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" mother ? ", she calls again, bright eyed girl — watches the Lady with curiosity, the needle catching her attention briefly. The Girl would smile then when it appears she is of no bother, almost skipping towards where she sat, crouching infront of her knee to rest her head upon it, " i was just checking if you're alright. . . i hope you are ! "
“OH, I AM AS WELL AS I CAN BE.” A sing-song melody; a nightingale caught on the wind. Work set aside, balancing upon her silken lap and there is such industry there; even in the smallest gesture. IDLE HANDS ARE THE TOOLS OF THE DEVIL ! So said the Prophet, so said the word of the Lord. For them, she can afford small rays of sunshine; small moments of PEACE. Fingers twining into curls, the touch gentle, soft, each movement measured, but not quite STONE. For them, she can afford to be HUMAN. No more a SAINT than something exhausted, than something all too soft. “How kind of you, dear one. No, I am fine. I am always fine. But how are you?”
Internal relationship