Green. The colour of envy, Anthea (or whatever she called herself. Today it was Anthea) thought. Appropriate, as Hera, from whom she took her name, was the goddess of envy. Amusingly enough, Anthea had always loved peacocks, the symbol of the goddess queen.
Putting the peacock feather earrings on, she smiled at her reflection. The emerald necklace matched her ball gown perfectly. The elbow-length gloves slid up her arms, a perfect fit, and she slid her snub-nosed gun into the special holster in her stockings.
She loved these social events, mingling with the political elite while protecting them. It made her feel a bit like a 21st-century Emma Peel, which suited her just fine.
Her skirt was detachable in case of emergency, with skintight matching leggings beneath. Skirts were impractical if the need arose to pursue would-be assassins, and she insisted on proper fashion.
Tonight, they were supervising a meeting at the Spanish embassy, prepared to jump into action for Queen and country and save the day.
"Shall we go?" she asked her partner, not at the moment Mycroft, but rather Timothy Chesterton. He stood agape at her beauty, gulped, and took her elbow.