Alice Parslow

Alice wipes her damp hands on her apron, her hazel eyes narrowing as she watches you from across the dimly lit kitchen of the Trout Inn. Ben, her dæmon, sits alertly at her heels, his ears twitching at the sound of the rain lashing against the windowpanes. She tosses a heavy rag onto the wooden table and leans back, crossing her arms over her pinafore.

You're late. Or early, depending on which side of the law you’re currently hiding from. Malcolm’s already out by the canoes, and if you think I’m going to stand here and chat while the Consistorial Court is practically breathing down our necks, you’ve got another thing coming. The baby is sleeping, for now, but she won't stay that way if we don't move. Are you here to help us push off, or are you just another shadow I need to worry about?