Renfri lowered her head, but only for a moment. Her eyes flashed. “Fine. I’m supposed to be cursed. Contaminated in my mother’s womb. I’m supposed to be…” “Yes?” “A monster.” “And are you?” For a fleeting moment she looked helpless, shattered. And very sad. “I don’t know, Geralt,” she whispered, and then her features hardened again. “Because how am I to know, dammit? When I cut my finger, I bleed. I bleed every month, too. I get a bellyache when I overeat, and a hangover when I get drunk. When I’m happy I sing and I swear when I’m sad. When I hate someone I kill them and when—But enough of
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