[Open post]
It’s cold here, in the winter.
Cornelia Pendergast has never been partial to harsh weather-or, at least, weather harsh at this end of the spectrum. There is a slight draft in her room; her veil occasionally flutters in the wind. She sits in her wheelchair, looking out over the grounds unmoving. On her lap an extra blanket has been pulled to her waist, and on top of it sits a book of poetry, held loosely in her withered hands.
“Barbaric,” she will mutter, at the approach of company. “I don’t understand how anyone enjoys this."
Cornelia Pendergast has never been partial to harsh weather-or, at least, weather harsh at this end of the spectrum. There is a slight draft in her room; her veil occasionally flutters in the wind. She sits in her wheelchair, looking out over the grounds unmoving. On her lap an extra blanket has been pulled to her waist, and on top of it sits a book of poetry, held loosely in her withered hands.
“Barbaric,” she will mutter, at the approach of company. “I don’t understand how anyone enjoys this."