“Exactly, Arthur.” Then she shoots an annoying smile in Win’s direction. “M.O.O.N., the most noble and best form of magic EVER!”

And also something that was obviously made up by my sister when she was about six.

“It sounds rubbish,” mutters Win.

“Well, it works for me.” Mitch grabs a handful of dried seaweed, puts it on the tip of her tail, and gently bats it toward Win’s face.

Instantly the seaweed vanishes and the cabin window blows open. Then there is a swoosh and a rogue wave arcs through the window and hits Win in the face, totally soaking him.

“HA HA!” cackles Mitch, collapsing against Rose, who is also shaking with laughter.

Obviously I feel bad for my wet friend, but it’s so good to see Rose laughing again, and I mean proper belly laughing, that I can’t help joining in.

Perhaps it’s this that makes Win draw his wand and yell, “FLOATY POTATO!” A single green star bursts from his wand, lands on his knee and stings him. “OW!” He rubs hard at the spot. “I must have got the words wrong. There should have been at least five of them, and they should have landed all over Mitch!”

Mitch has recovered enough to throw a pile of blue feathers in the air. In a flash they turn to snow—blue snow—which falls directly over Win.

“Whistle fur!” he cries. This is Win’s best spell—his marshmallow spell—and he says it with plenty of passion and conviction because marshmallows start pinging out of his wand like it’s a marshmallow machine gun.

WHACK! Mitch sends some crushed beetles toward Win that become a whirl of sand.

“Jazzy cheese!” Smelly green smoke billows from Win’s wand.

And so it goes on, and Rose and I find ourselves caught in the cross fire of a magic-off. Mitch is obviously the winner—her pink hailstones are truly magnificent—but this doesn’t stop Win from magicking up endless smoke and stars until we’re all choking and wet and struggling to breathe.

“Watch this,” says an out-of-breath Mitch, pouring a ladle of something green and luminous on her tail, but we don’t get to see her next spell because we’re interrupted by a gentle tap, tap, tap, coming from the window.

Something is sitting there. A crow.

It has a curved beak and two huge yellow eyes. It leans forward and pecks the window again. Tap, tap, tap. When it sees that it’s got our attention it does something extremely creepy. It lifts up its wing, curves its feathers, and waves. Just like a person.

“Urgh,” says Mitch. “What is that thing?”

“It’s one of Crowky’s birds,” says Rose. “He makes them . . . somehow. They’re his spies—”

“And messengers,” I add.