Please, I need your help. If I can’t become a witch and reunite with your sisters, then they won’t be able to go home.

A girl with long black hair appears in my mind. Moronoe. I wait for her to say something but she shakes her head, a tear rolling down her face. At first I presume she’s mourning her sisters, but then she points at my chest and a thought surfaces loud and clear.

Only you can open it.

I will her to say more, but her image fades as quickly as it came. What does she mean, only I can open it? Does she mean the portal?

A shadow slides over the ground and I look up and see a cormorant. It flies straight at me then somersaults in mid-air, landing as a woman. Morgan looks surprised to see me here and I force a smile, worried she’s going to ask me about what happened on the beach. She gestures for me to make room and I shake my head.

‘I need to get back to Tom.’

‘I checked on him earlier, he’s fine.’

She waves at me to shoo and I shift along the step, letting her sit down. As I do, a memory that isn’t mine flashes into my head: Morgan wearing a blue gown cut to accentuate her slender waist, her glossy black hair curled and fastened with a silver comb. Her bright blue eyes glitter with excitement as she makes her way around a lavish banquet table, stopping to talk with people and throwing back her head and laughing. She catches my gaze and beckons me over. She loves being the centre of attention, but she loves showing off her sisters even more. She’s proud of our accomplishments rather than our looks, and though she has a taste for the finer things, the most exquisite cloth and luxurious food, she values craftsmanship and artistry above all else. She aspires not to beauty, but to the perfection of her craft – to magic. She makes me want to do better, to excel at spell work. I want to achieve great things: not to compete with her, but to be like her.

She shifts on the step next to me and my gaze travels along her bruised and dirty legs, taking in her mud-splattered dress and filthy hair. Not for the first time, the sight of her fills me with despair. I hate seeing her reduced to this.

‘How was combat training?’ she asks.

She narrows her eyes and I find myself sympathising with Moronoe. It can’t have been easy being the youngest of nine sisters, feeling that every skill had already been mastered by someone else. I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to fail at magic, and I can’t say I like it.

‘I couldn’t throw the energy. I did it once, but then I couldn’t get it to work again.’