The twig slowly, shakily, lifts into the air. ‘Yes!’ I shout. I feel a surge of delight and possibility. If I can do this today, what might I be able to do tomorrow, or next week? Surely anything is possible, including going to a parallel universe.

‘You must say the words of the spell clearly and loudly,’ says Sylvie as she plucks the twig from mid-air and drops it back to the ground. ‘You’re borrowing the power that lies in the actual sounds of the words. In that moment, you connect with all the times these same words have been spoken in the past.’ She tells me that an ancient version of Welsh was spoken back when magicians didn’t have to hide themselves. ‘Those early magicians were the healers and ceremony makers and village leaders,’ she says. ‘They lived long before the Romans invaded Britain and took over. When we speak in Welsh, we are reaching back through time to our foremothers.’

As she speaks, I feel my future crack open a little – a wondrous future where I can direct magic to do precisely what I want.

‘Can I say the spells in English?’ I ask.

‘I’ve only heard of one person who could make spells work in English. When you’re much more experienced, you’ll be able to say them in your head, but always in Welsh.’

‘Is there a spell I can say to hear Mum again?’ Every day, I’ve been listening for her until my ears ache. But, nothing. Not even a blast of cold like the first night Sylvie arrived.

Sylvie shakes her head. ‘No.’

‘I dreamt about her last night,’ I say.

‘Oh?’ Sylvie raises her eyebrows. ‘What was she doing?’

‘Sitting at a kitchen table with two women. Is that where she is?’ I’m full of hope – and desperate for reassurance that Mum is okay – but Sylvie just shrugs and looks away.

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Or maybe it was just a dream. Now, lift the twig again, but less shakily this time.’

Another day, she teaches me how to transform a round berry into a lolly. ‘You must direct the energy with not only the words, but your thoughts.’ She tells me to picture the berry turning into a lolly, and to imagine the smell and sugary taste. I feel the now-familiar surge of magic through my veins, and then an awful orange boiled lolly turns up in my hand. Which is how I learn that you must visualise very precisely what you want.

I know Mum sometimes transforms food – like a plain, cheap cheese into a fancy one. But she doesn’t do it too often in case our circus friends get suspicious. And it would be unfair if we had fancy food and didn’t share it.

Just as I succeed in transforming another berry into a Jaffa lolly, Vince appears. ‘What are you doing, Tulsi?’ he asks sternly.