The carriers had set up with quiet efficiency. In this, at least, Nigel was happy. He'd made the right choice. After all the horror stories he'd heard about rebellious carriers and incompetent guides, he relished Kitwana's well-bred efficiency and his laconic, almost British mode of address. This was Nigel's only consolation, though, as he watched night cover the savannah, making every thorn-bush, every acacia tree into a looming monster. Behind him, the tents—lit with magelights inside—swelled like immense lanterns. If Nigel turned, he would see Emily's silhouette against the light. “Nigel,” Peter called from behind him. Nigel turned. He saw, over his friend's shoulder, Emily's shadow inside the tent. She stood by the small portable table. Nigel knew that the compass stone would rest on that table, but from the outside, it wasn't clear what Emily was doing with it, or if she was done. All for the best, as Nigel did not think the carriers should be informed of the magical import of this quest.
