‘Very well. We shall just have to see what Captain Montague chooses to do.’

There is a snag of tension as they join hands, neither of them fully satisfied with the other. Montague’s ring is pressed between their palms.

Pearl closes her eyes. ‘John Augustus Montague,’ she repeats.

There is a pause.

Agnes cannot bear the suspense. ‘Are you there?’ she whispers, but silence reigns.

What if he does not come? What if he jilts her, again?

Her face begins to tingle. She has the strangest sensation, as if threads are being drawn out from the pores of her skin. Every jagged sound of the day, from the hoof beats of the funeral procession to her fruitless cries of Cedric’s name, seems to build to a crescendo inside her head.

‘Please, Montague. Please.’

Suddenly, the fireplace springs to life.

The flames burn higher than last time. She can taste their smoke, but there are no shapes dancing on the wall like before. Only a single patch of black appears upon the floorboards.

Pearl makes no movement; she looks cataleptic. Whatever is taking place, she is not a conscious agent in its production.

The dark blot stretches across the room and touches the skirts of their gowns. For a moment it wavers there, then the umbra spreads and begins to take form.

Agnes knows what it will be; she has stared at it often enough. The shadow is assuming the outline of Montague’s silhouette.

‘Pearl! Pearl, can you hear him?’ she hisses.

Pearl gives no response.

She can’t breathe. The shade is life-size. Bigger, perhaps. Growing. She closes her eyes.

‘H-h-hello?’ The voice is faint and close to her ear. It fizzes through her veins. But these are not the words of endearment he once muttered; he sounds confused and afraid. ‘Hello?’

‘Montague,’ she breathes.

‘Where … Who …’

She promised herself she would not cry, yet the tears are already flowing. ‘Oh, Montague. Don’t you recognise me?’

A pause. The fire cracks.

‘Agnes?’

‘Yes!’

There is no immediate response. All she can hear is the rustle and snap of flames. Carefully, she opens her eyes. The shadow remains on the floor. She wants to reach out and touch it, but that would break the circle and he might disappear.

‘Will you not speak to me?’ she pleads.

The words come muffled and incoherent. She can only catch at odd ones: ‘… must … not safe … She … watches you.’

This is how Mamma must feel, listening through her ear trumpet. Agnes groans in frustration.

‘Montague, I have so much to tell you! You do not even know …’ She looks helplessly at Pearl, but the girl is clearly going to be of no use in communicating. She takes a breath, tries to focus on the most important thing. ‘You had a son, John. A lovely boy. The spit of you.’ Tears force her to break off. ‘He is missing. I thought you could help me find him. I thought …’