Four hours later, the storm has settled, sunrise has finally arrived, and there’s a strange half-light outside. Mum and I are on the couch, a blanket over our legs. Other Sylvie sits across from us in a big armchair. To anyone looking in the window, we’d seem peaceful, cosy.

But I am filled with a whirling, breathless panic. We’re trapped. We’re trapped. I can’t think straight and I can’t talk to Mum without Sylvie overhearing.

‘So, what’s your talisman, Tulsi?’ Sylvie asks in a casual voice.

I sense rather than see Mum shake her head.

‘What’s yours?’ I say. Maybe we could take it from her.

‘The stone in this ring.’ She holds up her hand. I knew there was something strange about the Sylvies’ rings.

I think of the feather in my pants pocket. It feels like no match for that glinting ring.

‘Do talismans increase good magic and … not-so-good magic?’ I ask.

‘There’s no such thing as good magic or bad magic,’ says Mum. ‘Magic just is. Magic is like … fire. It can warm you or it can burn you. It’s not good or bad in itself.’

Other Sylvie listens with a small smile.

Mum looks pointedly at Sylvie. ‘It’s what a magician does with magic that makes its effect good or bad.’ She pauses. ‘As a magician, you will have to choose, all the time, how you direct your magic. You’ll have to decide what is a good cause. This is part of the learning. Part of the responsibility of being a magician.’

I remember freezing the man in London and the terrible fright I gave him. Maybe that was good for me and bad for him?

A little later, Sylvie says, ‘Did you two know that Eunice was born near here?’ As she says Eunice, my fingers sizzle.

‘I don’t care where Eunice was born,’ says Mum. She drops her head back on the couch, eyes closed. She looks exhausted. Meanwhile, Other Sylvie looks youthful and sparkling. I know why.

It’s up to me to figure out a way for us to escape.

Under the blanket, I draw on Mum’s arm with my finger. For years, we’ve played a game where we draw letters on each other’s backs and must guess what they are. Now, I write: W. H. A. T. S. P. E. L. L. ?

Sylvie continues, ‘These are the very trees and rivers and mountains that Eunice grew up with. I feel sure she’s with me sometimes. Can you not feel her?’

Mum writes on my arm: F. R. E. E. Z. E.

I tried a freezing spell earlier while Sylvie’s back was turned. D. I. D. N. T. W. O. R. K. I write.