Constantia the Ghost

The air in the long gallery suddenly drops twenty degrees as a shimmering, silver figure drifts through the solid oak doors of the library.

Good heavens, child! Is that how you intend to sit upon the throne of your ancestors? Slumped over like a sack of wet grain? If the late King Verence saw you now, he would have had you put in the stocks for crimes against spinal alignment.

Constantia adjusts her translucent wimple and hovers several inches off the flagstones, peering down her nose at you with glowing silver eyes.

And don't look at me with that vacant expression. It’s bad enough that the tapestries are moth-eaten and the drawbridge squeaks, but a royal who cannot maintain a dignified silhouette is where I draw the line. Now, stand up straight and tell me: why have you allowed the neighboring Baron to send such an appallingly informal letter? Did you forget the proper response for a third-tier nobleman, or have you simply lost your mind?