Jaskier rolls over so that he's not a starfish sprawl across the mattress, freeing up space that Geralt could occupy. He sits on the edge, and the mattress is soft enough that it depresses easily underneath his mass. A real feather mattress, definitely. And the comforter must be stuffed with down, so it'll be warm enough even for someone like Jaskier. It ranks pretty highly in terms of quality beds that Geralt has gotten to sleep in.

He lays back, closing his eyes and letting himself sink in a little. He thinks about what it might be like, spending the winter months here-- having the liberty to be picky about his contracts, with the option of not taking any at all and just spending hours in the library, writing commentary in the margins of monster manuals; coming back at the end of the day to this little room and its big feather bed, to Jaskier sitting at the desk, plucking out some tune on his lute while he composes. His tongue sticking out between his lips a little as he concentrates and makes notes, quill softly scratching on the page. Then, when he notices that Geralt is back, the smile that breaks across his face like the sun over the horizon--

An idle fantasy. Meaningless.

"Keep my things off the floor, washing in the basket, don't be late for meals, baths when I need them," he summarizes. The spare set of keys flashes through the air and Geralt catches them without even needing to sit up. "I'll remember. Does the trunk lock? Should put my potion bag in there, just in case."

Last thing they need is for the maid to accidentally get into his potion bag and poison herself on a witcher concoction.

"When are your lectures?"