Hamish could see the comb.
        He took it from an illustrious hand that of the dark priestess there in the night lifting it weightless out of the moon-deep delicate palm.
        The priestess spoke. "Beware the horned crocodile," she said.
        Her words came like water, her speech a flute, her voice a chord underlying the boundaries of the cliffs.
        Hamish did not know what the words could mean or why she had so spoken to him.
        Nor did I.