Myrtle’s voice echoes in the hallway, tuned to the pitch of sympathy. A woman answers her. Pearl gleans what she can – she’s in the habit of professional eavesdropping – and gathers that there are two women coming in: Mrs Boyle and Mrs Parker. They’ve both lost a man.

Was he their husband and father? Son and brother? Either way, the bonds seem close. She hopes she can satisfy them. It would be dreadful to let the mourners down. But if she succeeds …

A man will possess her. Speak through her mouth, see through her eyes. What if he doesn’t go away again? He might occupy her for the rest of her life, use her like some sort of devilish puppet.

Pearl swallows her bile.

She shouldn’t fear the dead. She’s tasted death, as Myrtle’s fond of reminding her. ‘You did the dying part, before you were even born,’ she says. But Pearl doesn’t remember that, any more than she remembers the mother who lost her life bringing her into this world.

Footsteps sound in the parlour, followed by the movement of chair legs. Pearl ventures to open her eyes. Myrtle’s turned down the lamps. She doesn’t need to squint from the pain of their light any longer.

‘Mrs Boyle, Mrs Parker. I must ask you to take your seats and remain in perfect silence. She will come to us presently.’

It’s that breathy way of speaking that Myrtle has perfected. She ought to have been on the stage.

‘But how—’

‘She’ll know. Leave the glove upon the table. If she requires anything further of you, she’ll ask.’

Upholstery squeaks as they sit down. A little shuffling, settling in. The candles will be lit by now, their fiery eyes reflected in the crystal ball.

Still, it’s not time to go out there yet.

Pearl takes a deep breath, longs to run from the cabinet and never come back. But she’s eleven now, no longer a child. She has to work for the family like everyone else. She clenches her hands into fists. Waits until the silence begins to crackle.

Now.

She rings the bell. It cuts through the hush like lightning.

‘Ladies!’ Myrtle announces, ‘The White Sylph arrives.’

Slowly, slowly, Pearl eases the curtain aside and steps out into the darkness.

There’s always that little shock, the intake of breath when the mourners see her. But today, respect mingles with their awe. She has the Power – they can see it flowing from her in waves. Beside her they’re desolate things: pinched and tear-stained, their clothes blending into the false night of the parlour.

She takes her seat. No one can see how her knees tremble beneath the tablecloth.

‘Please, join hands.’ Pearl uses the gentle, fluting voice Myrtle made her practise. Already, she’s given up a part of herself. She swallows some more, tries not to think of what will happen next.