[ Zelda is a familiar face--one, admittedly, Trahearne has never spoken to beyond courteous his or byes (and he recognizes this as his own fault). But he acknowledges her as a hard-working scholar and a frequenter for good reason, and usually makes a mental note to start a conversation whenever he gets the opportunity. That opportunity, though, always seems to escape him for one reason or another.

And so, Zelda beats him to the punch. In a rare moment, he stands idly by the potted plants in the corner, wondering if they need to be watered yet, when he hears her voice. When he sees who spoke to him, he is internally disappointed in himself--he should have said hello first. Ah, well.

But no time for that--she needs his help. He leans over, finger to his chin, and studies the image for a moment with a thoughtful hum. ]

That's a beautiful plant. But it's hard to say by this image alone. [ He rights himself, turning his attention back to Zelda herself. ] Do you remember how the light hit the baubles? It looks to me to be a surface-level sheen, which I would call pearlescent.