Hannah Abbott, of Flat 48, Bucknell House, Peckham, was, to all outward appearances, a perfectly ordinary eleven year old girl. She had perfectly ordinary dark blonde hair and grey eyes, although she did look somewhat incongruous amongst the Bangladeshi children on the estate that she played with during her summer holidays. Hannah had a permanent look of anxiety on her face — whenever people asked her what she was worried about, Hannah would blink for a second before saying "I'm not sure."

Hannah Abbott was unsure about a lot of things in her life. At eleven years old, she had finished her primary education and should be heading towards some sort of secondary school at the end of Summer, although her mother hadn't yet informed her where that would be. Hannah presumed it would be the local high school, however whenever she tried to ask her mother at dinner, Grace Abbott would frown, say "Let's talk about it later," and go on to ask about what Hannah had done that day while she was at work.

Hannah was also unsure about her family — all that she ever knew was that her father worked in the legal system, like her mother, and had left Grace Abbott before she'd known she was pregnant with Hannah. There were no pictures of him, but Hannah figured that he would be tall and blonde, like her, and his freckly cheeks would also go pink when he was happy or embarrassed. Hannah didn't know her extended family either — her mother had told her that they weren't worth knowing, so Hannah left it at that. She was happy enough with her adopted extended family, the families of the refugees that her mother helped move to London. Hannah was very proud of her mother's job, even if it meant she left for work very early every morning and arrived home late each night.

Another thing Hannah Abbott was unsure about was why sometimes, when she was particularly worried about something, she could make strange things happen.

When she was younger, Hannah had planted some seeds for a school assignment and forgotten to water them for a week. The night before it was due, she'd given the still bare pot a good soaking and hoped very hard for her seedlings to sprout, and in the morning she woke to find a flourishing marigold plant with flowers in impossible shades of purple and blue. (Hannah still kept two of the marigold flowers, pressed neatly between the pages of Alice in Wonderland.)

There was the time last month when her teacher had decided to spring a maths test on the class, and Hannah had been so close to crying, wishing anything would happen to prevent it, when the sprinklers in the ceiling came on with a burst of dusty-smelling water. The whole school was forced out into the quadrangle for the rest of the afternoon to dry themselves out in the sun, whilst the fire brigade hunted all over for the source of the false alarm.

Only a week ago, Hannah had been to the movies by herself and missed the bus home. After sighing and shutting her eyes, she opened them to find she'd somehow arrived at the entrance to her estate block.

Perhaps most curious event had been the time when a thunderstorm hit suddenly one night, while Hannah had been reading in bed with her window open. The cool change made the curtains billow, and the first deep rumble of thunder caused her to draw her covers very tightly around herself. She peered out from her bedclothes, too scared to head to the window to close it, when the sash dropped shut by itself, followed in quick succession by the blinds flicking closed and the curtains pulling themselves together over the lot. It could have been the wind, Hannah supposed, until a sharp crack of thunder nearby caused her to squeal and the lights to wink out. She'd dived entirely under her covers. Hannah's hands clasped tightly together in front of her, and she didn't notice straight away when a soft glow appeared between the gaps of her interlaced fingers, as if she were holding on to a small pen light. Hannah opened her hands slowly to find a tiny, perfect ball of yellow light hovering gently above her palms. Carefully, she transferred the orb into an empty glass on her bedside table, and watched it silently until she fell asleep. When she woke up in the morning, the little light was gone. It didn't feel like it had been a dream.

Hannah didn't know how any of these things could have happened, and she was too worried to tell her mother about them. Grace Abbott had enough to deal with at work, and Hannah wasn't sure what her mother would say if she said she'd made… well, what even was it? …Magic?

It was on a hot day in July that something else happened. Hannah was alone in the flat, wondering if she should stay inside and read, or brave the heat to visit Samreen and Mehedi (their mother made the most delicious mint iced tea), when she heard the clink and swish of mail being delivered through the letter slot in the front door.

Hannah heaved herself up from the sofa. There were three things laying on the doormat — two long envelopes that looked like bills, and — she grinned — a letter for Hannah.

Laying the other two on the coffee table, Hannah sat down and tried to tear into the thick envelope, but couldn't find a gap in the folds to do so. She held the letter up close and studied it carefully. There was no mistaking the address, hand-written beautifully in green ink:

Miss H. Abbott
The Sunny Bedroom
Flat 48
Bucknell House
Peckham

There was a seal on the back done in purple wax with a coat of arms, but no return address. Hannah tried to tear an edge of the envelope, but if anything it seemed to make the paper feel tougher.

It's a joke letter, Hannah thought, which made her even more determined to open it. She rummaged in the kitchen for the largest pair of scissors, and made to snip very carefully along one edge of the envelope, but for some reason the paper just seemed to slide from between the blades whenever the scissors closed.

Hannah let out a huff, and thought for a moment before taking the gas lighter from beside the stove. If she was very careful, she could singe an edge open, and tear it from there — but the paper wouldn't burn. It didn't even smoke, or melt, or anything of the sort. What on earth was it made of?

Hannah returned the scissors and lighter to their places and sat back down on the sofa, staring at her mystery letter. She'd read in stories of people steaming letters to loosen the glue, perhaps it was worth giving that a try to melt the wax.

Two hours and seven different methods later (each perhaps a little more dangerous and destructive than the last), Hannah allowed herself a grunt of frustration. The letter was curled in her hand, unopened, mocking her in its perfection.

"Fine," she said to the letter. "If that's what you want."

She slapped the envelope onto her bedside table and went to visit her friends.

That evening, after dinner, Hannah had stepped into her room to collect the book she'd been reading when she noticed the letter. She sighed at it, shook her head, and took it out to the living room.

"You should see this, Mum, it's the strangest thing." Hannah held the letter up between her thumb and forefinger, rolling her eyes. "Someone sent me-" she stopped when she saw her mother's face. The look in Grace Abbott's eyes seemed nothing less than terror. She didn't speak.

"What's wrong?" Hannah's grasp on the envelope loosened, and it dropped to the floor. Grace's face crumpled.

"I hoped... Oh, Hannah, I'd really hoped," she said, her voice slightly choked, "that you wouldn't get one of those."