The rain is coming down in sheets as I dash along the path back to the lighthouse. A cackle cuts through the frigid air and a group of cormorants soar overhead, their bodies blown and buffeted by the wind. My heart lifts, longing to fly with them, and then I remember that their sister is Moronoe. She’s the one they love and miss; she’s the one who belongs with them – not me.

I watch as they circle the tower then head inland towards the mountain. With their huge wings outspread they make a forbidding sight, and I imagine how scared the islanders must have been to see them fly as witches. My mum only stayed here because she thought her enchantments were stopping them from coming through the lighthouse. She couldn’t have known it wasn’t them she had to fear, or that they’re trapped here, unable to go home.

Home.

It’s such a small word and yet it holds so much: memories of joy for some and pain for others. For me, the word has always had a hollow ring to it. People talk about how they long to go home, how there’s no place like it, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had anywhere that felt like home. Not that I’m special. I’m sure most kids in the system feel the same way and I’ve seen what can happen to the unlucky ones, the damage that can be done by adults who are meant to ‘care’.

I stop and take shelter under the lighthouse, letting my body slump to the ground. Whenever I feel myself sliding into self-pity, I remind myself that things could have been so much worse for me. There was someone once, a person I belonged to and who belonged to me, someone who felt like home. Sitting on the step, I bang my head against the door behind me. Getting upset about Katie won’t change anything, but there’s still a chance I can help the witches get home and save my mum. I need to focus on what I can do.

I hold out my right arm and turn over my hand, thrilled to see a tiny golden flame flicker above my palm. I run my other hand over it, enjoying the warmth as the energy expands and contracts. A second heartbeat thuds in my chest and somehow I know that magic has always been there, lodged deep inside me, waiting to be found.

Taking a deep breath, I imagine the ball moving away from me.

Nothing happens.

I try again, squinting through half-closed eyes as I extend my arms, but it doesn’t move. I picture Thiten’s face and remember how angry I felt, but it still doesn’t budge.

Please, Moronoe, I don’t understand why it’s not working.

I wait, but nothing stirs inside me. No image or feeling comes to mind.