‘What I am trying to say, Miss Meers, is that your father does not possess the strength to undergo an operation. Even with ether, the shock to his body would be more than he could stand.’ He withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. ‘Putting that fact aside … I believe the performance would be futile, anyhow. The disease has progressed too far for me – for anyone – to help.’

‘But you’ll cure him,’ Pearl asserts. ‘Agnes promised you’d cure him.’

Simon’s throat bobs as he swallows. ‘In this instance, Miss Meers, I regret to inform you that it is quite beyond my power.’

The hush that falls is agonising.

‘Miss Meers, you are unwell—’ Simon starts forward, but Pearl dodges away from him.

She is shaking so much that her features seem to blur in the shadows. ‘Get out.’

Is she possessed of a spirit? Agnes would like to believe so, but the voice is entirely Pearl’s own. The child’s weakened form cannot contain the emotions that are blasting through it; she is forced to lean upon the wall.

‘Get out of my house!’ she shrieks.

Agnes rises to her feet. She can feel a faint rumbling through the floor.

‘Indeed, I cannot, while you are so ill,’ Simon protests. ‘I have been observing you and your health appears much depleted. I would like—’

‘Don’t touch me! We don’t need quacks! I don’t need you at all.’

‘Pearl—’ Agnes tries, but the girl is beside herself.

‘Myrtle will cure him,’ she insists, ferociously. ‘Myrtle’s curing him with Mesmerism. She was right about you lot. You don’t know nothing.’

On the table, two candles ignite.

‘I can assure you—’

‘Bunch of bleedin’ tricksters!’ Pearl cries, batting Simon away. ‘Get out! Get … out!’

A line forks through the crystal ball like a crack in ice.

‘Simon,’ Agnes whispers, ‘I think that we had better go.’

He gives a defeated nod, but his eyes do not leave the child as they walk out of the parlour and towards the front door.

The girl slides all the way down the wall to the carpet where she sits, arms around her knees.

The last sight Agnes has before the door closes is Pearl’s white face, drenched in tears.

Outside, it is still mizzling. Walcot Street goes on the same, as if it could possibly tempt them to eat sheep’s trotters or buy a ballad, after what they have seen in that house.

Agnes looks into her friend’s troubled eyes.

‘That child is very ill, Miss Darken. Did she work at the match factory also?’

‘I do not know. I am so ignorant!’ She groans, hating herself. ‘I did not even trouble to acquaint myself with her properly, I have simply blundered into her life and caused all this distress!’