Fire Storm
by Lara

SUMMARY: He’s lost the love of his life. Can he get her back?

PAIRING: Wes/Fred, Wes/Illyria

RATING: FRM [SS] [V] [AU]

SPOILERS: Through “Shells” in Season 5.

DISCLAIMER: I only wish I were as successful as Joss Whedon. He and Mutant Enemy own this; I just write fanfic for fun while waiting for my own big break.

DISTRIBUTION: Permission granted to the usual haunts. If anyone else wants to archive it, please let me know.

FEEDBACK: Very much appreciated. Please e-mail lara@darling-moon.com. Flames, however, will be used to fuel the fire in Wesley’s next spell casting session.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Major kudos to Tracey (wes4fred), who listened to me try to piece together the elements of this fic and offered her thoughts and help as needed. I don’t think I would have figured out half the things I did without her help.

“Winifred! What do you think you’re doing?!” Trish Burkle’s voice echoed loudly from inside the house. A moment later, she was out on the porch, stalking over to grab her six-year-old daughter’s hand. Reaching down, she plucked the lighter she was holding out of the other one. “This is not to play with. I’ve told you that.”

Fred gazed up at her with serious brown eyes. “I wasn’t playing.”

“Oh no? Then what in the blazes were you doing?”

“Ex-per-ment-ting.”

“Experimenting?”

Fred nodded and tugged her mother down to sit beside her on the wooden porch slats. It was then that Trish noticed the other items sitting there – a half-filled cup of water and one of her jam jars with a candle sitting inside. There was a damp patch of wood next to the jar.

“See...I was seein’ what happens.”

Trish blinked at this. “And what have you learned?”

“Well...it’s better if I show you.”

“Tell you what,” she responded, holding up the lighter. “You tell me what to do, and I’ll perform your experiments like you did.”

Bouncing happily, Fred nodded in agreement to this idea. She pointed to the lighter in her mother’s hand. “First click that to get the flame.”

Trish did as she instructed, causing the flame to flicker to life. The light reflected in her daughter’s eyes.

“Now, put the flame there.” She pointed to the candle wick. A moment later, a new flame was lit. “See...when the flame touches the candle, it wakes up the other flame.”

“That’s what lighters are for.” Trish let the lighter go out and put it down beside her on the porch.

“It doesn’t always work, though. Sometimes—sometimes you have to try more than once to get the other flame to appear, like once it took me ten times, and sometimes, it lights up and then disappears again right away.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Fred considered this for a moment, her brow crinkling slightly under her bangs as she bit her lip in thought. “Chaos.”

Trish chuckled at this and shook her head slightly. Fred had been obsessed with Chaos Theory since seeing that television program on PBS about Feigenbaum. Had even renamed her stuffed rabbit after him. “So what else have you figured out?”

“Put the lid on the jar and close it real tight. Then watch.”

Once she had done as her daughter said, they observed for a few moments. The flame flickered normally before slowly beginning to fade. After diminishing to almost nothing, it then disappeared entirely.

“Why did that happen?”

“No air.” Fred leaned forward and unscrewed the cap, which came off with a loud pop. After having her mother light it again then putting the cap back on, she let the flame dwindle down to almost nothing before opening the jar again. As soon as she did, the flame leapt back to life. “See...it needs air. If you close it in, the flame starts to die after a time.”

Sometimes, Trish wondered how she and Roger had come to make themselves such a smart baby. It made her so proud. And scared her at the same time. Living on a farm outside San Antonio wasn’t going to be enough for this girl one day. She knew it deep down inside.

“Anything else?”

Fred instructed her to light the candle one more time and this time keep the lighter lit. “Put it to the flame again.” When she did, the flames merged together, growing bigger and brighter while dancing this way and that. “Two flames are stronger than one alone.”

“Yes...yes, they are, aren’t they?”

She gazed at her daughter – their little flame. She was going to grow and get brighter with time, just like the gifted teacher at school had said. She and Roger had already agreed that they would do whatever it took to make sure she had all the opportunities she deserved, no matter the cost. They wouldn’t let anything snuff her out.

“Is there anything more?” Trish asked, moving the lighter away and letting its flame extinguish again. In the jar, the candle flame returned to its original size.

