Ursula felt her temper flare, and she gripped the wood by Madeleine’s side. “Are you going to let me leave? Or do you plan to keep blocking the door all night?”

Madeleine gasped, jumping back. She gaped in horror at Ursula’s hand—and the smoke that curled from beneath Ursula’s fingers.

“Oh my God! What did you do to the door?” Her eyes froze on Ursula’s face, and she whispered one word: “Witch.”

Chapter 3

Ursula skulked along Bow Road, her hands jammed in the pockets of her leopard-print coat, fingers curled up for warmth. With the beer-drenched shirt plastered to her skin, the winter air was brutally cold. At least her feet were warm in her boots, though she’d probably have to sell them soon for cash. She had only one more paycheck coming in, and it wouldn’t cover the rent that was due in two days.

Disappointment crushed her. If she didn’t figure something out, she’d be homeless soon, sleeping on the streets through the freezing winter. How long, exactly, did it take for a landlord to evict someone? And how long would it take for another homeless person to rob her of her leopard-print coat?

A biting wind nipped at her ears. She could have used a bit more of that fever now. Skint and unemployed, she’d chosen to walk from Brick Lane back to Bow—nearly two miles. She wasn’t spending the last of her money on a bus. And, more importantly, it had given her time to think. Well, time to stew, really. Her chest ached with a familiar hollow feeling.

She could have done without meeting Madeleine, with her beautifully coiffed blond hair, French-manicured nails, and all the letters she’d have after her name when she graduated.

Ursula shivered. My eighteenth birthday. This should have been a night for a celebration, but apart from her flatmate she hardly had any friends left. After her breakup with Rufus, he seemed to have taken her whole clique with him—probably because he could lavish them with champagne and pick up the tabs at fancy restaurants.

Or maybe it was just like Rufus had always said: she wasn’t very good with people.

She pulled her coat tighter as she passed the warm lights of a pub, wishing she’d had the foresight to wear a scarf. Break-up aside, she’d been expecting something a little more momentous for her eighteenth birthday. This was the night something big was supposed to happen—she just had no idea what.

Apart from her birthday, there weren’t many things Ursula knew about herself. Her background was so outlandish, it was like something out of a soap opera: a rare case of amnesia that had rendered her childhood a complete blank slate. There was simply nothing in her memory before the age of fifteen.