[se] just to show herself up

In time then he says, but she has never been patient. Not once she has set her mind to something. Unlike her mother, who was always patient, always calm, always willing to wait for the opportune moment. It was something she had tried to impart on Weaver, but Weaver was more impulsive than her mother. Her mother was a slow, steady, creeping fire; the kind that consumed entire forests over days. Weaver was an explosion, loud and attention catching, but short lived. Her patience burned as quickly as the rest of her.

Yet she knew he was right. It would take time. That particular truth grated on her though, made her restless, left her with that sort of figurative itch you just can’t scratch.

He seems to hide a grin at her compliment, and she finds herself pleased. He smiles more easily today than their last meeting. “My mother and older brother mostly, my stepfather was well sometimes. The scythe was a gift from my mother though. She was always unorthodox. What about you?” she asks, assuming some similar life but then again, who knows. Weaver was lucky, she knows, to have had a family at all. Not everyone was given that gift, even if she wasn’t given the gift for long. It wouldn’t have mattered how long she’d had them, it never would have been long enough.

weaver

-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --

Quote by Charles Dickens