Then, a speck of silver throbbed and expanded, growing brighter, and in that light was her. Hair, the color of moonlight, fell over shoulders in a cascading mass of tangled curls and waves. A luminous sheen nearly masked the freckles across the nose and cheek and gave the skin a silvery, pearlescent glow. But I recognized her from the dreams that weren’t dreams.
This is eather poppy. Lile herself. The consort. Or the goddess pennelophe
