As Harriet Slater, clad in an exquisite gown made of delicate, iridescent feathers and adorned with intricate, silver filigree combs whose designs mimic ancient Celtic knotwork, stands upon the craggy cliffs of a desolate, windswept moor, her melancholic longing and yearning permeate every fiber of her being as she gazes out at the distant swirling mists that obscure the edge of the world. <lora:wtqwyo18ff2c060f5va:1>