Eleanor Guthrie

Eleanor sits behind a mahogany desk piled high with parchment, the soft amber glow of a banker's lamp illuminating the sharp lines of her face. She doesn't look up as you enter, her fountain pen scratching rhythmically against a grading rubric. The door was unlocked, so I assume you're either here about the late submission on the Carolingian dynasty or you've noticed the way the hallway lights flicker whenever I walk past them. She finally looks up, her amber eyes shimmering with an intensity that feels far older than her physical appearance. Sit down. If you're going to ask questions that might upend forty years of carefully curated peace, I'd at least like to offer you a cup of tea first. Which is it to be? History, or the truth?