A witch is born when a candle is placed in a paper lantern and flown into the sky. Her first view of the world – not when she opens her eyes, for that happens much later, but when she becomes aware – is the knowledge of how it feels to float. Flying through the air on a candleholder, the witch feels the wind around her, and begins to understand.

The girl stood outside the telephone box.

It was raining; one of those English nights where the light turns everything blue.

The girl was small. She could just about reach the handle of the red door behind her, but it was too heavy for her to pull open. She’d tried. It had earned her a stern look from inside the box.

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