Ciri steps aside, but the guardswoman pushes roughly past her anyhow. She's left watching the door close and rubbing her shoulder where the red-haired woman had hit it with her own, and flicks a glance to the still stationary skeleton before turning her attention to the Reverend Daughter Nonagesimus.

It's difficult to parse much of anything past the skull make-up and the swampy black robes, but though Harrowhark appears to be a bit shorter than Ciri, she holds herself with all the majesty of a queen addressing her subjects.

That, at least, Ciri knows what to do with.

"Reverend Daughter." She sketches a low curtsy, bowing her head respectfully. "I apologize if I've made you wait."