"Spring sounds ... fortuitous," thinking of the Lady in Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers. It was a blessed month. Geralt didn't believe in the hods, but the Lady wasn't a god. Not any more than Ciri's abilities made her one.

He kissed Nina again, briefly, in passing, and poured himself another drink. This time, it was in celebration. He could celebrate while still being terrified. He'd never dealt with infants before, not like Vesemir. By Geralt's time, the sutcher alchemists had already been slaughtered, lost with the secrets to the Trials. There would be no more witcher children.

But what sort of child would their be?

"Negotiate?"