I will surmise the nature of the trouble on the spot and will do all that is in my power to calm the gushing source. It goes without saying that I leave in absolute secrecy and with great caution. I leave without delay, and go to the place which you indicated in an oblique yet, to me, understandable way. Rest assured, my dear friend and if you had the intention of supplicating the help of additional magicians, abandon it because there is no need. What have I done to deserve to be so high on your list? I feel honoured to be the second to whom you turn. And I agree with your opinion that the help of yet another magician is absolutely necessary. Although your description of the difficulty – quite understandably – is enigmatic, I am sure I know the Source of the problem. Your supposition that this requires professional help is absolutely correct. It worries and troubles me very much that the unexpected present you received from Fate brings you worries.
I hasten with the news that, yes, I now feel well the period of indisposition is behind me, I have dealt with the difficulties, the description of which I shall not bore you with. I was touched by the sudden concern which you deigned to show as to my health, dear friend. These days such a life is a real privilege, dear friend, and I am happy that you have managed to achieve it.
From your letter it appears that you have lived a peaceful, wonderfully boring life, devoid of all sensation. It is a good thing that you have decided to disclaim them by writing to me it is a good thing, too, that you are doing so so soon. My joy is all the greater as various rumours have been circulating about your sudden and violent death. 'Dear friend, your unexpected letter – which I received not quite three years after we last saw each other – has given me much joy. Finally, he had decided on “Dear friend.” Now he had his just deserts. When he was writing to the sorceress a month ago he had spent two nights in a row contemplating how best to begin. He felt once again the desire to try to bite his own backside in fury. The Witcher swore quietly, looking at the sharp, angular, even runes drawn with energetic sweeps of the pen, faultlessly reflecting the author’s mood.
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