Integra would laugh at the notion of such a title. She is a knight, but a peasant knight, descended from a Dutch madman, daughter of a prostitute. There is a true prince, royal blood and all, in Hellsing - she bears his psychic echo with a kind of violent pride. Draculea. If Anna has the eye for it, she'll see something else, too - alchemy. Integra is riddled with it. The horrorshow of bindings and connective circles don't make her a witch or give her power, but the magic - applied by someone very powerful but very inelegant, a genius with a sledgehammer - is viscerally human.

"It's hardly a disturbance." Integra pulls her gloves back on, the leather making no sound. She nods at Anna. "It was last minute. What are you meeting her for?"