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In the kitchen she followed the ritual of fifty years. "You'd burn watter makin' tea," her mother had once scolded her. Even now she had to admit to the memory of her mum, who sat judging her in her head, that she'd never made a cup that hadn't tasted a bit funny.

From a distance the two figures looked stationary on the landscape. Their pastel colours and gently blurred edges seemed to be attacked from all sides by the rugged, red landscape. The wind, though quiet, scarified every surface it touched by carrying with it a thin essence of fine, sharp sand. Light though it was the drifting breeze was surely to scratch and blast the twain into an even finer powder. They stood, turned towards their own destruction: two delicate flowers planted in unsuitable soil and doomed to die.