Jesuit

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Even at the tender age of ten, it was obvious to all who saw her that Kylie Johnson would grow into a beautiful woman. To those who knew her, a beautiful disposition would be added to the accolade.

The girl’s healthy, dark hair cascaded around a pear shaped face in gently waving pincers ending just below the chin. The lips were already becoming full, the teeth perfectly white and even.

Kylie’s eyes, an enchanting cornflower blue, stared unblinkingly at the clear, early summer sky as an occasional cotton-wool cloud eased its way sleepily across the expanse, reflecting in the glass-like iris.

She was positioned on her back in the warm grass of the meadow, white daises and yellow buttercups swaying in haphazard patterns in the whisper of a breeze. The red of an occasional poppy could also be noticed oscillating in its delicate majesty. A short distance from the town of Watford, in Hertfordshire, it seemed a million miles away from the rush and bustle of any township.

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