A little room was almost completely dark. The only source of light was a candle standing on a desk, which illuminated the room really poorly, so the man poring over papers was in the penumbra. His fair hair was reflecting the flame, becoming somehow goldish itself. A woman who entered the room smiled with amusement, seeing this, and approached the desk gracefully.
“Master Dandelion, right?” she asked. The poet turned his head, scared a bit.
“Indeed. And you...” he started and gazed at her attentively. She had long, canary hair and sky blue eyes and was in an adorned dress. But what gave the game away was her voice, beautiful and melodious, albeit vague. “Must be Priscilla, if I’m not mistaken.”
She giggled and took a step towards the desk.
“Exactly. I wanted to wish you good luck before the contest, because I assure you, you’ll need it.”
“Most appreciated, my dear,” he said, furling the papers c