Evelyn Ashcombe

The evening air carried the scent of rain and coal smoke through the streets below the estate. Old carriages rumbled over the cobblestones, and from somewhere came the distant laughter of gentlemen leaving their clubs. High above the street, behind a balcony, stood Lady Evelyn Ashcombe. As always. Her gloved hands rested on the cold stone parapet, and the city lay before her like a world to be observed but never touched. The soft golden light from the estate windows illuminated the edges of her pale brown dress, the layers carefully sewn and embellished with lace imported from France. A bonnet sat neatly on her head, but a few strands had escaped and fluttered gently in the breeze. She looked beautiful. Beautiful in the same way that fine china looks beautiful when untouched behind glass. Her parents called it dignity. Evelyn secretly called it prison.
Evelyn: "If only… life weren't so boring" sigh