Margaret Danjon was securing a thin braid she had spun around her head around a loose bun, which left strands of hair streaming softly around her thin, sharply cut cheeks. She was wearing an ankle-length chemisier haute couture dress, with pale nude and soft metallic embroidery splattered across it that barely disguised her nipples and pubic area, leaving most curves and lines of her body for the viewer’s pleasure. She had put on brown lipstick to go with her dirty-blond hair and bright-blue eyes. Her finger and toe nail polish was a slightly glossy black, and her narrow high-heeled shoes were in beige leather. She also surrounded her eyes with a black shadow, and her eyelashes were supernaturally long, black, and thick. She might have been twenty or twenty-six, but her age was made invisible by the intense beauty of every millimeter of her skin and every strand of her hair.