactly what she was doing. It seemed like a miracle to him that she did not end up with whiplash from how fast she turned her face away from him.

Geralt realized that he took a little bit of enjoyment out of making her feel uncomfortable in these situations. He tried hard to suppress a smirk. Of course, he had no intention of hurting her, but he considered challenging her assumptions about him as a possible way to open her up to seeing him as more than a threat.

He missed her terribly.

Against a stunning sunset, the group played cards well into the night.

"Apologies, I need to rest," Anais said finally. "Would you like to stay the night? It's so late, I can quickly ready some beds for you," she offered to Geralt and Eskel.

Geralt shook his head.

"I'll head back and make some inquiries for you, find you some workers. Also need to arrange a few things at Corvo Bianco so that I can spend some time here and see what else you might need. Do an inventory of sorts," he said, adding in his mind that he also needed to sharpen the damn axes. "I'll try to come back tomorrow as early as I can."

"That would be lovely, thank you Geralt."

"I need a change of clothes, but I'll be back tomorrow as well. If you still have a bed then, it might give me more time to fix things around here," Eskel offered.

"Of course, you are always welcome!"

On his way home, Geralt suddenly felt lonely and wished he had stayed.

After a restless night, he spent his time trying to arrange everything and wondered how long he could leave Corvo Bianco under the supervision of BB. He could not quite imagine that there had once been a time when he had not been very involved in the management of the estate and the business at all. It felt strange to hand things over to BB again, even if only for a while. But Geralt wanted to spend as much time as possible at Zahrat Alsahra. He felt a little ashamed that it was mostly because he was worried about Kit and wanted to win her back, no matter what it took. The fact that Anais desperately needed help only came second. He wondered if Kit, his Kit, would have reprimanded him for it if she had known. Then again, it hardly mattered since she was not here. Geralt thought back to the conversation he had overheard between Kit and BB, and how angry he had become because this version of him was not enough. It had frustrated him to no end. Now that he was on the other side, he understood exactly just how Kit must have felt. He missed his Kit, the one that adored him instead of feared him. He had grown so used to her love that to go without it felt like the worst thing in existence – and he was sure that she had felt exactly the same.

So Geralt vowed to be better, to be patient and understanding, and to do all he could to help Kit and thereby win her back.

The sun had just risen when Geralt got out of bed and packed some tools and more things for Kit. He considered taking some of her old diaries with him, but decided against it. A part of him wanted her to fall in love with him all over again without the help of, well, herself. After all, Kit had had no such help when he himself had needed to remember. And when he had finally remembered, it had been because he had started to see certain things for what they were. Maybe Kit had to do the same.

Geralt quickly wrote a list for BB concerning everything that needed to be done in the next few days before he instructed his barely awake Major Domo as soon as the man entered the house. Geralt even forwent the surely delicious breakfast that Marlene was in the process of preparing. With an apology he left. He was impatient enough not to walk the distance again, but roused a miffed Roach from her slumber.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise." He patted the mare and offered her an apple that he had snatched from the otherwise neglected breakfast table. After a moment of hesitation and flaring of her nostrils, the goddess trapped in the body of a common horse accepted the offering, and things between them were temporarily mended.

Geralt arrived at Zahrat Alsahra before anyone else had woken up. Filled with nervous energy, Geralt took one of the much too blunt axes and started to sharpen it before he set to work on the fallen tree. The day promised to be sunny and warm again. He took off his shirt and put it aside, lest to have it soaked in sweat again before the morning was over.

Barely half an hour had passed before Eskel's somnolent face greeted him.

"You're early," he yawned.

Geralt answered with a shrug and stubbornly repeated the cycle of swinging the axe and then pulling it out of the tree trunk.

Eskel nodded.

"This is painful."

"You can skip out on your beauty sleep this once. I'm sure the women of Beauclair will vouch for it."

"You're so funny," Eskel grumbled.

"Funny enough to make a living from it?"

"If I say yes, will you shut up?"

"No."

"I swear, if Kit doesn't remember soon, I'll lock the two of you in a room until she does. You are hard to bear at the moment, my dear friend."

While Geralt gave him a dirty look, Eskel reluctantly joined him. The rhythmic thwack of their axes was the only sound in the early morning.

It was Anais who finally discovered them. She ordered them to stop immediately and join her for breakfast.

"I bet none of you have eaten yet. You have no business working already," she scolded them.

"What did I tell you?" Eskel whispered to Geralt.

"Now come with me. I won't be accused of being a bad hostess."

Both Eskel and Geralt obediently followed her to the terrace, where Kit was still in the process of overloading the table with all kinds of food, running back and forth to the kitchen repeatedly to pick up more delicacies.

