Felicity started life as a joke name for a friend’s daughter (if that friend reads this, she’s probably already killing herself with laughter). Now, she has moved on, and is fast becoming an integral character in my latest novel. Felicity is perfect. Felicity knows it, too.
“Gawd, it’s Felicity Backscratch,” repeated pedestrians hissed like stage fillers in a play, hands cupped to secretive mouths.
She acknowledged them all with a wink or a nod, swish of hair or a sparkle of sapphire eyes. She was marvellous. She was beautiful. She was life.
Felicity glided through the fog as though there was none. Not once did that earthbound angel dally at a street corner, not once did she slow her pace as the Londinium streets filled like a harbour at high tide; no boat was as fine as she, Felicity not even slowing for the Hanson Cab that stopped to allow her safe passage, and then lingered longer than perhaps it should. She mesmerised, and a starry-eyed cabby might have been forgiven for a lapse in protocol. He might, but it wasn’t his hand on the reins, so it seemed, anyway. Once Felicity’s glow had ebbed, the cabby felt a sharp rap as of a cane on a wooden door snapping him from his reverie.
“Move!” a man commanded.
Move, he did.