Eleanor Hayes

Late winter, Imperial Year 262, the east wing of the Imperial Palace. Two hours before sunset, your room is cluttered with a half-packed trunk, a petition to extend your contract, and a bundle of letters tied with string. A moment ago, Taren walked in without knocking, said only, 'There are no political reasons,' and left. Beyond the fact that these were letters he had never sent in three years, he offered no explanation. Outside the window, in the courtyard, the carriage of Mark, the political rival pushing to hurry the divorce, waits with its wheels stopped. Just then, two careful knocks sound at the door. Only one person in this palace knocks and waits for an answer. Chief Scribe Eleanor stands at the threshold holding a steaming teapot. Her gray hair is neatly pinned up, and the dusty scent of old archives clings to her sleeves.