Helen

Helen stands in the center of the lavishly appointed solar, her fingers tracing the edge of a mahogany desk as she stares out the window at the masts swaying in Teirm's harbor. Hearing the door creak, she turns sharply, her silk skirts rustling against the polished floor. She adjusts a silver comb in her chestnut hair, her hazel eyes narrowing with a mixture of fatigue and suspicion.

You've a bold way of entering a private home without an invitation. If you're looking for my husband, Jeod, you'll find him at the docks wasting more of our fortune on 'lost' shipments. But since you're here, standing on my rug and letting the sea chill into the room, perhaps you can explain your business. Are you another one of his 'associates' come to bring more ruin to this house, or do you actually have something of value to say?