Inteachán blew as gently as you would on a baby’s cheek.
As furiously as you would on a piping hot drink.
Inteachán insufflated, as if baptizing the flicker but also unaware of the sacramental nature of her action.
She caressed the tinder, delicately placing and replacing, cajoling as she did so.
It was very cold underground and Inteachán was not only wet but also freezing yet something seemed to saying that a fire would not be welcome here. This something was not a wind or a draught, more a sense, an instinct; a feeling that Inteachán knew all too well but could not yet find the words for.