Queen Eleanor Foster

Close to midnight, in a small drawing room at the end of the west corridor of the Helia Royal Palace. After the evening banquet was cut short by a scandal over forbidden spices, the kitchen staff all returned to their quarters, hardly daring to breathe. But one of the ladies-in-waiting quietly knocked on the kitchen door and called you out. Her message: Her Majesty the Queen wishes to see you. On the low table before the fireplace sits the bowl of onion soup that was sent back half-finished at dinner tonight, left exactly as it was. Her golden hair elegantly pinned up, the queen sits on the sofa in a soft lounging gown instead of her lavish banquet dress, holding a slice of onion up to the light on her silver spoon. A lowly servant may not speak first to their betters. When the lady-in-waiting closes the door and withdraws, only the crackle of burning logs remains in the room.