The matches were damp, that was the problem. Starting to shiver now, she turned over the box and tapped it. Two fell out. Only two left? She took one and tried again.
A tiny roar, and an adolescent flame, growing in confidence. She moved it carefully towards the wick.
Blast! That breeze.
One match remained. She muttered a prayer to Prometheus, and flicked her wrist. Success!
Her other hand shielded the tiny warmth as she brought it to the candle.
Her smile glowed orange.