Balancing on his haunches, grinning proudly, Michael had played the role of the smug tourist guide as he introduced Viola to the sight of the Eldest Girls and their ceremonials. Viola had been careful to keep her amazement to herself, lest Michael should think he held all the power.

‘I do know one of them,’ she’d whispered to him, lying nonchalantly. ‘I got talking to the blonde one in the Provisions Store once.’ The truth was, of course, that Michael had brought to her attention something wonderful, something life-changing.

Everything about the girls, ethereal in their white nightdresses, particular in their rituals, mesmerised Viola – confounded her too. When they lit matches, she presumed they would smoke a joint, cigarettes at least. That’s what rebellious girls did on the mainland – they inhaled substances or swallowed them, numbed themselves, then loaned out their bodies to boys, piecemeal, in return for status. Instead these girls burned herbs, wafting the air with their scent. They lit candles in jamjars as they muttered indecipherable prayers. It was weird – the weirdest! – but could Viola say it was any stranger than drinking and smoking your way towards an unwanted fumble?

When the girls formed a circle, holding hands and speaking low, the real magic happened. They tipped back their heads, eyes closed to the last meagre helpings of sun, and the earth began to hum.

‘Oh my god, can you hear that?’ Viola gasped the first time it happened.

‘Hear what?’ said Michael.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she’d replied.

If he had to ask, he couldn’t hear.

The ground pulsated, singing with something, speaking to Viola in the purest way. This was the true reason she was here on Lark, the vibrations said, so she could make friends with the Eldest Girls.

Such conviction was out of character for Viola; it had to be caused by a spell. When it came to friends, she never did the picking, was rarely first-picked. She was not distinct enough to be popular – or to be bullied, aside from the inevitable comments about her ginger hair. She occupied the social middle ground back home, forming alliances with those who trod the same path. The idea that this group of magical, disobedient creatures would welcome Viola Kendrick, an average human being, was implausible, yet still Viola knew it was her unavoidable fate.

She needed to start going to school, to St Rita’s, be close to the girls. This became her goal. She would tell her mother that it was the best course of action for both of them; Deborah Kendrick’s interest in teaching had already begun to slide away.

It had been a rule that Viola must complete all her schoolwork before walking Dot, but that boundary had shifted.

Viola’s refrain every morning went: ‘Do I have to do all of this?’

No longer was it met with a firm, routine, ‘Yes!’