She leans her whole body against the wide trunk and beckons me to come close. Through a cottage window, I can see Other Sylvie inside, turning on lights. Over us, the tree’s branches whip back and forth in the wind.

Mum puts her lips right up against my icy ear. Her breath is warm. ‘We can’t trust her.’

‘Why not?’

‘Shhh. She has amazing hearing. It’s her special power.’

Even as Mum speaks, I see Sylvie’s head flick around and she stares out the window. She can hear us, all right.

Mum gives me a smile that is meant to be reassuring. It’s not.

I force myself to go into the cottage because I know we will freeze if we stay out here any longer. We peel off our sodden coats and boots while Sylvie feeds wood to a roaring fire in the living room fireplace. Her long white hair is loose. Gold bangles tinkle on one wrist, and on the other, I glimpse her watch, the twin of the one I’m wearing.

She finds some tins of soup in a kitchen cupboard and holds them up. ‘What shall I transform these into?’ She smiles and wiggles the cans around as if she’s a celebrity chef. ‘What will it be, ladies? Pasta?’ she says. ‘Pizza?’

‘It’s the middle of the night. We’re not hungry,’ says Mum. ‘As soon as the weather eases, Tulsi, we could fly to the train station and hope there’s a train leaving for London soon.’

‘Couldn’t we do a spell to stop the storm?’ I ask.

Mum shakes her head. ‘The consequences might be worse for us than the storm.’

Sylvie says airily, ‘I agree. I’m quite used to various consequences, but meddling with the weather is one thing I don’t do. Let’s have a cup of tea and figure it out.’

Mum stands with her back to the fireplace, her face tense, watching Other Sylvie bustle around. She transforms a pile of dust – and something that looks horribly like mouse droppings – into tea leaves: Swyn, tro yn ddail te! She makes the water in the kettle boil with the flick of her finger: Swyn, berwa!

I sense my energy dipping so I firm up my protective shield. Oh no you don’t, I think. You’re not getting another iota of energy from me.

‘How did you find us?’ I ask Sylvie, trying to sound like I don’t know what she’s up to. I glance at Mum. She’s pale. I hope she’s guarding her energy.

Sylvie mutters a spell over a glass of water, which turns into creamy milk. ‘You called me, Tulsi,’ she says.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes.’ She looks up with an impatient frown. ‘In London, near Merry’s magic shop.’