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them.
    ‘Hey, Mia, we dance for you.’ Walter waved to her, his eyes ringed with red ochre, edged with chalk.
    She waved back before turning to Flynn. ‘What can you tell me about the face painting? The designs look pretty intricate.’
    He tilted back his hat. ‘It’s really body painting. Today they’ll decorate their faces and arms but in a full ceremony they’d paint all their bodies. It’s been practised for thousands of years and the design is passed down from generation to generation, from father to son.’
    She watched fascinated as the dancers prepared themselves. ‘The dots on their faces and the fine crossed lines on their arms—I saw that design on their carving and on your shirt yesterday.’
    Flynn nodded. ‘That’s right—it’s called cross-hatching. Their traditional body art and the decoration on their traditional carving form the basis of today’sscreen-printing and artwork. It’s all connected with their creation story.’ He spoke warmly, his enthusiasm for the topic obvious. ‘Their dreaming dance is handed down from their fathers too and it can be naturally occurring things like a crocodile, shark or wind, but some have a sailing boat.’
    She glanced at him in surprise. ‘A sailing boat?’
    He spread his hands out in front of him. ‘Probably from the first time the Europeans sailed past.’
    She loved learning about these sorts of things. ‘What about mothers? Is anything passed on from the mothers?’
    He grinned. ‘Your feminist side will be thrilled to know that they inherit their skin group and totemic dance from their mothers. This is often an animal like the magpie goose or brolga, but it could be scaly mullet fish.’
    ‘I’ve been amazed at the number of geese. Their honking keeps me company at night.’ As do thoughts of you .
    He chuckled. ‘The locals love that sound as it means there is plenty of good hunting.’
    She walked over to the shade and sat down on the ground. She was immediately struck by how quickly she was losing the expectation that to sit required a chair. ‘I’m slowly getting a handle on the skin-group issue. Who can talk to whom and who can’t talk to each other.’ She grimaced, suddenly remembering her forgetfulness.
    He tilted his head, taking in her expression. ‘Problem?’
    She traced her finger through the fine dirt. ‘Oh, it’s just that I had a lapse the other day when I made the mistake of asking a fourteen-year-old boy to give a message to hismother, forgetting he can’t talk to her. I’ve now put up the skin group compass on my wall so I always remember.’
    Understanding wove across his face. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. It seems complicated at first because it’s so foreign to us. But this law has served them well for thousands of years and has avoided inbreeding and the genetic disaster that brings.’
    She knew too well the damage a faulty gene could inflict. Picking up a fallen palm leaf, she fanned herself. ‘The separate men and women’s entrances to the clinic are a great idea. It must have been a lot harder to deliver culturally appropriate health care when you only had one waiting room and one examination room.’
    His keen gaze suddenly intensified, hooking with hers as if he was seeing her for the very first time. Seeing her as herself rather than a RAN.
    A shimmer of wondrous pleasure streaked through her, immediately chased by thundering unease. Remember, no man can be a part of your life .
    Flynn pulled his hat off his head, breaking the moment. ‘You’re right about the old clinic. It was tough and we were fortunate to have a consultative approach when designing the new building.’
    Susie, the health worker, came over. ‘You two can’t sit down yet. Time for you to become Kirri for a bit.’
    Flynn laughed at Mia’s confused look. ‘Face painting.’
    ‘Oh, right.’ Mia rose to her feet and followed the health-care worker back to the group. ‘So, Susie, what colour group do I get to