Mitch shrugs. “I swam, and the water got colder and colder, and that’s when the crew of the Alisha fished me out of the sea in a net. At first they were going to chuck me back in—they were annoyed I wasn’t something they could eat—but with a little bit of persuasion”—she pauses here to grin—“and quite a lot of magic, they decided to make me their captain.”

“So you didn’t forget your magic?” asks Win. He almost sounds disappointed as he says this, and I remember how jealous he used to be of Mitch’s skills.

“I forgot a bit,” says Mitch, “but it came back pretty fast.” Then she leans back, grabs a jar off a shelf, takes out a pinch of what look like petals, and blows them into the air. She mutters something under her breath and instantly they turn into burning lights that float around the cabin.

They twist and turn, revealing shelf after shelf of bottles and jars, all stuffed full of ingredients. Blobs of seaweed pulsate and glow. Worms squirm around each other. Leaves, petals, feathers, pieces of fur, stones, crystals, and things I just can’t identify are packed into each container. I read some of the labels: Petrel Chick Feathers, Penguin Breath: HOT, Penguin Breath: TEPID, Seal Droppings, Rain, Mist, Mangy Rabbit . . .

Rose smiles as the flickers of light continue their journey around the room, revealing dried objects hanging from the ceiling: bunches of herbs, garlands of mushrooms, and some furry things that look worryingly like tails.

“Still don’t use a wand?” says Win, casually taking out his own wand and muttering: “Fuzz button.” A slight wind wafts through the cabin. He nods. “Just what I wanted to happen.”

Mitch snorts. “A wand? I don’t think so, Win. I do proper magic, not party tricks like you. I respect the laws of M.O.O.N. and as a consequence my magic is powerful and profound.”

Win tries to do his own mocking snort. “M.O.O.N. That’s just herb tea and mushed-up flowers to put on burns!”

“What is M.O.O.N.?” I ask.

Mitch curls her fingers into a fist. The letters M.O.O.N. are tattooed on her knuckles. “M—I can make, but I can’t break,” she says. “That means I can’t blow stuff up. O—Owls are sacred. I can never harm them. The next O stands for Ooooooh! That’s what my magic has to make you feel. So I can’t use magic because I’m feeling lazy, like to make a cup of tea.” She waggles her fist around. “Finally, N—nature. I can only use what nature provides to make a spell, and my spell has to be part of nature.”

“So, you could use the sun, but you couldn’t use . . . my sneakers?” I say.