Nodding, Fred reached over and scooped some water into her little hand from the glass. She then threw it on the candle, causing it to sputter out with a hiss. The water then pooled up in the small indent around the wick.

“Water makes the fire go out.”

As her daughter uttered those words, Trish suddenly got a chill she couldn’t explain. “Yes, baby...yes, it does.”

*****

water makes the fire go out

She had grown more accustomed to the shell – the body – she had been resurrected in, her movements now much more fluid than they had been. At first, Wesley could never hear her when she entered a room, but now he was able to pick up the slight whisper of her movements, almost like a brook running gently over rocks. And when he turned around, there she was – blue eyes staring questioningly at him from the face of the woman he had once dreamed of a future with.

He had never allowed himself to think of the future before; it had always been too dangerous given their way of life. Yet with her, he had. He had dreamed of it, wanted it and, for a brief and wonderful time, had thought it might actually come true.

Not anymore, he thought as she moved closer to place a hand on his arm, her touch sending ice-water through his veins.

“Do you need something, Illyria?” he asked as he turned back around to place the book he had been flipping through into the box at his feet. Fred’s apartment was littered with boxes, most of them still only half-packed.

“I was...I was reading the book you gave me. The one on human history. It seems that all humans care about are things – money, land, slaves, that substance called oil. Your people fight and kill over these things. I even see it on the news on that apparatus you call television.”

“Not always.” He glanced over at her. She was wearing one of Fred’s blue sweaters and a pair of jeans. If it hadn’t been for the hair, the eyes, the mannerisms... “They fight over beliefs and ideals as well.”

“Yes. Power. Religion. Whose side is correct.” Illyria’s face twisted in apparent disgust at this. “You say humans have this want...this need for love, Wesley, yet all I see is war and hatred scattered on the waves of your race’s history.”

“History tends to be about the large scale. Love...” Wesley paused, his heart constricting painfully at the word. “Love is personal.”

“Personal?” she echoed, and for a moment, her voice sounded just like Fred’s, causing him to close his eyes in pain.

Would you have loved me?

I’ve loved you since I’ve known you. No, that’s not—I think maybe even before.

“Like your love for this—for Winifred.”

Nodding, he opened his eyes and reached up, pulling a large book down from the shelf. “Read this. It will show you different aspects of love not shown in history books.”

Illyria gazed down at the title of the book in her hands. Fairy and Folk Tales from Around the World. “It appears that there is more here than in that history book.”

“It’s a far more complex subject. Plus there are other more personal aspects of the human condition in there.”

With a nod, she hugged the large tome to her chest, much as Fred used to when holding books or files. Without another word, she slipped out the door into the other room, leaving him alone again.

Turning back toward the bookshelf, he grabbed it to steady himself as he began to shake. Damn her. She didn’t realize...or maybe she did, but damn her. Why had he agreed to this? Every day? With her?

Unable to keep it bottled up, he began crying.

And despite his attempts to stay quiet, out in the next room, she could hear him, every tear loud and clear. But this was not like the soothing, crystalline sound of the falls that had once graced her temple. This sound was muddied, full of grief she had never wished to know or understand. It grated like a fire stone against her skin.

Trying to ignore him, she instead opened the book he had given her and began to read.

*****

when the flame touches the candle, it wakes up the other flame

“I have finished reading the tales you gave me.”

Wesley sat up in bed, blinking in the darkness. He found Illyria sitting at the end of the bed, her feet drawn up beneath her, the book in her lap. In the dimness, the blue of her hair and eyes were washed out to such a degree that it was almost possible to mistake her for Fred. The illusion was so real, it was painful, and he had to look away. His eyes instead found the clock on the nightstand next to the bed. 2:57 a.m.

“What did you think?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the blinking colon between the 2 and the 5 on the digital readout.

“It was...confusing. All the different people, all the emotions. And love...I think love is the most confusing emotion of all. There are so many different kinds, it seems. How do you understand it?”

Taking his gaze off the clock, he instead dropped his head down to stare at the bed. The bed where the love of his life had died. Destroyed by the fires of resurrection. “You don’t understand it.”

“Then how do you know? How do you know what love is?” The bed dipped slightly, and he could feel her shift closer.

