Heaving a sigh, she retreats to the bottom of the bed and my body trembles with relief. I wait for her to say something but she just sits there, her shoulders rounded. I hate seeing her like this, bone weary and ground down. Where is the beautiful woman with ice-blue eyes? She’s always been the fiercest amongst us, the most passionate and brave.

How can I know these things? The voice inside my head is my own, but the thoughts belong to someone else. Something’s not right. I’m not right. I must be dreaming. The creatures in the lighthouse, my mum being taken, it can’t have happened.

‘None of this is real, it can’t be,’ I mutter.

Her hand squeezes mine and I’m filled with a sinking realisation. Whether this is real or some projection of my mind, I’m not going to wake up.

Tom groans as if he’s in pain and my heart constricts. I don’t know what the women in the tower did to him, but what if he doesn’t wake up? What if he does and tries to attack me? Instinctively, I turn to the bird-woman for help. She smiles and something tells me that she can heal him. It makes no sense – my mum warned me the witches wanted to kill me, yet instinct tells me I can trust her. I feel certain she’d never hurt me, even though I’ve only just met her.

‘My mum, what happened to her?’ I ask.

The bird-woman shakes her head and the air leaves my body. She can’t have gone. Not like that. Not taken by those things.

‘I have to get her back. Please.’

She moves up the bed and holds my hands in hers then gently bumps her forehead against mine. The intimacy of the gesture takes me by surprise, and fills me with inexplicable longing at the same time. I have a feeling we’ve sat like this before, sharing our hurts and hopes, comforting one another. It makes me homesick for something I’ve never had.

‘First you m-must remember.’

She draws in a sharp breath and I get the impression that talking is exhausting for her. The more she speaks, the clearer her diction becomes, but every word is extracted at a cost.

‘It will be easier if your memories return by themselves. That’s why we’ve been whispering to you, making our ma-mark on your door, leaving the book.’

Thinking about the book reminds me of the man I saw in the portal. The image was hazy and indistinct, but I would know his face anywhere. It was the man from my vision.

‘I need to remember Merlin?’

She smiles encouragingly and I wish I understood.

‘Do you know who I am?’ she asks.

I search her face, certain that I know her but unable to recall her name.