I grin, giving her my classic crooked smile. After Malva's death, mentally it was hard to get back in the game (especially not knowing how to do it), but when I figured it out, I realized that women do really like me, mainly those who usually connect their lives with men. I could not find the answer to this question right away: I wasn't masculine in appearance, and I didn't act like a typical man, but something kept pulling them towards me.

My Academy friend once told me that all young girls dreamt of a beautiful gallant prince, but all they could get in the end is a snoring bearded husband who smelled like grandma's onion soup. "And what do I have to do with it?" I asked my ex-roommate in bewilderment. "You are the very prince they used to imagine, the airy youth they dreamt about when in their teens, spending sleepless tearstained nights buried their fair heads in stuffy pillows," she would say with a laugh in her voice. "That's all I need!" I would snort in response. "I'm telling you the truth. Just think about it, Crow," she would seep her vine, her feline green eyes glowing in a warm light of a tavern hearth, "you are a strong witch, slim, tall, athletic..."   "Oh, please!"   "I'm serious! You are always wearing your tight pants that are fitting snugly your resilient ass, and this baddie leather jacket on you, and when you take it off, you are always rolling up your sleeves almost to your shoulder flaunting with pleasant muscles."   "I NEVER do that!"    "You do! You do!" laughed my bestie, "and you are doing it now. You are definitely making damsels wet!"    "I hope at least you are not in love with me?!" I asked her fearfully. "I have been with you since our childhood years at the Academy, I saw you throwing up with rainbow coloured frogs because of the wrong potion... and don't forget about my necromancer, I'm still dating him... sometimes." We bayed with a demonic laughter, waking up the old guard troll, and we clinked glasses under his hoarse grumbling.

Rootie certainly exaggerated, didn't she? I don't know whether she was joking or not during those frank conversations when we managed to meet each other in different nooks and crannies of Goddess forsaken Woodland. One thing I understood well from our conversations is that my body has always attracted attention.

I don't like Svartalf, but I feel how my actions and my body embarrass her, and it is an amazing feeling. I want to tease her: I'm slowly pulling off my underwear shorts without even trying to cover my crotch. I throw them aside with a tip of my big toe. The elfia quickly turns away to face the darkened dull silver mirror in an old wooden frame.

She can see me in the reflection. I want to tell her that good girls don't peep, but I simply put off the lace top on thin straps that serves me instead of a corset. Malva gave it to me for my birthday. Such expensive lace bras, lightweight and more convenient than corsets, could only be bought in Westlandia. They are specially brought to the capital for the wealthy of Woodland. I don't throw Malva's gift on the floor, but carefully put it on the chair.

My body is tired, I stretch putting my hands up. Over the past months of "coinless" times, I have lost weight, but it did not affect my muscles: I look fine, though pale. Training at the Academy, constant practical tasks and missions, horseback riding, and shameful hiking trips after the robbery had a good effect on my body tone and stamina. If any of my Academy group mates find out that I, a battle witch, let some non-mage rascals rob me, they will be mocking at me till blissful Amixantra's filds come.

What pleasure is to slowly sink into a hot bath smelling of young pine needles and wildflowers. It seems that this pleasure was intended for rich gnomes, but I don't regret at all: I'm certainly aware of the fact that I have not taken a bath for a week or so. Frankly, I washed up somehow in cold forest streams, rivers, and slightly warm rain barrels in different villages. That was not pleasant, AT ALL, I tell you."

"I need the toilet," I don't immediately understand who is talking to me. I dozed off for a couple of minutes from tiredness.

"Use a night vase!" Svartalf answers irritably. She is sitting with her legs on the bed, her chin is on her knees. The elfia is looking sadly out the window at the swinging maple branch.

"But it's too small!" the mermaid objects.

"So you try!" elfia barks at her.

I don't want to listen to this meaningless dialogue, "Lodda, go to the backyard, there's a need in a gray booth near the stable. Knock before you enter, or rather do what you want behind the rosehip bushes..."

Elfia doesn't want the mermaid to leave her eyesight, "I am not done with you yet," she says sternly. "Don't stay too long, I don't want to run around Roseville looking for you."

"Relax, why so nervous," I yawn when Lodda left the room. She doesn't answer. She is sitting in an uncomfortable position on the bed rubbing her temples.

"Headache?"

"Just tired... it's fine."

"It's not fine. It's a bad headache."

"I don't understand why we just can't question her about Prince Imor (she said his name in a hushed voice) and let her go wherever she wants. Here's the river five-ten church candles away from us."

She is almost crying again. Her face expresses such sadness that for the first time in my life I feel bad for my country that lost its free soul and uncorrupted body long long ago, and I also feel the urge to stand and cover my nakedness. The first thing I come across is Svartalf's present. I hastily wrap my body with a red cloth. Gingerly stepping on the uncarpeted floor, I stand in front of the young woman.

"Look at me," I whisper.