A knock on the door interrupted their conversation.
“Rufus, honey? Are you in there?” A neatly-coiffed blonde poked her head in, smiling for only an instant until her eyes landed on Ursula. “What are you two up to?”
Rufus blinked. “I… I didn’t know you were coming by now, Madeleine.”
“The lecturer let us out early.” She eyed Ursula warily, running a hand over a pink silk blouse. A week’s wages right there—and Ursula couldn’t even imagine how much her fat diamond earrings cost.
Rufus cleared his throat. “Madeleine is my girlfriend, Ursula. She’s studying mythological history and cryptozoology. She’s very accomplished.”
“That sounds really interesting,” said Ursula, trying—and failing—to mask her irritation. “Looks like it’s time for me to go.”
Madeleine’s eyes lingered over Ursula’s soaked shirt. “Did something happen?”
“Beer accident,” said Ursula. It was all the explanation she needed.
Madeleine’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh. Well, I stopped by so you could escort me home, honey. You don’t know what sort of creatures are lurking on London’s streets these days. Professor Stoughton said the city’s been filled with magical activity in the past few months. Witches, demons, all sorts of horrible things. He has a meter to measure it.” Madeleine blocked the exit, her voice laced with jealousy. “What were you two talking about, anyway?”
“I was discussing Ursula’s future here,” said Rufus.
“Oh?” Madeleine plastered on a saccharine smile. “There’s a future?”
“Well, that’s just it,” said Rufus. “I simply can’t keep someone employed who lights people on fire. It’s a liability.”
Ursula could feel herself heating up again, and the fever that had been quietly throbbing behind her temples turned into a dull roar. She held onto the door frame for support.
“Well, chin up. I’m sure you’ll be able to find another job,” said Madeleine, barely containing her glee. “It’ll be exciting. A new adventure.” She didn’t move from the doorframe, obviously savoring the moment.
Ursula felt her temper flare, and she gripped the wood by Madeleine’s side. “Are you going to let me leave? Or do you plan to keep blocking the door all night?”
Madeleine gasped, jumping back. She gaped in horror at Ursula’s hand—and the smoke that curled from beneath Ursula’s fingers.
“Oh my God! What did you do to the door?” Her eyes froze on Ursula’s face, and she whispered one word: “Witch.”
Chapter 3
Ursula skulked along Bow Road, her hands jammed in the pockets of her leopard-print coat, fingers curled up for warmth. With the beer-drenched shirt plastered to her skin, the winter air was brutally cold. At least her feet were warm in her boots, though she’d probably have to sell them soon for cash. She had only one more paycheck coming in, and it wouldn’t cover the rent that was due in two days.
Disappointment crushed her. If she didn’t figure something out, she’d be homeless soon, sleeping on the streets through the freezing winter. How long, exactly, did it take for a landlord to evict someone? And how long would it take for another homeless person to rob her of her leopard-print coat?
A biting wind nipped at her ears. She could have used a bit more of that fever now. Skint and unemployed, she’d chosen to walk from Brick Lane back to Bow—nearly two miles. She wasn’t spending the last of her money on a bus. And, more importantly, it had given her time to think. Well, time to stew, really. Her chest ached with a familiar hollow feeling.
She could have done without meeting Madeleine, with her beautifully coiffed blond hair, French-manicured nails, and all the letters she’d have after her name when she graduated.
Ursula shivered. My eighteenth birthday. This should have been a night for a celebration, but apart from her flatmate she hardly had any friends left. After her breakup with Rufus, he seemed to have taken her whole clique with him—probably because he could lavish them with champagne and pick up the tabs at fancy restaurants.
Or maybe it was just like Rufus had always said: she wasn’t very good with people.
She pulled her coat tighter as she passed the warm lights of a pub, wishing she’d had the foresight to wear a scarf. Breakup aside, she’d been expecting something a little more momentous for her eighteenth birthday. This was the night something big was supposed to happen—she just had no idea what.
Apart from her birthday, there weren’t many things Ursula knew about herself. Her background was so outlandish, it was like something out of a soap opera: a rare case of amnesia that had rendered her childhood a complete blank slate. There was simply nothing in her memory before the age of fifteen.
What she knew for certain was that a few years ago she’d turned up in a burnt-out church, with a strange, triangular scar on her shoulder and a piece of paper in her pocket. The paper had read:
On your 18th birthday,
March 15, 2016,