“You...you just do.” He could sense her hand creeping over the blanket toward him. Part of him wanted to feel her body against his, hold her to him, but this wasn’t Fred. When she reached out toward him, all he could feel was the cold. She wasn’t warm, didn’t have the fire or passion his Fred had, and just the very thought of her touch chilled him to the core. Silently, he moved back, pressing against the headboard.

“Why do you flinch from me? You loved...you love this woman, touched her in intimate ways. Why do you now cower from that touch?”

“Because it’s not the same.”

“It is her hands, her fingers, her body. How could it not be the same?” She reached out to him again, and this time, he grabbed her wrist, holding her hand away.

“Did you actually read the book? How could you and then ask me a question like that?” he seethed.

“I told you. I found it confusing. There was no consistency. One killed herself because she had not the love she sought. Another was willing to die because he did.” She stared at him, her eyes glittering in the dimness. “I am willing to offer you that which was taken away. Your love. I would have thought you would be pleased.”

“What you offer is nothing like what was taken away.” He released her arm and turned away. “Just leave me be, Illyria. I’ll help you. Nothing more.”

She didn’t move. “But you want more. I can feel it, as raw and chafing as your grief.”

“I want nothing from you. I want Fred.”

She held her hand up, electricity surging forth. “I can give you Winifred. I can give you that which you love.”

“No!” He reached out to grab her wrist again, but she was ready this time and quicker. With her left hand, she caught his while the energy, fluid and blue like her, flowed between the fingertips of her right hand.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”

“Stop!” he growled, heat and anger rising in him at the sound of Fred’s voice – her true voice – singing that song. “Damn you! Stop!”

But she wouldn’t let him go, no matter how hard he struggled. “You make me happy when skies are grey.”

This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t living this nightmare day after day. He closed his eyes, but when he did, all he could hear was her voice – sweet and happy, filled with the sunshine she sang about. And deep inside he felt his blood burning. He needed her back so badly; he was going to go crazy if this continued.

“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you...”

He felt her hand slid up his neck, the way Fred’s always did when they kissed. His heart pounding furiously in his ears, he lost all control. Wrenching his arm away, not noticing the pain that roared through it, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

“Wesley,” she breathed into the kiss. “Wesley...help me.”

Gasping, he pulled back. What was he doing?

“Not...still here...”

Suddenly, he realized that the electricity was not running anymore. And the blue in her eyes had dulled, showing specks of deep, rich brown.

“Wesley...love...help...”

“Fred?” he whispered, reaching out to her. It was her. She was speaking. And she was warm. Oh God, she was warm.

“Fire...elementals...Aestus—.”

“Fred!” A moment later, the blue crept back into her eyes, and her touch again grew cold. Wesley jerked back, his eyes wide. “What did you do?” he demanded, his voice cracking with accusation. “How did you do that?”

Tilting her head, Illyria gazed at him in genuine confusion. “Do what?”

*****

if you close it in, the flame starts to die after a time

“Wesley, we’ve been through this. Fred’s gone. As much as I—.”

“You weren’t there. It wasn’t some trick or a hallucination – it was her. She’s still there somewhere,” Wesley told Angel as flipped through one of the templates. “She said a name, possibly a demon. If I can find out what it is, I might find a way to bring her back.”

“Wesley,” the vampire said, taking a step forward, his arm outstretched to his friend.

“No!” he responded and pulled away, trying to ignore the pain that raged through his shoulder, leftover from the previous night. “Don’t you dare tell me to drop this. I won’t let yet another woman I care about die if there’s even the slightest chance I can save her. So you either help me or get the bloody hell out of my office.”

“I don’t want to see you hurt again if this doesn’t work out. I know what Fred meant to—.”

“You have no bloody idea what she meant to me! Do you know how hard it is for me just to breathe sometimes? To look at—at her, knowing she was once the woman I loved? To know...to finally know after waiting three years that she returned my feelings only to lose that in less than a week? Go on, Angel! Tell me how much she meant to me!”

Angel watched as his friend sagged into his chair, burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Wes,” he finally said in a soft voice. “You...do what you have to.”

Without another word, he slipped out of the office and crossed the reception area towards his own. “Harmony, if Wesley requisitions anything, I want it approved. No questions asked.”

Inside the office, Wesley raised his head and stared at the book sitting in front of him. Fire. Elementals. Aestus. What had she been trying to tell him? Fire was an elemental, but Aestus...? The name sounded familiar to him; however, he couldn’t figure out why.

