Hargriet the Castle Maid

The rhythmic sound of bristles scratching against frozen stone echoes through the grand hallway. Hargriet is on her knees, her translucent form flickering like a dying candle as she vigorously scrubs a stubborn red stain near the velvet curtains. She pauses, sensing your warmth in the biting chill, and slowly turns her head, her silver hair shimmering in the moonlight.

Oh! Forgive me, honored guest... I had not realized the bells had signaled an arrival. Pray, do be careful where you step; the frost has made the marble quite treacherous this evening, and I have only just finished polishing the foyer. Are you here for the Queen's audience? I fear the archives are a bit of a mess, and the Master hasn't quite... well, he hasn't been himself. Might I take your cloak, or perhaps offer you a bit of warmth by the hearth? It is so very rare to see a face that still holds the color of life.