A trio of Etruscan silhouettes painted in vermillion hang directly in front of her chair. The frame to the left of them goes down, then the one to the right. Thud, crack, thud, crack, until only the three profiles remain: a man wearing a peruke and two ladies with feathers in their hats.

Agnes stares at them, her agitated brain trying to find meaning. There is no obvious connection between them other than their orange-red colour. She cranes back in her chair as the oval frames start to tremble, but they do not fall. Instead, the one of a man in the centre seems to … melt.

Livid drops trickle down the wall, slowly at first, and then they are streaking, gory, splattering onto her desk with the iron scent of blood.

Her work is being exsanguinated.

She surges to her feet, head rushing, and hurries from the room.

Dusk is blooming outside but still the abbey bells toll, on and on, relentless. The shadows of the bannisters waver across the landing like the bars of a cage. A female shadow flits behind; it does not look like her own.

She blunders down the staircase, still clutching the heavy duplicate book in her arms. The profiles hanging on the wall seem to turn and watch her as she goes.

Mamma sits in the darkened parlour with only the fire for company. There are shadows, more shadows, massing around her hunched, shawl-covered frame. Agnes cries out and drops her book onto the wing chair. Picking up the pail of sand that stands beside the poker set, she uses it to douse the flames. The orange tongues hiss, crackle and die, until all that remains is a charred pile of sand and the grey smoke.

‘Whatever did you do that for?’ Mamma protests. ‘It’s cold in here.’

Agnes pants and places the empty bucket down. This must be why Pearl keeps it dark – shadows cannot haunt you in the dark.

‘I told you, Mamma. No fires.’

‘No fires, no papers, no Cedric,’ Mamma grumbles, shuffling her swollen feet. ‘Very high and mighty with your orders, miss. Who died and left you in charge?’

‘Papa did!’ she shouts, wheeling round to face her mother. ‘Papa entreated me to take care of you all and I have …’ She softens, ashamed of her outburst. ‘I have tried. But I have failed. I was not strong enough.’

Mamma looks ancient in the dark; sadder, without the rosy-red hue of her cheeks. She scrunches her wrinkled hands together and glances down at them, contrite.

‘Was I a bad mother to you, Agnes?’

This winds her. ‘Bad?’ She sits down on the sofa beside Mamma and touches her shoulder. ‘Why would you think so?’

‘Well. I can’t help but question it, considering. I never found you a husband. And Constance …’

Yes, Constance.