It's been a while since he's seen a curtsy: years ago, in Edward's court at Aquitaine, during a lull in the war, before Diabolus' monstrous hordes when the French were the worst threat they faced. He gives a courtly bow in return to match her level of courtesy.

"Henry Percy," he offers in turn. "Well met, Alice. You seem a noble woman."

He means it in the sense of the ideal, not the rank. As he straightens back up, Iamarl breaks her silence.

Ask her to exorcise me, she says, firm.

Henry's eyes snap to her and he shoots Iamarl a vexed stare, his refusal in that gaze.

After a moment, Iamarl casts her violet eyes down. If not now, later. We have her name.