Sawtooth Spire unzureichend

her gaze floated about the copse, focusing on the particles that spangled where sunlight scythed through the bower of trees. her mind considered mahler's wording carefully; pieces of water in the air were called rain, this she knew. rain did not frighten her like water frightened her, so she reassured herself with a quiet sigh. "nur weisser regen," 
phaedra followed her father's motions towards the minikin artisans midst the purple flowers; her lips made a silent o when her eyes found them. a younger phaedra would seldom have been able to contain her wonderment towards the panoply without some silly and charming ado, but the phaedra of this time was anchored by what truths she had come to know of the world and that which had made her manner humble.
she tip-toed around mahler, softly-softly, confiding an ambivalent glance up to meet his eyes upon his remark before settling on her belly to observe the daedal filigree. dewy filaments made by the gilt spinners (who were not unlike acrobats themselves, how they swung from their white silks like trapezists) hung from the rafters of violets, while sunlight made the sum of their task glister and wink when the leaves stirred out of the way.
phaedra watched the weavers for a while before caving under desperate thirst for knowledge and bade her father's omniscience in a lamblike voice, "warum machen sie die ... paläsde? haben die blumen edwas dagegen?"