Diane enjoyed her little book of poems. Her dark sapphire dress covered her from throat to ankle, her dark red hair piled up in an elegant bun with pearls threaded through. As she read, she crossed her legs, one foot tapping in time to the rhythem of the poem. She thought she was alone in the gardens, taking the time to relax. She was nervious about going to dinner and meeting those magic-users. It scared her, actually.