Eunice? I try to hide my thrill from Sylvie. Can she hear my heart quickening?

The woman’s voice is as clear as anything. Swyn, mae dy hud yn diflannu. Nid wyt bellach yn ddewines. Rydym yn dy wahardd di.

Thank you, I think. Is that the spell? It’s a lot to remember.

She repeats it three times in a deep, calming voice.

Has a spirit really just taught me a spell? Or have I dreamed this up? Either way, it’s the only thing I have right now, so I take a deep breath, point at Other Sylvie and say, ‘Swyn, mae dy hud yn diflannu –’

Sylvie jerks forward in her chair and shouts, ‘No! Swyn, torra’r swyn!’

Something invisible hits me in the face and presses me hard against the couch for a few seconds.

Sylvie’s standing now. ‘It won’t work, you silly girl.’ But she looks afraid. She points at me and speaks in Welsh.

‘Swyn, torra’r swyn!’ gasps Mum. She’s sitting upright, holding her arms bent before her, crossed at the wrist. Energy is ricocheting around the room, like someone’s fired off a hundred ping-pong balls and they’re slamming from wall to floor to ceiling. Mum collapses back onto the couch.

I try again. ‘Swyn, mae dy hud yn diflannu. Nid wyt bellach –’

‘Swyn, torra’r swyn! Interrupt!’ roars Sylvie, and takes a step towards me. ‘How dare you!’ She points at me and I fly through the air, over the back of the couch, and land heavily on the floor.

Her face is twisted. ‘Who do you think you are, Tulsi? You’re only alive because of me. You are my blood and you should do as I say.’

I try to sit up but I’m pinned to the floor. My throat is choked with fear and anger. ‘I owe you nothing,’ I spit out. ‘I would rather have no magic than work for you.’

Rage flares in Sylvie’s eyes. There’s a great hissing sound and the fire goes out. A dark mist rises from the floor, and lightning sparks and cracks at the edges of the room.

I manage to scramble to my feet and into the kitchen, Sylvie right behind me.

I need a solid wall between me and Sylvie. If she can’t point at me, it’s harder for her to cast a spell. I open a door and find myself in a small, cold room. A pantry. I slam the door on Sylvie. ‘Spell. Lock. Lock. Lock,’ I say, pointing at the door. When Sylvie rattles the handle, the spell seems to hold.

The empty jars on the shelves start to rattle and clink. The whole room’s vibrating so hard I have to grab hold of a shelf as jars smash at my feet. ‘Spell. Stop rattling,’ I scream. And it stops.