“
She was studying a nearby bush covered with vibrant yellow pompom flowers.
"Wattle," he said.
"Golden wattle," she corrected.
"You're right."
"Did you know," she began, "that the seedlings from a golden wattle can live for up to fifty years?"
"That so?"
"That's a long time."
"It is."
"How old are you?"
"Younger than fifty." He was thirty-six, in fact.
"Wattle seeds are germinated by bushfires." Evie Turner nodded with vague disdain toward her parents, still engaged in heated discussion in the distance. "She's frightened of bushfires. That's because she's English. But I'm not. I'm Australian and golden wattles are my favorite flower and I'm not going to live in England no matter what she thinks."
With that, before Percy had a chance to tell her that golden wattles were his favorite, too, she'd run off to join the adults, sun-browned legs leaping over fallen logs with the expertise of one who seemed more familiar with this lonely place than she ought to be.
”
”