The tattoo appeared around Celia’s ankle in the night. The magic woke her, the pain alarmed her, her mothers comforted her.

The thin black line summoned her to serve the Divine. It meant Celia was special.

So Celia asked for a chocolate. She figured the worst her mothers could say was no (like always), but if they were ever going to say yes, it would be when they were so proud of her they couldn’t stop crying.

But first they asked her to tell them the Divine’s story. Celia was already six years old and knew the story well enough. Standing in front of the hearth so the snaps and crackles of the fire would add to the performance, she cleared her throat and began.

A thousand years ago, a child found a magic box with some magic ink. With that special ink, the child tattooed people without touching them: when she drew a temporary line on her own skin, it became a permanent line on someone else’s. Didn’t matter how far away they were, either.

It was as if the child could talk directly to the angels. Her tattoos were mystical, and her messages were . . . pure. She wanted to help people make good choices.