Chapter 2: The Bathwater Problem

The morning after her arrival, Yennefer discovered that Kaer Morhen’s fabled hospitality extended exactly as far as Vesemir’s goodwill—and no further. The sorceress stood in the middle of the great hall, arms crossed, surveying the scene with the critical eye of a general reviewing a defeated army. Geralt had not slept. He sat at the long table, nursing a cup of something that was not quite coffee and not quite tea, but managed to be unpleasant in the way only witcher provisions could. Lambert was sharpening a sword with unnecessary violence. Eskel, newly returned from a morning patrol, stamped snow from his boots and grunted a greeting. Vesemir poked at the fire, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I require a bath,” Yennefer announced. Her voice carried no hint of a request. “There’s one,” Lambert said without looking up. “Down the hall. Left at the moldy tapestry. Right past the broken door. Third room on the right. Water’s cold. Enjoy.” Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. “I did not travel through a blizzard and seven ruined gowns to endure cold water, Lambert. I require hot water. Plentiful. And a proper bathing chamber, not a witcher’s idea of a drying shed.” “There’s a cauldron in the kitchen,” Vesemir offered mildly. “You could heat it yourself. Or ask Geralt nicely.” Geralt groaned into his cup. The next hour was a study in forced civilization. Yennefer commandeered the kitchen, igniting the hearth with a casual snap of her fingers that made Eskel jump back. She filled the largest cauldron with snow melted by a precise application of magic, then enchanted a series of smaller pots to keep the water flowing in a continuous stream toward the bathtub. The progress was not pretty: water dripped from the ceiling, flooded a corridor, and extinguished a candle that Lambert had been using to read a particularly lewd bestiary entry. He cursed, dropped the book, and slipped on the wet stones. “This is chaos,” Eskel muttered to Geralt, who was watching from the doorway with an expression of resigned acceptance. “It’s Yennefer,” Geralt replied. “Chaos comes with her luggage.” By noon, the bath was ready—steaming, scented with oils Yennefer had produced from one of her trunks, and surrounded by candles that had definitely not been part of Kaer Morhen’s original décor. Yennefer soaked for an hour, emerging with damp hair and a silk robe that looked wildly out of place against the grey stone walls. She immediately inspected the wine cellar. It was empty save for one dusty bottle of cheap plum spirit that Vesemir called “the emergency reserve” and Lambert called “last winter’s mistake.” Yennefer held it up to the light, sniffed it, and set it on the table with the same reverence one might give a dead rat. “This will not do,” she said. “I shall send for a shipment from Toussaint. Red, dry, aged at least ten years. And a few bottles of white for the fish.” “There’s no fish,” said Lambert. “There will be,” Yennefer said. “I saw a frozen lake on the way in. And if witchers can’t fish, I’ll teach them.” Vesemir chuckled into his beard. Geralt rubbed his temples. Lambert opened his mouth to protest, but Yennefer cut him off with a raised finger. “Before you speak, Lambert, consider: I am the only person in this keep who knows how to make water not taste like rust. You will be civil, or you will be thirsty.” Lambert closed his mouth. That evening, a raven arrived at the window carrying a tiny scroll addressed to the Ducal Vineyards of Beauclair. Yennefer wrote her order in elegant script, attached a pouch of coins, and sent the bird back into the snow. The witchers watched in silence. “She’s ordering wine,” Eskel said, as if confirming a dream. “She’s ordering civilization,” Vesemir corrected, pouring himself a mug of the plum spirit. “Let’s see how long it lasts.” Geralt looked at Yennefer, who had already begun rearranging the furniture in the great hall, pushing a heavy oak table against the wall to make space for what she called “a proper sitting area.” She caught his eye and smiled—not the sharp smile she used on Lambert, but something softer. “Don’t worry, Geralt. I won’t break your keep. I’m only improving it.” “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, but he was smiling too. Winter had begun, and Kaer Morhen was already changing. Whether for better or worse, nobody could yet say—but at least the wine was on its way.