What she knew for certain was that a few years ago she’d turned up in a burnt-out church, with a strange, triangular scar on her shoulder and a piece of paper in her pocket. The paper had read:

On your 18th birthday,

March 15, 2016,

ask for a trial.

- Ursula (You)

She’d started to think of herself as two people: Former Ursula and New Ursula. Former Ursula was a complete mystery, and her one link to Former Ursula was the white stone in her pocket, its surface now worn smooth from constant rubbing. It was a strange little anchor to her old life.

Occasionally, glimpses of a bygone life appeared in her dreams: fields of wild thyme and orchids, skylarks and adders. She had no idea what it meant, except that she’d probably grown up in the countryside.

Here she was, waiting for her life to change by some sort of magic on her eighteenth birthday, but that was obviously a sad joke. At what point in this disaster of a day was she supposed to have asked for a trial? On the crowded bus she took to work, burning with a fever? Midway through losing her job? Or while meeting Rufus’s new girlfriend? The whole day had been a series of ordeals, one trial after another, but none of them particularly momentous.

It didn’t matter. She’d been gradually losing faith in the idea that her fortunes would magically turn around, that someone or something would waltz into her miserable life bearing a gift of a diamond or a secret bank account.

And now, she had to figure out how to save herself from complete destitution.

She shivered, hugging herself tighter. A normal life would be nice: a family and a steady income. Maybe some childhood memories, and hands that didn’t spontaneously ignite.

She stalked past a row of crooked Victorian homes, warmly lit from within. She didn’t even want to think about what had happened with her hands. Madeleine had called her a witch, for crying out loud. Maybe there was a trial in her future.

Her door came into view—the one she could always pick out from the rows of identical houses, by the chipped red paint on the doorframe. She jammed her key into the lock. Thank God I’m home.

She stepped inside, hoping to hear a welcoming Hello from her flatmate Katie, but the flat was as dark and quiet as a grave. She flicked the switch by the door, but the lights didn’t turn on. Shit. The electric key must have run out. It would remain dark and cold until she got to the shop tomorrow. She shook her head. Maybe the point of the note was that her whole life was a trial.

Sighing with frustration, she steadied her hand along the wall as she crept down the carpeted stairs.