The magic drops kept him asleep, but he’s not sleeping now. She knows it, yet she doesn’t; the shock still has her in its grip. When he doesn’t respond to her whispers and her shaking of his arm, she closes her eyes and tries to hear him inside her head.

Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter, so long as she can reach him.

But she can’t.

There’s nothing.

She stares down at her trembling hands. Blood has soaked into the skin. Frantically, she rubs it off on her skirts, but it leaves a pinkish hue. Finally her white hands have a pigment.

‘Help,’ she whispers. ‘Help.’

Who is she talking to?

She can’t hide this. It’s not something you can bundle in the wardrobe to make it go away. There’s the knife, and the body, and the pillow, and the blood – so much blood.

Now it’s on her clothes, as well as smeared onto her skin. She must look like she’s walked through hell.

Myrtle’s still cleaning in the parlour. She hums ‘The Ratcatcher’s Daughter’.

What’s her sister going to say? What will she do? Will she send for the police? Myrtle was angry enough before, about the crystal ball and the broken door, but this …

Something pops inside Pearl’s head. She sees the fishbowl of flowers exploding all over again and she’s filled with a feeling more desperate than any she’s ever known before: she has to get out.

She has to get out of here, now.

She gropes for the doorknob, leaving a gory hand-print.

Myrtle keeps humming, brushing up the tea leaves, oblivious to everything but her own plans.

Pearl doesn’t linger. Somehow her feet carry her straight into her own chamber. She doesn’t even stop to turn her head and check that Myrtle hasn’t spotted her.

Mechanically, she goes through the actions she’s dreamed of a thousand times: she opens the wardrobe, pulls out the carpet bag and starts to change.

Trousers, shirt, cap. Her bloody dress and petticoats pool on the floor. It looks like the girl who inhabited their folds has melted away.

She takes one last look at the map. Then she creeps behind the curtains and opens the window.

Soft, cool air sweeps in. Her yearning for it fights against the reluctance of a long-caged thing. Does she really dare to leave her home? There will be no turning back.

Myrtle continues her tune in the parlour.

Pearl would pray for courage, but the last time she was courageous, she ended up with a knife in her hand.

There’s no point in hesitation, no real choice. All she can do is escape.