Their letters came and, along with them, came a plump, mild-looking woman who wore a pink gown with pink sandals, and carried a pink umbrella to match her pointed, pink hat and round, pink earrings.

“You are,” she said. “Witches.”

To say the least, they did not believe her. Besides, even if they ignored the fact that the word "witch" was local, orphanage slang, the image it conjured was not a good one - the pointed black hat, the scary sneer, the evil broomstick - right then, none of it sounded appealing, none of it sounded impressive.

But the woman was adamant, more so than them. When they insisted on refusing to believe her, she used a pink wand to show them things you can only dream of, things like how to lock doors without even getting up, and how light the fire without having to walk all the way to the Greengrass Wood, from where they brought the wooden sticks to use as firewood and light their fireplaces.

She told them it was all easy when you learned it, and had practiced it, and knew exactly when and where to use it. She told them they were bright children, and their parents had been magical. She told them they could do it too, had probably done some of it, already.

They went with her, and became students of the Revour Academy of Magic.

And from then on, they were no longer children.