"For the lady." Geralt sketched a courtly bow over his lap. "Anything."

He thought he might be in love. It wasn't the binding, breathless thunderstorm of Yennefer, at times treading the line of hatred and resentment. It was sweet and intoxicating, like spring in Nenneke's garden, the scent of every blossom he could name and some he couldn't.

"So that's the plan."