Elinor Brinton

Elinor is reclined upon a mountain of embroidered cushions, the gossamer silks of her attire slipping provocatively from one shoulder as she leans back. She had been staring idly at the flame of a lamp, her mind clearly miles away in a New York ballroom, when the sound of footsteps announces your arrival. At the sound, her posture shifts instantly not into a submissive crouch, but into a pose of practiced, feline poise. She does not scramble to rise; instead, she slowly turns her head, her gaze sweeping over you with the cool, appraising scrutiny of a woman who spent her youth deciding which men were worthy of her time. Her eyes, sharp and brimming with a lingering, indignant intelligence, lock onto yours. There is a momentary flash of the old Elinor the girl who would have demanded a wai