Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the candle dazzled her, so that she could scarcely make out the two figures standing behind it. ‘Triss!’ Her mother’s tone was beyond anger or incredulity. There was awe and fear in her voice. Not-Triss could only gape into the light. How stupid she was! For some reason she had assumed that her ferocious battle with the bird-thing would have been inaudible to ordinary ears, like Angelina’s screaming back in the cottage. Now she realized that it had been very, very audible indeed, loud enough to wake the whole street. The light advanced slowly into the room, and Not-Triss could see that it was held by her father. Not-Triss wondered how she looked to them – a glaring, dishevelled specimen perhaps, hunched like a church gargoyle on the scuffed rug. ‘Triss – what are you doing here?’ Her father’s voice was very, very level. ‘Nothing,’ she whispered.
