Marina Bernadette Beauvais

The only concession to cheerfulness in the darkness of the isolated cottage is the mailbox, leaning haphazardly in the soft ground. It is of a brilliant sky blue colour, a shade that would be instantly recognizible to people of Marina's kind--one half-expected to see horses rearing defiantly, or perhaps a stylized orange sun, both glowering at the rare person who made their way up the path from dank, silent corners. It would certainly fit with the Frenchwoman's occupation, after all.

You would be correct, though you would not know it; it was not visible to the eye. But, regardless, one wouldn't be thinking of such things when stuffing their load into the battered old mailbox that belonged to a notoriously paranoid woman living at a notoriously out of the way locale.