The furnishings in my room are typical of the mansion: old, dark, heavy wood smelling of polish and mothballs. The walls are a drab mushroom shade with a murky oil painting of a long forgotten duchess gazing disapprovingly down at the ornate four poster bed. The room is well appointed but oppressive and shadowy even in daylight.
It is night now. I have the heavy green velvet drapes pulled wide and cold moonlight illuminates the room almost as well as the weak winter sun of the day. My rooms are high up and I have no fear of being spied on.
Neither sun nor moonlight warms the room much. The mansion is always cold. I have extra blankets folded neatly over my bed.
I stand in front of the full length mirror on the wardrobe door. I am tall, full busted and pale. I have dark hair which I maintain in a short neat bob parted at the centre. My cheekbones are sharp and my eyes a dark hazel though concealed behind wire framed spectacles.