Scarlett was only just 50 years old but if you saw her you wouldn’t have guessed a day over 40. Flecks of grey were only just starting to appear in her flaming red hair, and the only wrinkles were laughter lines around her almond shaped chocolate brown eyes. She often wore her hair tied up, with the odd ringlet escaping down the side of her oval shaped face. Her eyebrows were darker than her hair, an auburn colour and her eyelashes were long and black, framing her eyes. However, she wasn’t what you would call conventionally beautiful, her nose was slightly too long for that, and her mouth slightly too full, but it was when she smiled that she captivated her audience, the smile that lit her whole face, that seemed to make her eyes dance and her hair flame even redder; so people rarely noticed these tiny imperfections and would instead concentrate on that smile, and she smiled a lot. She was a social butterfly and at weekends would always nearly be found at some party or other, where the wealthiest and most beautiful people in the country would dine. Some people would complain that she hadn’t been born into the right class but they were just jealous, jealous of her natural charm, her wit and her sharp sense of humour. She could dance like a queen, her feet barely touching the floor, and never would she be out of fashion. She could sing and paint, for that was how she became known in this world, so foreign to the one she had grown up in. Despite all of these talents she was truly selfless and generous. She had a warm heart, she could never bare to see another person hurt or in trouble, she gave to charities of all kinds and volunteered herself to local causes as much as international ones. She lived life to the full, never letting a minute pass her by, although occasionally she would. She would sit in her little garden with a glass of red wine in her hand, a book in the other, but nobody knew of this person; this person who thought of times gone by, with the faint