He wets his lips, nods. ‘It was only natural that you should sympathise with Miss Meers. You know what it is to have a sister who controls … I mean to say, you have been treated in a manner that … You can easily put yourself in the child’s position,’ he finishes awkwardly.

She pictures Miss West and Constance, side by side. He is right. There are similarities there.

‘Oh, Simon. Whatever have I done?’

CHAPTER 29

Nine chimes of the clock and the sickroom is already rank. It stinks like cabbage soup. Pearl’s opened the window, even the curtains a little bit, but the cool morning air won’t come in.

They’re burning up, her and Father. If anything, the December wind only fans the flames.

What is she meant to do now? Looking at Father makes her as giddy as if she were staring into an abyss. Did that fat doctor hurt him yesterday? Make it worse? She’d almost be glad to believe that, for it would mean that Myrtle was right, and all the doctor’s sad hmphs and shakes of the head would be proved as humbug.

But she’s got eyes – even if it is harder to use them without her green spectacles. And those eyes can see that Father slept much easier with the magic drops.

Their spell must be wearing off now. He’s fidgety again, making that dreadful bubbling moan. The wisps of the spirit world are closing in around him; daylight scares them off, but Pearl knows they’re still there, reaching out in expectation of plucking a treat.

She crosses the room and bends down to the cheap tick mattress. The bottle’s still hidden under there. She pulls it out and weighs it, heavy as sin in her hands. It’s got a cork in the top and a label covered in writing on the side; she squints at the weird symbols, but they don’t mean anything to her.

It doesn’t look like poison, it looks like really strong tea. But then, how would she know? Didn’t the doctor say that even matches could be poison?

She can’t decide what she’s meant to do; who to trust, who to believe.

Father starts to twitch.

She walks to the head of his bed, the bottle still in her hand. ‘You want this?’

Maybe he does, but that’s not the gesture he’s making; it’s the one he used when the doctor came.

Cut it out.

Her eyes fill with tears.

‘He’s coming back,’ she lies. ‘The doctor’s coming back and he’ll do it; he’s just … busy.’

Father gurgles a relieved sigh. Very briefly, the creases leave his forehead. He points to the bottle.

‘All right.’