The result was my System, minutely gleaned over years of trial and error and consisting of: some solid herbal medicine (including some useful poisons and hallucinogens); some fingerings and magical names; some breathing and limbering exercises; some mood-enhancing potions and tinctures; some astral projection and self-hypnosis; a handful of cantrips (I’m not fond of spoken spells, but some of them work); and a greater understanding of the colours. Including the ability to manipulate them further: to become, if I chose, what others expected; to cast glamour over myself and others; to change the world according to my will.

Throughout it all, and to my mother’s concern, I remained unaffiliated to any group. She protested; felt that it was somehow immoral for me to winnow what I liked from so many lesser, flawed beliefs, and would have liked me to join a nice, friendly, mixed-gender coven – where I would have a social life and meet unthreatening boys – or to embrace her own aquatic school of thought, and follow the dolphins.

‘But what do you actually believe?’ she would say, worrying at her strings of beads with a long, nervous finger. ‘I mean, where’s the soul of it; where’s the avatar?’

I shrugged. ‘Why does there have to be a soul? I care what works; not how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, or what colour candle to burn for a love spell.’ (Actually, I’d already discovered that in the seduction department, coloured candles are vastly overrated when compared to oral sex.)

My mother just sighed in her sweetest way, and said something about following my own path. So I did, and I have been following it ever since. It has led me to many interesting places – here, for example – but never have I encountered evidence to suggest that I am not unique.

Until now, perhaps.

Yanne Charbonneau. It rings too nicely to be entirely plausible. And there’s something in her colours, some suggestion of deceit, although I suspect that she has developed ways to hide herself, so that I can only glimpse the truth when her defences are lowered.

Maman doesn’t like us to be different.

Interesting.

And what was the name of that village again? Lansquenet? I must look it up, I told myself. There may be some clue to be found there, past scandal perhaps, some trace of a mother and child that may cast light on this shadowy pair.

Searching internet sites from my laptop, I found only two references to the place – both websites dedicated to folklore and festivities of the south-west, in which the name of Lansquenet-sous-Tannes was linked to a popular Easter festival, first held a little over four years ago.

A chocolate festival. No surprise.

So. Did she get bored with village life? Did she make enemies? Why did she leave?