"Driftwood makes colorful flames." Gray added a piece of wood shaped like a modern sculptor's vision of a seagull in flight. "The salt water dries, leaving deposits of minerals behind." A flash of orange illuminated the seagull as Emma studied the flames from her place against the big tree. She'd helped him collect a few pieces of driftwood when he showed her what they needed. Then he'd pulled out a knife he wore on his belt and used it to make slivers of bark to use as kindling. At the touch of a match struck on Gray's fingernail, the fire grew from a tiny flame to a crackling source of warmth and reassurance. Even with a weak leg, there was no reason she couldn't build a fire just like it. There might be some trick to the arrangement of the wood to create the right draft, but she really shouldn't have this feeling that he'd used some kind of bushman's magic. Irrationally, she felt awkward and incompetent because he was at ease with fire and tents. The tent was erect, ready for her to need sleep.