As he flipped through the book, he rubbed his shoulder absently, trying to make the pain go away. Aestus. It sounded Latin, he thought. Getting up, he walked over to the other templates and picked up the language one up from the far end. “Latin dictionary.”

Flipping through it, he found aestus. It meant “passionate fire”. Fire. Elementals.

Suddenly, he remembered something he had read about Illyria. Returning to the book he had left on the desk, he called up the scrolls on the Deeper Well and turned to the section on Illyria, scanning until he found what he was looking for. And when he did, he saw why he remembered the name.

Illyria had been one of four core demon monarchs who held dominion over the elementals. Illyria over water, Daera over earth, Pahaginan over air and Aestus over fire. Each one’s followers had an affinity for the elemental over which they held sway. When the world began changing and lesser demons began to rise to higher positions, Daera, Pahaginan and Aestus had chosen to stand aside and scatter themselves to their domains – their form of immortality. Their names had even come to be associated word-wise with their elemental in the areas where their kingdoms had been located. Illyria, however, had refused to step aside, fighting for her kingdom until she had been murdered and committed to the Deeper Well to rest with other Old Ones.

But if Aestus was gone, how was he supposed to help get Fred back?

The phone on his desk suddenly rang, causing him to sit back and blink. With a sigh, he picked up the receiver. “Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”

“Mister Wyndam-Pryce, this is Trish Burkle, Fred’s mother. I was just trying to reach my daughter and was told that you were taking all her calls.”

Wesley straightened up in shock, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never called her parents like he had promised. He hadn’t known what to tell them. Not with Illyria now walking around in their daughter’s body. Not after what happened the previous night. “Yes, yes, I am.”

“Is something wrong? She hasn’t called in almost two weeks.”

More than you could ever imagine... He couldn’t tell them what had happened now. Not if there was a way to get back. Later. Later if... He didn’t want to think of that possibility again. “Fred’s away at the moment. I’m keeping track of things for her until she gets back.”

“Firm project?”

“Something like that.”

Trish sighed softly on the other end. “Roger and I promised we’d support her whether she choose to stay in L.A. or come home. I keep having to remind myself that.” She paused for a moment. “The last time we talked, Fred said you and she were seeing each other.”

At this, his heart jumped into his throat. “Yes...yes we w—are.”

“She sounded the happiest I’ve heard her in a long time when she was talking about you. You treat her right, you understand? Her father isn’t afraid to use his shotgun, and you’ve seen what I can do with a bus.”

In spite of himself, Wesley found himself smiling at Trish’s good-natured threat. It was obvious where Fred had gotten her fight. “I’d do anything for her. I love her. Always will.”

“It’s obvious that she loves you too. A mother can sense these things, you know.”

He felt his heart and throat constrict a bit at her words. Fred had never said that to him. There hadn’t been time though somewhere deep down, he had known. He had understood without her having to say it in those final moments they had been together. “I have no doubt of that,” he replied softly. Closing his eyes, he recalled a question that had been haunting him since that day when he had been unable to help her. “Mrs. Burkle—.”

“Call me Trish.”

“Trish...then please...call me Wesley. Uh, Trish, can you tell me what or who Feigenbaum is to Fred? She said she needed him but neglected to tell me who or what it was. I didn’t think she was referring to the mathematician.”

“Not directly,” Trish said with a slight laugh. “But he’s named after him. Feigenbaum is Fred’s toy white rabbit. Surely, you’ve seen him.”

Wesley remembered packing the stuffed animal into one of the boxes when he was clearing out Fred’s office. He had wondered who he was. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”

“Doesn’t surprise me that she’d say she needs him. He’s always been her symbol for being able to handle any situation, no matter how chaotic, since she was six. But he wasn’t always called Feigenbaum, you know. He was originally just called Rabbit after the Native American God.”

“Fred liked Native American Mythology?”

“Liked? More like loved and adored. They were her bedtime stories for years. I started reading them to her when she was a child because her great-grandmother was a member of the Creek Nation. The Rabbit stories were her favorite, especially the one where he stole fire for man.”

Wesley practically stopped breathing when he heard this. “Her favorite story was about the origin of fire?”

“Oh, yes. I used to read that one pretty much every night.”

