Between Libertas, the Heralds, and the three of them having a tendency to wander, it's no surprise the house is empty. Kol, the baker downstairs, has put a sign on the door noting he will return in an hour.

Geralt, for his part, is in fact at the stables. He's taken to paying a stableboy to muck and do the general upkeep—they're no longer short on coin these days—but he still comes every morning to take care of Roach herself. And, of course, talk to her. Which is what he's doing at the moment while he brushes her.

"We've made it another winter." Her ears flick. She snorts in his direction. "Don't tell me you're demanding a Yuletide gift—"

Light footsteps sound behind him. The stableboy, he presumes.

"Leave it outside. I'll—" He stops. Wait. He knows that scent. It's been some time, too long, but.

Geralt spins around. His eyes widen. Fuck. Is that—?

"Rinwell?"