She replies, but her letters are wobbly and I can’t decipher them. She leans back and closes her eyes. She looks grey, drained of life. In my mind, I hear her voice, weak and afraid. Hang on. Can’t leave Tulsi on her own with Sylvie.

‘Let her go outside to charge up!’ I say to Sylvie. ‘Or she’ll die.’

‘She just needs a rest,’ says Sylvie.

I try to give Mum some of my energy, the way Sylvie in Millimba gave me some before I left, but when I do, my energy level plummets. Other Sylvie’s watching me with a small smile. ‘Stop it!’ I say.

‘What?’ she asks, all pretend innocence. ‘I won’t let her die, you know.’

Mum gives a tiny moan and her eyelids flutter. Terror swamps me as I understand how dangerously sick she is.

Eunice! I think. Eunice. Please. If you really are around here, please help. How do we take away Other Sylvie’s powers?

There’s no response. Just the fire crackling and the chink of Sylvie’s teacup as she places it back in its saucer.

I decide to come up with a magic-stripping spell in English. It’s worth a try. Under the blanket, I clutch the feather in my pocket with one hand and point at Sylvie with the other. ‘Spell,’ I breathe the words. ‘Take away her magic powers.’

‘Spells don’t work in English, silly girl,’ says Sylvie.

Actually, I did one in English at Elin’s house, I think.

‘Anyway, you need three magicians for a banishing spell – to make sure a magician is never stripped for malicious reasons, or on a whim.’ Sylvie gives a superior smile. ‘There’s so much you don’t know.’

That’s what Mum meant by ‘3’, then. Three magicians. Mum, Thelma and Lola. My heart sinks.

Beside me, Mum gives another faint moan. I don’t let myself picture Dad waiting for us to return, anxiously watching the minutes tick by.

I make myself think of the earth beneath us, the earth which has watched thousands of summers and winters come and go, which has nurtured plants that bloom and die, which is marked by the tracks of generations of animals and humans. Earth, ancient, timeless earth, please help me. All the magicians who have ever walked this land, please help me. I’m afraid Mum will die if we don’t get out of here.

Eunice! In my mind I yell her name as loudly as I called Sylvie’s name in London.

Nothing.

It’s stupid to think I can communicate with someone who’s been dead for a hundred-and-something years.

A log shifts in the fire and sends out a big spray of sparks. My fingers sizzle. Is that you, Eunice? I think.

Nothing.

Then I hear a woman’s voice in my head: Mae dy hud yn diflannu.