Gingerly, the women stretch out their fingers and clasp hers.

‘We’ll begin with a hymn,’ Myrtle sighs softly, like a girl in love.

Myrtle insists upon this, says hymns help convince people they aren’t taking part in something sacrilegious. She opens her bow-shaped mouth and begins:

Behold, a Stranger at the door!

He gently knocks, has knocked before,

Mrs Boyle and Mrs Parker join her in a feeble contralto:

Has waited long, is waiting still:

You treat no other friend so ill.

Pearl doesn’t take part but instead sits, staring into the crystal ball. She’s always thought it’s cruel to make mourners sing. If there’s one thing she understands about grief, it’s how it chokes: the fingers of death, squeezing the throats of the living.

At last, the hymn ends. The air grows taut.

What now?

Remembering Myrtle’s instructions, Pearl releases the mourners’ hands and takes up the gentleman’s glove that’s been left for her upon the table. It’s made of kidskin; warm from the candlelight, slightly stained on the palm. Is that a rip, by the ring finger? Hard to see. Her vision is clouding, as if she’s gazing through fog.

She opens her mouth, exhales. A luminous ribbon flows out of it, drawing gasps. Her pulse goes wild. This has never happened before.

The ghosts are coming. Her arms are glowing, her breath is glowing. She’s being swallowed.

Myrtle says, ‘He’s here.’

Something whispers, soft in her ear. Then cool, feathery hands touch her: dozens of them stroking her hair, patting her arms. She wants to scream but there’s a buzzing sensation in her jaw, holding it shut.

A figure rises up from the mist. He’s trailing garments and has candle flames for eyes. Can Myrtle see him, too? She doesn’t know; the others are invisible to her and she’s alone in the dark with this – thing.

The spirit parts his lips, revealing a great void.

Pearl can’t take any more. Her mind pulls the shutters down.

When she wakes up, the lamps are back on. Two black candlesticks stand before her on the table, smoking.

The younger mourner has her arm about the shoulders of the elder. Both are sobbing.

‘He remembered!’ The old lady cries. ‘H-he always remembered.’

Myrtle practically hums with delight. ‘Hmm. The message has significance for you?’

‘Yes! Today is the anniversary of our marriage.’

A fresh burst of grief.

Pearl feels bruised, hollow, as if the spirits have taken her up and dropped her from a great height. She folds her arms on the table, rests her head upon them.

What happened? What did she say?

‘But if that was Papa,’ the younger woman reasons, furrowing her brow, ‘if it truly was him … He would have told us, would he not? That is the reason we came here.’