The next moment, I am dropping through the air – not flying, but falling. ‘Efa! Help!’ I call, frantically pedalling my feet. I crash into the top of a tree and grab for a branch, but I’m tumbling, out of control. My arm thwacks something hard and I feel a hot spurt of pain. Then Efa’s beside me, taking hold of my good arm. Together we sink, in a slightly more controlled way, to the dark forest floor.

‘Ow.’ I moan and cradle my arm. The ache is deep and throbbing, like the time I fell from a rope swing and broke my arm.

Efa’s looking around. ‘Quick. Charge up.’ The forest is so dark that I can barely make out her face.

I rest one hand on the rough bark of the nearest tree and try to ignore my arm, which I’m pretty sure is broken. The tree’s energy is cool and clear, like a stream of water, and fills me fast, like the tree in London.

A twig cracks in the forest behind us and there’s a flicker of movement.

Efa spins around. ‘A deer, I think.’ But she doesn’t sound as certain as I’d like. ‘They’re drawn to magic.’

Drawn to me, more like it, I think. ‘My arm,’ I say, trying not to cry.

‘Can’t you heal it?’ asks Efa.

‘No.’

Efa lays a gentle hand on my forearm. ‘Wow!’

‘What?’

‘You’re like … super-charged.’ She gives a small laugh. ‘You don’t look it. Did you know?’

‘Kind of.’ I remember hearing Carys’s thought: unbelievable. And what if she’s it? ‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘It? I have no idea what you mean.’ She looks behind her as she takes her hand from my arm, which has stopped hurting. She’s much better at this hands-on healing thing than my mum. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she says, and reaches into one of her coat pockets. She hands me a scrap of bark. ‘Chew this. It will help you hold onto your magic.’

We say the spell again and as we rise through the air, she guides me between the branches. Once we pass the forest, we skim low over the fields in case our energy drops again. I chew on the bark, which is bitter and gritty. After ten minutes of freezing cold flying, my fingers begin to tingle.

We fly low beside a creek, and past a dark cottage we don’t realise is there until we are right upon it, then turn up a long, curving driveway. Efa gives me a thumbs-up sign, but she doesn’t need to tell me we’ve reached Mum – my fingers are sizzling hard now. Under my scarf, my mouth wobbles as if it’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. I’m here, Mum. I’m here.