[ Sleipnir pauses. His steely blue eyes have turned distant, sifting through memories he thought long since forgotten and pushed to the wayside; it is plain to see, despite some attempt to remain casual and disconcerted, that Geralt's suggestions have found some mark. He is thinking of something, and something specific.

At length, when the conjurer has healed the young lord's wounds to a ruddy pink, Sleipnir lifts his hand in final dismissal. ]

Harlan, I have had enough. That will be all.

[ The requisite loyal servant's protestations must come forthwith. "But, milord —" ]

Please.

[ Sleipnir's tone is different then — again, no longer sly and teasing, but genuine and serious and solemn. Again, the House servants seem to know more about their lord than Geralt does; after a hefty pause, Harlan sighs, stands, and excuses himself, this time without the pointed judgment in Geralt's direction.

Once the door has closed behind the healer, Sleipnir begins again, though he doesn't, himself, rise from his bed. ]

Master Geralt. For the sake of your investigation, I will be frank with you, but — to use a very clichéd and hackneyed line, indeed an unrivaled classic —

[ As he speaks, he beckons the witcher closer. If he is humored, he leans close enough to Geralt's lips to taste his breath, and whispers: ]

— you are not to breathe a word of this to anyone else.