Abruptly, a swirl of dust set aglow by the moonlight sifting down from above 
whips up right in front of her nose. She tugs her head back in surprise, then 
grunts, grumbles. Another of Adama’s little jokes, a signal, meaning he’s ready
for her now. She isn’t sure how he made the dust move like that, but she knows
it isn’t magic. Adama doesn’t like magic any more than she does. In all
likelihood, he would agree that her own special brand of magic is all the world 
should allow.