There were three of them, in the beginning, and we called them the Crowley Girls.
They were born of this island, as we were; sister-children, brethren, kin. Soil and bone. A common blood running through our veins, for our ancestors had been family, once, if you went back far enough. We tell you this for you must understand the ways of Inisrún before we begin our story – we were all connected here.
But those girls were not like us.
Since they were children, we had whispered to one another of their other-worldly beauty. Their golden waves of hair, their eyes so green, their long legs in short skirts or tight jeans. We watched them but they watched each other. They had no need of anyone else.
Three is a magic number, of course. Three wishes granted. The Wayward Sisters. The Moirai. The Holy Trinity – the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Those girls were protected when they were still three. They were blessed, they were charmed. Born under a blood moon, made of stardust, shimmering bright.
But then the island was swallowed whole by the night and one of the Crowley Girls was taken from us, breaking the spell. Death came to this land and we were never the same after that.
Which one of the girls, you might ask? Which one of the sisters lost her life on that terrible day?
Oh, but the best one.
The best one of all.