‘We have you now, Falka! You were not expecting us here, huh?’
‘I was expecting you,’ the old man heard. He trembled at the sound of that voice. He saw the movement of the slender figure. He heard a gasp of horror. The muffled cry of one of the serving girls. He could not see that the girl called Falka had removed the hood and scarf. He could not see that her face was terribly maimed. And her eyes painted with paste of fat and soot made it seem like she had the eyes of a demon.
‘I’m not Falka,’ said the girl. The old man saw her move again, fast and blurred. He saw something glint in the light of the oil lamps. ‘I’m Ciri from Kaer Morhen. I’m a witcher. I came here to kill.’