Jaskier follows her instructions correctly this time and thinks on the lovely room he has at the inn. He pictures the fancy oaken bed with its heavy plush duvet, the thick velvet curtains, the soft rugs and the wide, inset bath with its fancy little faucet and drains. He can recall exactly how he'd set out his lute, where his stage clothes were, the bottle of wine he'd left uncorked and on the table after his late breakfast.

He goes with her as she pulls at him and, this time, the trip is far less jarring. In his right mind and aware, the rush of movement is like leaping off a ledge into a pond. There is a satisfying glorious plunge to it and Jaskier is beaming as they step through and into the dimly lit comfort of his rented room. The curtains are heavy but they stir with the whorl of magic and wind--the sunshine filters in between them and, as they shift, the muted sounds of laughter and street performances filter up from below.

This inn is at the heart of the festivities and, in truth, not terribly far from the room they'd just left. He cannot say he regrets traveling this way, though--if he ran into Marx again so soon he would absolutely throttle the man to death.

Jaskier laughs brightly as they step through, his hair windswept and askew, and squeezes her hands.

"That, my dear, is the most remarkable skill!" Jaskier praises. "I cannot fathom how much of the world you've seen because of it--wonders never cease in your presence, truly!"