Two weeks later, those were the words that had Mika tapping her fingers nervously on the steering wheel of the Broomstick, her trusty butter-yellow hatchback. She had just driven past the sign that welcomed her to Norfolk, a part of the country she hadn’t been to since she’d spent two years as a student at the University of East Anglia, and the satnav stuck to the bottom corner of her windscreen told her she still had about an hour to go.

WITCH WANTED. Live-in tutor wanted for three young witches. Must have nerves of steel. Previous teaching experience not necessary. Witchiness essential.

Fourteen thousand followers weren’t very many, really, but it was enough to make sure Mika’s social media accounts always had a collection of odd, intrusive, or downright offensive new messages on any given day. She could now tell just by looking at an overview of her inbox, with its previews of each new message, which ones would be worth reading and which ones would not.

A message that began with the words WITCH WANTED, presented just like that in all capitals like it was announcing the birth of a new royal baby, should have gone straight into the bin. Mika knew, even as she clicked on the message out of pure curiosity, that it would probably be some kind of invitation to partake in kinky witch sex with the sender.

Imagine her surprise, then, to discover it was, in fact, even weirder than that.

She had found herself reluctantly amused. In spite of her better judgement, she had sent a reply.

Full marks for creativity, but I’m afraid my nerves are made of marshmallow.

As it happens, came the response, almost instantly, we’re desperate enough to take your nerves in whatever state they’re in.

And then, before Mika could scoff or quit the app or do any of the other things she might have been tempted to, a new message appeared. It had a single word.

Please.

Which was how, after asking many more questions and getting very little in the way of actual answers, Mika found herself driving all the way from her flat in Brighton to a place that was, most ominously, named Nowhere House.

All because someone on the internet had good manners.

That, and the fact that her last job had ended in September, the six-month tenancy on her flat was almost up, and as unlikely as it seemed that this was a real, legitimate, not-at-all-hinky offer, she needed a new place to live and the paid work that came with it.

And also maybe, just maybe, because the magic, that song that never left her, had given her a little nudge.

“In a quarter of a mile, turn left,” said the satnav.