She clasps the letter against her heart. The poor boy must be in a hospital, where Simon will not let her tread for fear of infectious disease. She has half a mind to ignore him and make enquiries at Bellot’s, the General and the United immediately. Cedric should not be there amongst the paupers, but treated at home by his family.

Did she not tell him that hoop and stick would lead him into an accident? To take more care, to look where he was going? Heaven only knows how he managed to sneak out and play when she had locked the house up tight … But it does not signify. Nothing matters, so long as he is safe now. Whatever the injury, she and Simon can nurse him back to health between them. Everything will be different. After such a scare, Simon will no doubt realise how precious Cedric truly is. The rift will be repaired, and together they can watch him grow. It was wrong of her to despair. There will be a future for her, after all.

She must tell Mamma. Prepare her somehow for the prospect of an invalid boy returning home, without frightening the life out of her. She will soften the news. Tell her he has been taken a little unwell.

‘Mamma!’ she calls, running out into the passageway. ‘I have a letter from Simon.’

It is likely that Mamma has nodded off in the brief space of time she has been left alone, but as Agnes pushes the parlour door open, expecting to find her mother dozing, she is struck dumb by what she sees.

The fire is lit again. Not just sparking but blazing, as if it were made up and stirred by a careful hand. The shadows wheel, revelling in their freedom.

She wants to ask Mamma how she accomplished this so quickly; how she bent her arthritic body to relay the kindling and where she got the matches from.

She would ask her.

But Mamma is nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER 31

There’s more blood than Pearl reckoned on.

Some of it’s red, some of it’s black, there’s even a little purple. All of it smells like copper coins.

Shuddering, Pearl steps back from the bed and wipes the tears from her eyes. Now she’s got a new pair of spectacles, but these aren’t green: everything she sees is streaked with red.

The pillow blooms deep claret. The stain keeps on growing, she can’t stop it. All she’s managed to slice off is a hunk of corrupted flesh.

She couldn’t help him. There was too much badness for her to cut out.

The knife slips from her palm to the floor.

What has she done?

What has she done?