by Milena Vitkovskaya
The fountain glittered quietly, the fountain bowl smelled of wet stone. The air smelled offlowers and of ivy crawling on the walls of the patio. It smelled of apples, standing in a bowlon a marble table. Two glasses steamed up with chilled wine.
At the table sat two women. Two sorceresses. If they happened to be near any artistically gifted person, full of picturesque imagination and capable of lyrical allegories, it would not have been difficult to imagine the two. Flame-haired Lytta Neyd in a cinnabar green dress was like a sunset in September. Yennefer of Vengerberg, black-haired, dressed in a combination of black and white, suggested a December morning.
Season of StormsAt the table sat two women. Two sorceresses. If they happened to be near any artistically gifted person, full of picturesque imagination and capable of lyrical allegories, it would not have been difficult to imagine the two. Flame-haired Lytta Neyd in a cinnabar green dress was like a sunset in September. Yennefer of Vengerberg, black-haired, dressed in a combination of black and white, suggested a December morning.
