Time of Contempt He thought for her and Yennefer smiled, listening to his thoughts. The smile quivered on her cheek along with the crescent shadows of her eyelashes. ‘A home?’ asked Yennefer suddenly. ‘What home? Do you have a home? You want to build a home? Oh . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t . . .’ He was quiet. He was angry with himself. As he had been thinking for her, he had accidentally allowed her to read a thought about herself. ‘A pretty dream,’ said Yennefer, stroking him lightly on the shoulder. ‘A home. A house built with your own hands, and you and I in that house. You would keep horses and sheep, and I would have a little garden, cook food and card wool, which we would take to market. With the pennies earned from selling the wool and various crops we would buy what we needed; let’s say some copper cauldrons and an iron rake. Every now and then, Ciri would visit us with her husband and three children, and Triss Merigold would occasionally look in, to stay for a few days. We’d grow old together, beautifully and with dignity. And should I ever get bored, you would play for me in the evening on your homemade bagpipes. Playing the bagpipes – as everyone knows – is the best remedy for depression.’ The Witcher said nothing. The enchantress cleared her throat softly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, a moment later. He got up on an elbow, leaned across and kissed her. She moved suddenly, and hugged him. Wordlessly.