"I asked BB to keep an eye out for available workers. But it looks like you won't be needing a kitchen help," he surmised when Kit darted back into the kitchen yet again without paying Geralt any mind.

"I'd love to keep her, but I think her husband would mind," Anais mused. "Besides – what about the dresses? Surely she has a lot of orders to fill?"

Geralt shook his head.

"As luck would have it, she worked through several nights to have more time to help me remember." He paused. "Wonder if she even knows how to sew at the moment." She wore her hair unbraided again, but in a ponytail, which told him that she still had not figured out how to braid her own hair. If she could not even remember that, then sewing was probably out of the question for now.

"Oh dear. I hope she remembers soon. She'd be devastated if her business suffered from this."

"Whose business is suffering?" Kit wondered as she heaved a large mug of some juice onto the table. "I think that's all for now. I'm starving."

"You'd think it was you who has been chopping down that tree for several hours already and not us," Eskel sneered.

"I don't need to chop trees to be hungry."

"Clearly."

After their breakfast, they were all slumped in their chairs as each of them had hopelessly overeaten.

"We should continue," Eskel suggested as he leaned back, his head lolling over the back of his chair.

"You certainly should. I need to take inventory and look at all the plants."

"And leave all the hard work to me?" Eskel complained.

"Just yesterday you boldly claimed that you would finish the rest of that tree," Kit reminded him.

"Well, that was yesterday. And today is today."

"I'm sure it can wait," Anais suggested.

Eskel sighed and got up. Geralt grinned. There was no way he would admit weakness in front of Anais.

After a day of taking her estate apart, Geralt came to the conclusion that Anais was lucky. It was still early enough in the year to get everything on track. The vines were in great shape even though no one had tended to them, but the recent weather had been in their favor and so far, there were no pests to be seen. It would have been a shame, he thought as he ran his fingers though the soil, if this year's harvest had been in jeopardy. Zahrat Alsahra had produced a number of vintages with a distinct but gentle note of truffle and moss for which it was widely known. He hoped that one day he would be able to create something equally as original and sophisticated.

It turned out that Erasmus had kept stock of everything, most of which Geralt could verify with little trouble. Basing his calculations on the size of his own estate, he estimated that any order for barrels and related items would be so small, that they would have no problem finding someone to squeeze their order in between the larger ones from the other wineries.

Even the equipment was in remarkably good shape. Everything had been oiled and sharpened before the previous winter. What an unfortunate coincidence that Eskel and he seemed to have grabbed the only blunt axes on the entire property.

Geralt could not help but admire the way Anais' husband had arranged for everything. He vowed to be a bit more prepared himself from now on. He had greatly improved when it came to bureaucracy, but it was still the most hated part of the business. He would rather attempt to slay seven wyverns at once than fill out even a single export form.

It was evening before the four of them met again for dinner. They talked and laughed and played cards again. Kit tried to teach them Texas Hold'em and they all were nice enough to pretend that she had not already done so years ago. Only Eskel slipped up briefly when he suggested that they play a round of strip poker – but his slip was quickly drowned out by a joke Geralt made.

When it got too late and Eskel and Anais said good night to the others, Geralt and Kit were left alone.

"Should leave," Geralt said and got out of his chair, not wanting the situation to become uncomfortable. But he had the feeling that things had improved. Kit had not avoided his gaze entirely and had even addressed him directly once, which made him hopeful. A few days ago, that would have been unthinkable.

"You'll be back tomorrow then?" Kit asked.

If Geralt was not entirely mistaken, her question had no undertone of dread. In fact, it sounded rather expectant. And maybe he should have expected that himself, but the fear of that first morning still sat deep in his bones. Maybe it affected him more than her. He never wanted to see her so scared or distressed ever again.

"Tomorrow. You won't get rid of me that easily."

Kit smiled.

"It's so nice of you to help Anais," she said.

"She's my friend too, you know?"

Kit said nothing, just looked at him, frowning.

"What? Is something wrong?" he asked after the silence became uncomfortable.

"You look different, somehow."

"Different? Compared to when?"

"To… earlier. That morning." That morning. Of course. She had not forgotten either.

"Is that a good thing?"

She nodded.

He wondered what had made her see him differently. Had he actually managed to convince her by her own words?

"Good night, Kit," he said before she could change her mind.

"Good night, Geralt."

As he took the stairs down from the terrace, he listened for her footsteps on the way inside. There were none. He tried not to turn around, but in the end, he could not resist. Kit was leaning against the railing, arms crossed in front of her, watching him leave. Maybe she was not even looking at him, it was hard to tell in the dark at this distance, but he liked to think that she was watching him. Not because she was afraid and wanted make to sure he was gone, but instead for all the right reasons.