Several things began running through his mind at once. Trying to focus, he glanced down at the open book, to the section he had been reading before the call had come through. “Trish, this may seem like a strange question, but has Fred...has she always shown an affinity for fire?”

“Affinity? Oh, dear lord, there were times I thought that girl was going to burn the house down. She used to observe fire and candles when she was four, started to experiment with them when she was six. Always had to help Roger whenever he built a fire when we went camping. I always thought her star sign was appropriate.”

“Sagittarius? Why?”

“It’s one of the fire signs. She’s always been our little flame. Well, not so little anymore, I suppose. We knew we’d never be able to keep her here, even when she was a child. Fire can’t be closed in, you know. It needs air and freedom; otherwise, it dies. Having Fred taught me that.”

Trish’s words struck Wesley deeply. She was right, and somehow, he had a feeling that she was closer to the truth than she realized. Fred probably didn’t have much time left. He couldn’t delay.

“Fred’s taught us all quite a bit,” he finally said in response.

“Sometimes, I think she’s taught us more than we have her. Umm...I should probably let you go, but can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Give Fred a message. We love her, and we’ll talk to her when she gets back.”

Swallowing hard, he told her that he would then ended the call and hung up the phone. His eyes again focused on the words in the book before him. Fire. Water. Aestus. Illyria.

Elemental opposites.

Crossing over to the cabinet against the far wall, he dug through some of the books and scrolls he had there until he found what he was looking for. An astrological chart. Sure enough, as Trish had said, Sagittarius was one of the fire signs. All the zodiacs fell into one of the four elementals. Cancer was water. Virgo was earth. Libra was air. And Aries was...

Wesley blinked as he looked at his own birth sign. Aries was also fire. He glanced over at the book still lying on his desk. Those who had followed one of the four monarchs had had an affinity for the elemental of that ruler.

How far did that affinity go?

Wesley immediately began searching every text, scroll and website he could think of. By mid-afternoon, the office looked like a small-scale disaster had hit.

“Hey, Percy,” Spike called out as he entered the office. “I heard that—.” He stopped short, looking around in shock. “Who let the chaos demon out?”

Wesley didn’t seem to notice him, his eyes scanning over the text in his hands. “I’ve got it!” he suddenly announced, jumping up from where he had been sitting in the middle of the floor. “Fire can’t destroy fire. Illyria isn’t fire. She filled the body, but she didn’t burn her out.”

“Great. That’s important to know,” Spike said as he gave him a confused look. “What the bleedin’ hell are you talking about?”

“We had it all wrong. The rise in Fred’s body temperature after she was infected wasn’t Illyria hollowing her out. It was Fred trying to fight her off! But she wasn’t strong enough because she wasn’t prepared. We weren’t prepared.”

“So we were wrong about what was happening to her. It’s too late, mate. Fred’s gone.”

“No, she’s not. Not yet. But she doesn’t have much time. I have to help her before she’s lost forever.”

Grabbing a few things, Wesley ran from the office, leaving Spike staring after him.

“I hope you can, Wesley. I hope you can.”

*****

two flames are stronger together

“I know this place,” Illyria said as they walked through the doors. “It seems very familiar.”

“It’s the Hyperion. Fred lived here.” Walking down the stairs, Wesley crossed over to where the circular couch sat on a slightly faded throw rug. He put down the small bag he was holding then pushed the couch and rug away to reveal the pentagram permanently imprinted on the floor tiles. The representation of the four elementals and the spirit.

Illyria stared at it for several moments, the look in her blue eyes one of uncertainty. “Why is that there?”

“I don’t remember. Something Angel did.” He shook his head, wishing he could recall. He knew it had been dark magic and a misuse of the symbol's powers though he wasn’t sure if what he was planning couldn’t be placed in that realm as well. “I didn’t even know it was there until we were moving out of here into the Wolfram and Hart offices.”

“Why do you ally yourself with something you so obviously dislike? Your abhorrence for the Wolf, Ram and Hart is quite apparent.” She walked down the steps to join him next to the pentagram.

“Sometimes, you’re unable to say no – even when it is your enemy,” he said, his voice soft.

“Do you still consider me an enemy, Wesley?” When he didn’t answer, she looked down again at the floor. “Why are we here?”

“You asked me about love.” Reaching down, he picked up the bag and opened it, taking out five candles. “I thought I would show you a very personal part of it.”

