What can Agnes say? This is her mother, she loves her. The last thing she would wish to do is hurt her. Yet what Mamma says is true. Papa never thought of extracting deathbed promises from his wife – he knew instinctively that she would not cope. And perhaps Constance would have turned out differently if their mother had not treated her with such open resentment and hostility. It was hardly Constance’s fault that she was not born a boy, or that her infant sickness discouraged the usual bond. If Mamma had paid attention, if she had educated the girls herself, maybe Constance would not have developed her obsession with Agnes at all.

‘I think,’ she says slowly, ‘that many mothers would have struggled with a daughter like Constance.’

Something creaks upstairs. Agnes stiffens. The presence must still be there, amongst the broken picture frames. It could not be …

It is not Constance herself?

She tries to stifle the panic that wails inside her chest.

A ghost, even Constance’s ghost, cannot actually hurt her, can it? None of the spirits she has witnessed at séances were physically threatening. Yet Pearl was afraid of them … The girl feared to let them use her mouth. To her the spirits were predators, wanting to invade and take control.

Well, Agnes is not a spirit medium. She can only be haunted, not possessed. And thank heavens for that! If it really were Constance … She would leap at the chance to control Agnes. Was that not what she always tried to do in life?

Agnes shakes the bitter thoughts away. ‘Constance was a woman,’ she reminds herself. ‘Not a monster. She was a troubled woman …’

Mamma sighs. ‘That she was. But it was not you who failed her, dear. I always wanted to tell you that. The fault was mine. I could never warm to her, like I did to you. Those ways she had! When she used to visit the butcher and just stand there, watching him work. How she would bring a dead cat home if she found it in the street. I took a … fear of her. Like she was something sent from above to punish me.’

‘You made up for it with Constance’s son,’ Agnes consoles her mother. ‘No one could accuse you of being an unaffectionate grandmother.’

‘Hmph. Much good my love did Cedric.’ The grey head shakes. ‘She was jealous of him too, wasn’t she? Jealous that we all adored him. And your father …’ Agnes goes to speak, but Mamma talks over her. ‘The truth is, Agnes, I should have risen to the occasion. It should have been me, not you, reining her in and earning money for this family.’

‘You were grieving. And your heart …’

Mamma unclenches her hands and takes one of Agnes’s. She experiences a twinge of guilt for dousing the fire; Mamma does feel very cold.