Coral had never combed her hair before. Each long thread of dark red hair lay basking in the failing sunshine of the September afternoon. She was now a second home to a busy family of small ants who had deserted her elder brother when he was moved. The girl had given her this bright yellow comb, holding it out to Coral’s hand across the ditch when everyone else seemed far more fascinated by their lunch than this short creature from Sumatra.
But the girl had liked her. She had looked steadily at Coral and Coral had looked steadily at her, head to oneside, taking in the girl’s pale face, her solitary pride, her sharp white teeth.
A purple light began at the girl’s wrist, spreading out along her fingers to the yellow comb which she held out to Coral, whose pink palms suddenly scooped up the comb and put its handle into her mouth.
Her eyes never left the child’s once.