Merle's beautiful bronze-flecked eyes gleamed brightly, reflecting the orange, yellow, blue flame of the match she struck - much as the moon reflects the sun - applying it to the wick of the candle.
She ripped open a corner of one bag. Propping the spoon level by placing the handle against the base of the holder, Merle carefully emptied the contents of the first packet into it, which rustled in hushed whispers like slowly flowing grains of sand:
Not a minute grain, even of the precious white powder was wasted.
Merle repeated the identical ritual with the second bag.
Now, even more carefully, she picked up the spoon and held it above the steady candle-flame, just above the apex. The white powder soon began to congeal and finally to melt into a clear liquid which filled the spoon exact
