if it doesn't burn a little
Weaver picks up various books, opening them only long enough to figure out if they are what she seeks. She tries not to rifle through things that are not meant for her, though it is hard not to linger on sentences in books that catch her attention. Notes that Maea had taken, little markings in the corners. It feels like collecting little pieces of Maea to hang on to, a way to gain a fuller picture of a girl she did not get to know as well as she would have liked.
Continuing to rifle through the desk, Weaver listens as Loren talks, letting him get the story out. ”She told me about that,” Weaver says with a bit of a rueful smile. ”Not about it being an argument. Just that you told her not to do anything reckless.” She pauses for a moment, fingers falling on a feather tucked into a book. ”She didn’t sound mad, for whatever that is worth.” It wasn’t much. Weaver couldn’t promise that Maea wasn’t, but she certainly didn’t speak like she was angry.
Weaver picks up the book with the feather in it, about to open the book when a note beneath it catches her attention. Sunjata’s name is on the front of the paper, and she picks it up. The letter is not sealed, though Weaver does not open it. Instead she tucks the letter, and on a hunch, the feather, into her pocket. She opens the book to the place where the feather had been, though it does not appear to be the thing she seeks either.
Continuing to rifle through the desk, Weaver listens as Loren talks, letting him get the story out. ”She told me about that,” Weaver says with a bit of a rueful smile. ”Not about it being an argument. Just that you told her not to do anything reckless.” She pauses for a moment, fingers falling on a feather tucked into a book. ”She didn’t sound mad, for whatever that is worth.” It wasn’t much. Weaver couldn’t promise that Maea wasn’t, but she certainly didn’t speak like she was angry.
Weaver picks up the book with the feather in it, about to open the book when a note beneath it catches her attention. Sunjata’s name is on the front of the paper, and she picks it up. The letter is not sealed, though Weaver does not open it. Instead she tucks the letter, and on a hunch, the feather, into her pocket. She opens the book to the place where the feather had been, though it does not appear to be the thing she seeks either.
-- weaver
then what's the point in playing with fire?
