It was on the streets of Paris, just after dawn. The grey of the early morning was slowly blushing, giving way to a lovely sunrise of soft, blooming colors. The people were just beginning to spill out onto the streets, and among them was a lady.
The lady was Mademoiselle Catharine. She wore a humble white dress, which did not begin to compare with other ladies' silk gowns, adorned with jewels and embroidery, and she was not the most beautiful woman. She was slightly fat and very plain, and her hair was brown as a tree-trunk. Only her eyes, which flickered green and yellow like cat's eyes, were much of a representation of the best of female beauty.
She ducked into a back alley and began to whisper words of power, while drawing her hands over her head, her face, her body. Green mists coiled off her hands, and wherever they touched, that became beautiful. Her waist slimmed, her face looked smoother and more youthful, her cheeks rosier, even her stringy brown hair turned to a lustrous golden mane. Only her eyes stayed the same. Then she stepped out of the alley. She had an appointment to keep.