Taking hold of one another’s hands, they circle around me, their bare feet sinking and twisting in the sand. Their steps are perfectly synchronised, limbs and heads moving at the same time, their voices singing as one. ‘Moronoe. Moronoe. Moronoe.’ They say it over and over and I feel a tug behind my breastbone. I turn on the spot, staring at their faces as they dance faster. ‘Moronoe. Moronoe.’ They throw the word to one another across the circle until it becomes a chant. The world whirls around me and I step sideways and hold my head.

I know they miss their sister, but each time they say her name I feel myself shrinking inside. ‘I’m Ivy,’ I say. They don’t hear me and I have the oddest feeling that I’m fading away. I don’t want to be erased. I don’t want to be forgotten. I need them to know who I am now. ‘Ivy, my name is Ivy!’ I shout.

I turn around, trying to latch on to something fixed, something solid that I can hold on to, but there’s only a blur of pale faces, feathered wings and streaming hair. Closing my eyes, I repeat my name inside my head, a drumbeat fading to a whisper. I feel her rear up inside me – Moronoe. She wants me to say her name, to scream it to the sea and sky. I fall to the sand, my head spinning, and the dance stops abruptly. Concerned faces peer down at me, blocking out the dark clouds above, and then the women look at one another, their alarm turning to disappointment.

Glitonea steps forward and I lower my gaze, feeling that I’ve let her down. She warned me in the cave that I have to wake the witch inside me for this to work. If I’m going to save my mum, I have to do whatever they ask of me.

Grabbing me under the arm, she hauls me to my feet. ‘Come.’

The women make their way to the shoreline, their expressions as sombre as the sky, and I hang my head and follow them. Glitonea points at me and calls out, ‘Thiten, Mazoe, Gliten.’ The short angry one and two others stand next to me, while the remaining women walk towards Glitonea. Running along the beach, they spread out and form a circle. They look alert and excited, their bodies tense, as if they’re about to charge at one another.

As if prompted by an unheard cue, each woman extends her right arm towards the centre of the circle and turns her palm upwards. Hovering above each is a tiny golden flame. The women hold their free hands over the flickering lights, circling their palms until the flames expand into glowing spheres the size of bowling balls.