Lady Clarissa’s morning routine is always the same: getting up; selecting the perfect outfit for the day; putting on make‐up; and then commencing the management of the house.
But do not be fooled: even though the house is her personal queendom, she will never be caught in plain clothes or with messy hair. Her house is her reign, her dress is her armour; not made of steel, but of something equally strong and protective: lace.
And in her glorious, polished, empty house she sits, waiting for something or someone to come to her. Always at the ready, always perfectly prepared for any kind of event that can shatter her empire of silence.
Lady Clarissa doesn’t know what might be coming, but in her mind she has envisioned over and over again imaginary conversations with all kind of guests. The more she has played these scenarios in her head, the more they have filled her uneventful daily reality. The house still remains empty, though, and the echoes of her heels are the only sound that disrupts the silence enclosing her.