"I can weld," Geralt took up at the mention of a green-house. He thought of the beautiful conservatories, at the Imperial court, and in Beauclair. It was a good way to offer his help, and he'd caught on it before thinking it through.

"Without equipment."

He glanced up at the ceiling, feeling strangely sheepish about it. Geralt, old as he was, was still uncomfortable yet, at some of his more obvious oddness. It was in his character

"I make more than enough to provide feed all winter. It's the quarters alone that concerned me. It's not right to have a horse out in winter, especially without a warm stable to urge her into in the evening."

That the horse would be a mare was a foregone conclusion to Geralt. To the witcher, every horse was a Roach, and every Roach was a mare.