They stare into a can of purple black juice. Bubbling, bubbling, slurping. Flames lick at damp sea wood, hissing salty omens. A sweet aroma, like home made jam, wafts dreams and hopes into their faces. Flames, yellow, red and green flicker out mysterious messages.

Two child witches watch those flames grow smaller as if withdrawing from their earnest expressions. The bubbling brew slowly diminishes, sealing in their precious wishes.

'Like blue blood,' the fair haired witch says.

A breeze whips up ash and sand onto bare legs. One rubs the blend into her skin and the other follows suit. Now both resemble children from strange places.

Tying dirty handkerchielfs around their hands, they lift up the small cauldron from the embers, placing it in a shallow rock pool where it sizzles.

'You first,' the red haired witch says, dipping a finger into the brew that is hardening like purple black toffee.

And the fair haired witch, leaning over, pokes a finger into the gel, daubing her friend's forehead with the mark of Ash Wednesday.