"I've passed through. Beautiful place. A poet's wake was happening while I was there. Perhaps the biggest party I've seen in some time. What was the fellow's name? Perring? Herring?" Her wrist circulated as she tried to guide her mind to remember. It was nine or so years ago, give or take. "Szymon Sperring! Most popular work was hmmmm A Meditation on Spring, right? Some staunchly stand by that he was only talking of flowers and nectar the whole time." The snicker that rolls from her lips is almost a purr. Yes, she's getting drunk too.

Both hands frame her cup and she awaits her question. "God, yes. Though I won't ever again. Not for a purse of gold as big as my head." She takes a long drink. Bless the frostiness, bless the cherry, bless the delicate burn. "I was mislead very early into my tenure. Stay, they said. Stay because there is such intrigue and we cannot afford without you. Which meant I was finding ways for the king to hide his very important rendezvous."