‘A bit.’ She still can’t look Myrtle in the face. She’s going to have to become an awful lot better at this lying business if she’s really going to get Father out of here, to a real doctor …

Her innards lurch. It’s not just the fear of getting caught that causes her stomach to ache; it feels as if there’s something alive in there.

‘Well, see you recover before tonight,’ Myrtle orders. ‘I’m not cancelling this séance. These ones have money, and connections. We’ll clean up if we can impress them.’

Pearl stares at her jam-smeared plate. The crumbs on it seem to dance. ‘I didn’t sleep all that well,’ she excuses herself.

‘You still need to work. Christ! I don’t ask a lot of you, Pearl. You’re lucky you’ve got me for a sister. Others would be selling tickets to let people gawp at an albino like you. Maybe I should just bundle you off to the circus – you and your dad, both.’

Her stomach pitches and this time, there’s no controlling it. Pearl crashes down from her chair and hurries into her room, where she manages to sit on the chamber pot with just a second to spare.

It’s agony: ripping her body just like she rips away the veil to enter the land of the dead. Pearl folds in half, her head between her knees and her lips parted in a soundless scream.

The pain doesn’t go away when she’s done, but it does dull to a simmer. She’s left with a brand of disgust and shame. Who would’ve thought her body was capable of making those sickening noises, those smells. The room stinks nearly as bad as Father’s wound.

Nearly.

She uses the old copies of Missives from Summerland to scrub herself clean: it seems fitting. All those writers harp on about the beauty and the wonder of the spirit world. What’s that word they use? Ethereal. Myrtle says it means pretty and airy, but there’s nothing pretty about the ache pulsating deep in the pit of Pearl’s belly, or the contents of this chamber pot. Contacting the Other Side isn’t a pleasure cruise. If you want to talk to the dead, you have to go digging amongst the worms and maggots.

Grimacing, she manages to stand and holds the pot at arm’s length by its handle. God forbid someone should walk down the street while she empties this out of the window. She couldn’t bear the humiliation if anyone else were to see …

She blinks, her eyes watering. Is she really seeing this?

Fumes drift up from the pewter rim: spirit matter trying to make its way back to Summerland.