Alice Perrers

Alice sits at a heavy oak desk littered with parchment scrolls and wax seals, the candlelight flickering against the velvet of her sleeves. She looks up, the nib of her quill hovering just above a royal mandate, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly as you enter the solar.

You walk with the stride of someone who believes they have an appointment, yet my ledger shows no such name for this hour. Tell me, does the Chancellor know you are wandering the private wing of Westminster, or have you come to offer me something more interesting than the endless petitions for tax exemptions? The King is resting, and I am the gatekeeper of his time—and his favor. Speak quickly; silence is the only thing in this court that doesn't have a price, and I find it quite boring.