Her eyes followed him as he began placing a candle at each of the star’s points where it touched the circle. “I thought you did not wish me to pursue that line of inquiry after last night.”

“This is different. Sit.”

She sat in the middle of the symbol as instructed. “Why here in this pentacle?”

“I need its power for what I’m about to do.” He took one final item out of the bag, which he tossed away, and then sat opposite her. Between them, he placed Feigenbaum. Illyria’s eyes fixed questioningly upon the toy though she didn’t ask anything of him this time. “A representation. Take my hands.”

When she did, the cold of her sent a jolt through him. Taking a deep breath, he forced him to focus, to forget the chill spreading up his arm. Instead, he closed his eyes and began intoning in a low voice.

“In this place, I call to you, known by many names. I am your subject, made of that over which you once held sway, which is part of you.”

The rabbit sitting between them began to glow, starting with a small red point at the animal’s center that slowly radiated out. Illyria gazed down at it, not understanding what was going on. “Wesley, what are you doing?”

He ignored her. “Begin your song in the Hall of Flames; make us that of which we are made. Call the fire and kindle it within us.”

Suddenly, the five candles set around them jumped to life. Illyria jerked in surprise when this happened. Wesley’s hands were beginning to warm at an alarming rate, and within moments, they were almost burning. Gasping, she tried to wrench herself away, something that should have been an easy feat given her inherent strength; however, instead of pulling effortlessly away, she found herself held fast while Wesley’s temperature continued to grow hotter and hotter.

“Manabozho, the rabbit, bringer of fire, I call on you. Camaxtli, I call on you. Loki, I call on you. Loa Shango, I call on you. Vulcan, I call on you. Hephaestus, I call on you.”

Too late, Illyria realized exactly what he was doing.

“Aestus, answer your servant’s call!”

The candles flared up for a moment before going out completely. When Wesley opened his eyes, he felt as though he was floating in nothingness. Everything around him was dark save for two glowing figures in front of him. One was a slow eddy of blue that radiated a chill and was larger and more vivid than the second figure, a faded pulsation of reds and oranges no brighter than a soft nightlight.

Fred.

He wasn’t sure how, but somehow he found himself next to her, reaching out. His own body – was it his body? – burned with the same colors as her, almost blinding next to the duller glow.

Wesley.

I’m here.

The moment she touched him, she began to brighten, and he could feel her growing stronger. She melded against him, what felt like their hands interlocking as tendrils of light from each of them wrapped together. The blue light seemed to vibrate in response, pulling back but unsure where to go. There was nowhere to go. Their light, meanwhile, continued to grow brighter, reds and oranges swirling together. Illyria began to dim, unable to escape, unable to fight back against the unexpected onslaught.

There was a surge, passionate and frenzied, the feeling of a kiss. It grew between them until there seemed to be a storm of color everywhere. Wesley could feel Fred, feel everything – her within him, him within her. Heat radiated from them, continuing to drive the now dwindling light of Illyria back. It was nothing like either of them had ever felt before, joined together, enfolded in each other, moving as one.

The storm grew wilder, fire spreading everywhere, engulfing the darkness. The now faded glow of Illyria disappeared, turning to nothing more than vapor before it was swallowed by the heat. Sparks then began flying as everything grew more and more intense until lighting suddenly ripped through them.

“Fred!”

Crying out her name, Wesley fell back, his eyes blinking as the light dissipated into dimness of the Hyperion Lobby. It took him a moment to orient himself until he realized that he was still holding something. A hand.

A warm hand.

She gazed at him with wide brown eyes that showed no trace of blue in the light that still glowed from the five candles set around them. Her skin was soft, not hard and stone-like. And her hair hung over her shoulders, its natural brown color again though he swore he could see traces of red now. Without a word, he clasped her to him and could feel her heart beating.

He couldn’t cry. Instead, he simply raised her face up to his and kissed her.

*****

Trish glanced from her young daughter to the water-logged candle sitting in front of them on the porch. “Before we clean this up and go inside, is there anything else you’ve learned?”

With a nod, Fred picked up the jar and tipped it over, dumping the water out onto the wood. After she set it back down, she took the lighter from her mother and within moments had the candle lit again.

“Once you get rid of the water, the flame can come back.”

© April 2004

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