Wearily she leans down, places her forehead on the rough wood of the table.

‘Let me take you home.’ Simon’s worried voice sounds far away. ‘The shock has been too great. I should not have told you. You must rest …’

As if she possibly can.

Everything is slipping through her fingers: each person or occupation that ever brought her cheer. She does not feel as if she is only fighting against a killer; it seems like a battle for her soul.

Who can she be without her art, without her dear nephew, or even the hope of being reunited with the man she once loved? She tries desperately to picture Montague as she knew him, to conjure the sound of Cedric’s voice, but already they are fading away.

Soon, there will be only Simon left.

Thank heavens for his kindness, for his warm touch upon her arm. Her other joys are mere shadows, retreating into the darkness when the lamp is blown out.

CHAPTER 23

Days have passed and Agnes still hasn’t come back.

But she left her carpet bag behind, and Pearl has hidden it inside her wardrobe as a kind of talisman: the only proof that Agnes was here and promised to help her. Most days it’s easier to believe in the spirits than it is to believe that Agnes will return.

Pearl spends her hours fever hot, bone dry, thrown from one encounter to the next. It’s getting difficult to tell all the séances apart. So many clients, so much money changing hands. Her ears ring with wails and sobs and some of them are her own.

She trawls through the carpet bag and pulls out the map; she’s already memorised its twists and turns. Agnes was right, she doesn’t need to read in order to follow its directions, but she needs another talent that she doesn’t have: courage.

The paper shakes in her fingers. Her whole hand looks as if it might shake to pieces. It’s been like that all the time since the ghosts started sucking her dry. The only steady objects in her life are Myrtle’s eyes, watching, watching.

She tucks the paper away, fastens the bag and closes it in the wardrobe. She’ll give herself a few more days. If Agnes doesn’t return by then, she’ll put on the clothes and follow the map.

Maybe.

Her pulse beats so hard she can see it in her wrists.

Donning the green-glass spectacles Myrtle has brought her to help shut out the light, she ventures from her darkened room. Everything looks emerald-coloured, which doesn’t help her sense of unreality. The house is prettier through the lenses, but it still smells the same and is smelling worse day by day. The stink plagues her wherever she goes, like someone’s shoved a piece of bad meat up her nostrils.

Maybe she’s rotting, being pulled down among the dead.