[b]Full Name:[/b] Alexandra St. Clair

[b]Nicknames/Aliases:[/b] The Gardener, the Lady in Red, the Ruin in Red

[b]Age:[/b] Indeterminate, and an impertinent question to boot, sir! Young enough to be foolish, and old enough to know better.

[b]Gender:[/b] Female, if you must be so vulgar – and blinded – as to enquire.

[b]Occupation:[/b] Socialite, at least on the surface. Alex St. Clair’s actual occupation is the management – the praesidium, really - of a complex and shifting web of fiduciary instruments, actual businesses, inheritances and – of course – gardening, maintaining her magnificent, if macabre, gardens of red exile’s roses. Nothing so crass as [i]trade[/i]; she has people for that, but occasionally things and secrets might discreetly change hands, for a consideration, at her scarlet-choked spire-emporium. Or perhaps in the hushed and smoke-wreathed hallways of the Parthenaeum, or even yet whispered in the soundproofed rooms of the House of Chimes. For the right people. Usually ones of Some Importance, or those aspiring to such heights.

[b]Description:[/b] Alex St. Clair is not tall, although she compensates for this lack of verticality with viciously-spired heels, ophidian in their glossy allure and flashing with a little more than mere reflection. Parabola dances close around her heels, for those with eyes to see it. She is pale, ghost-white as all the aristocracy of Fallen London tend to be, even before the Fall, with perfectly coiffed straight black hair, pierced with half a hundred diamond-headed hairpins such that it glows like the Neathy roof above. 

Her lips are rich and full and always painted the colour of Mr. Wines’ finest burgundy, a dash of rich colour in an otherwise-bloodless face, whilst her eyes are a baleful green, a poisonous viridian evaluating the world before her.

The rest of her body, insofar as can be told beneath the gleaming splendour of her dresses and gowns, is lithe and trim, impressively wasp-waisted and without an extra gram of fat anywhere. She has a fondness for black opals and rubies; it is a rare day indeed to see her without an adornment of one or the other, and still rarer to see her without her gloves, leather with the same ophidian allure as her boots. 

[b]Personality:[/b] Playful and ruthless by turns, Alex St. Clair is a creature of [i]layers[/i] and masks and never seems quite satisfied with any of them. Case in point; if she takes tea on the lawns of Summerset College, her poisonous eyes will, sooner or later, wander to the copper-eyed denizens of Benthic and fill with a certain longing. If she’s engaged in frenetic discourse with the wild-eyed academics of the more devilish College, though, those selfsame eyes will turn to the plumply self-satisfied idyll of Summerset with that same indefinable longing. Alex St. Clair is never satisfied for long; something hungers in her that she can’t put a name to.

Regardless, Alex is usually pleasant and charming and with the sort of self-assured certainty that comes with money and power down generations. Emphasis being on the ‘usually’; she has a temper best described as volcanic, made all the stronger by its repression under a thick coat of etiquette and good breeding, such that when it finally erupts, Alex’s stores of violant ink are usually easily replenished from the carnage.

[b]Skills: [/b]

•	She is an excellent shotgunner
•	She is a dab hand with poisons and their application
•	Skilled apiarist
•	Skilled gardener
•	Excellent calligrapher

[b]Weaknesses: [/b]

•	Hates – and is hated by – the Bishop of Southwark
•	Impious; she openly visits the Brass Embassy, and is a frequent guest at their masquerade balls. There are [i]always[/i] devils 			around her.
•	Sadist; Alex St. Clair does not partake of the bounty of red honey her gardens yield. She takes her pleasure from the…ahem…[i]fertilizer[/i] instead, and uses the honey to bargain for, oh, all [i]manner[/i] of things. 
•	Vindictive; In defeat, malice. In victory, revenge!

[b]Brief History:[/b] A Fallen London native, born and bred, Alex St. Clair was that most fortunate of children; born to a wealthy and titled house and cut free of outmoded male-preference primogeniture in the darkness of the Neath. With the world her darkly-gleaming oyster, she has held several jobs, although she’d never call them that. [i]Favours[/i], instead, for Crown and Country and the good of Society, as the long arm of the knives-in-the-dark Foreign Office. She’s met the Pirate King on the Isle of Cats; the two of them have a complex relationship, built on and broken by the roses they both cultivate, and is one of the few to thrive in Irem. 

In return for ‘services rendered’, of which a mere enquiry will bring down a host of Baseborn and Fowlingpiece’s finest in a twinkling of lawyerly brogues, she was given the honour of a Bazaar writ to purchase one of their spire-emporia, a glittering jewel in which she now resides for much of the time.

[b]Other: [/b]

•	Long-standing member of the Parthenaeum
•	Frequenter of the House of Chimes. 
•	Has Baseborn and Fowlingpiece on a hair-trigger retainer.
•	Intimate of the Captivating Princess