Physical Description:
You wouldn't especially notice her in a crowd, and Margaret liked that. Not that she didn't find herself pretty, but something about blending amongst people around her felt relieving. She had dark blonde hair, but it would shine almost copper under the warm sun, she felt like shapeshifting. She'd comb it meticulously before bed, watching her curls fall perfectly into place, almost mesmerizingly. Her eyes, she'd stare at them too, imagining what it would be like to meet herself and notice them for the first time. They were brown and had the slightest touch of green, right in the center. She was proud of them, sometimes she'd place her watch in such a way the light would reflect right onto them, only then could she admire the complexity of her iris, a painting of its own right where she could never see. Freckles. Her mother had them too, just like her mother before her, and her little sister. She'd look at them intently, imaging her mother and grandmother back when they were her age, staring at those spots, witnessing her family history, right there on her nose and cheeks.

-

Mental Description:
Margaret had chosen her bedroom with great care. In the morning, the sun would flood her bedroom with the softest of lights, and in the afternoon she'd find herself in a golden glow. Beautiful things matter to her. She liked things organized to please her eyes and paid great attention to detail. The paintings she hung needed to be the right size, on the right wall. She liked her room to look like a magazine. Her clothes were intentionally picked to fit the idea she wanted to give of herself, her books and pens carefully chosen. In school, she liked to take matter into her own hands. She did her homework well, studied enough. She wasn't keen on working too hard, simply enough for people to think of her as responsible student. She took initiative for things to be done correctly, because honestly, she'd sometimes be the only one she could trust.

-

Biography:
Margaret and her sister Agnes grew up in Portscatho, with her Nana and Papa. Her parents were quite busy at the time. Although she missed them quite a lot, her fondest memories were in that house by the beach. In the summer, they'd wake up right as the sun rose to dip their toes in the fresh waters. She remembered the distinct smell of the harbor, and the waves rhythmically crashing onto the shore. With her sister she'd build the most magnificent of castle, ruling the beach for just an instant. When Papa died, Agnes and her went back to Knightsbridge in London and for a while all she wanted was to go back to the sea. Their apartment was nice, but sleeping with the windows open simply wasn't the same here. Margaret did get used to the city quite rapidly, she mostly enjoyed walks in the park and visiting all kinds of museums. Back in her room, she'd paint watercolors of things she had witnessed, enjoying mostly nature paintings.

-

First Instance of Magic:
Margaret had woken up to the soft light cast indirectly into her room, quite soft since it had rained all night. There was something she loved about the rain in the city, perhaps the smell of the wet asphalt or the calming fog settling itself onto the buildings. But that also meant she wasn't going to witness the richness of nature under a golden ray of sun. Before going to bed, she had placed all her watercolor equipment neatly on her desk. Her little wooden easel, the tiny canvas that fit onto it, three brushes, and her special watercolor box, so small it could fit into her pockets. Her mother had agreed to take her to the park without her sister for her to paint calmly, but she wouldn't take her in this weather. She closed her eyes as hard as she could, perhaps it would stop raining then, in vain. She let out short sigh of frustration and sat at her desk. She opened the box, dipped her brush in water and started to paint what she wished to see. A beautiful countryside, shy clouds in the distance, and umbrella stuck in a tree. Perhaps the rain and the wind brought it here. Before she could continue, she had to change her water, she'd hate for the sky to take on a greenish tint. As she came back, she noticed the strangest thing, the umbrella had disappeared. She stared at her painting for a few seconds, wondering if she was going mad. No, there had been an umbrella, right there. Her eyes scanned every corner of the canvas. Wait. There it is. On the ground. Is it... moving?. Yes, yes it is. It seems like the wind is rolling it further and further. Margaret watched as the umbrella slowly rolled out of frame, as is she had never painted it in the first place. Her painting came to life, the wind rustling in the leaves, the grass dancing in the breeze.