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“One chance is all you’ll get,” she said. She wasn’t sure whether she
meant that for her ears or his. She picked up the flint and strike, pulled a little
corner of the charcloth so it stuck out a little from inside the nest. Yellow and
red wisps of moss poked out from underneath the little square of charcloth
lying on top of the black twigs.

And she struck the flint against the strike.

Now, usually, as you probably know, it takes several strikes, often many
strikes, to coax a spark to jump from a flint. But Amelia’s luck was strong and
true, and on her very first strike a spark leapt straight from the flint as though
shot from a crossbow. It landed just on the very tip of the charcloth and took a
short hop, bobbing in a little curve to the left. Amelia knew how to coax a
spark, cupping her hands around it, getting ready to blow on it, gently, softly,
nurturingly.

But no nurturing was necessary. The spark burrowed a hole through the
cloth, and the orange glowing edges of the hole, before Amelia could even get
her hands cupped, spread into a cone of flame, igniting both the moss and the
salamander. Amelia heard a gasping sound coming from the salamander. He
leapt up with a terrible scree, completely engulfed in flames. “Skaa-a-a-!” he
shrieked, “It hurts! It hurts! What did you do! I was at peace, I was at rest!
Help me -- I’m burning! Put out the fire!” His voice was unearthly, unbearable
to listen to.

Amelia looked around for a bucket for dirt or water, but saw only a
shovel in the corner of the church garden. She thought she might be able to
shovel dirt onto the salamander to douse the flames. She ran to the shovel and
started to dig.

But the earth was frozen with winter. She looked back at the
salamander, frantic. Perhaps if I used the shovel to bat down the flames. Or
scatter them....

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