She wipes the sweat away from her eyes and awkwardly pulls the cork stopper out. She hasn’t got much strength, and nerves are making her dizzy. The doctor said she could give him up to twenty drops, but that’s the biggest number she knows and she’s going to have to concentrate hard on her counting.

She aims at Father’s tongue.

The drops fall slowly, landing with a tiny pat.

She gets lost counting around sixteen, so adds two more for luck – that will have to do.

Father’s breathing slows. He gives her what she has always taken for a smile, though it’s only in the eyes.

Cut it out, he gestures again. Then he drifts off to sleep.

Pearl leaves the room, hollow.

The Bath Society of Spiritual Adventurers are due over again tonight. It feels like a direct punishment for the broken door, but of course Myrtle couldn’t have known about that when she arranged the séance. In fact, Pearl’s still waiting for the real cost to become clear. Myrtle obviously didn’t believe her stupid story about an attempted robbery, but she didn’t do anything either; just went to the kitchen and brought back a piece of bread loaded with jam, which she made Pearl eat. Her face looked nearly black with choked-up rage.

Today, Myrtle’s making the parlour ready for their guests: dusting with an old rag, while the carpet is strewn with used tea leaves. A vinegar scent lingers from where she’s been scrubbing at the crystal ball. There’s a line on it that won’t come off – she says that’s Pearl’s fault, too.

Myrtle has her back turned, but she seems to sense Pearl emerge from Father’s room.

‘Hope you’re in top form,’ she calls. ‘Mr Stadler’s going to write this one up as a piece. Who knows? We might be seeing our names in Missives from Summerland one of these days.’

Pearl can picture the leering, eager faces of the spirit-seekers. She wishes Myrtle would care less for the dead, and more about the man on his last legs in the very next room.

‘Father’s pretty bad,’ she says.

‘So? He’s not got to do the séance.’

Desperation seizes her. Someone needs to sit with Father, to nurse him. Anyone with a heart can see that. She knows she can’t make Myrtle cancel the séance. But maybe if she appeals to her sister’s vanity, she can get something for Father.

‘Won’t you mesmerise him again?’ she pleads. ‘It’d help me concentrate, to know you’d looked after him. He’s been so much worse since you stopped the treatment, I’ve really noticed it.’

Myrtle shakes her head. ‘He fights against me.’

‘He won’t. I promise. He’s too weak now, and you’re so strong …’