Something rather wonderful has happened.
Unbenknownst to me, a fairy followed me back from Paris.
Sometime in that alchemical night when an old year dies and a new one is reborn—a night when virtually anything is possible—she alit on my ribs to rest her wings.
She has informed me that she is there to stay. I am telling you all because it is of relevance that your Victorian femme fatale now has a picture on her body. I hope you will all be as pleased as I am.
She is from Montmartre; she subsists on a diet of nectar of Absinthe; and being in the American northeast, she has grown wings like our great green Luna moths. She was born in 1887, and refuses to forsake the style of pinning up her long, virescent hair and the standard issue corset of that era; nor will she ever lose the blush of rouge on her cheek, because, she tells me, she always admired the femmes de la nuit who were bold enough to use rouge before it became the habit of sallower members of the petty bourgeoisie.
I look forward to introducing you.