Reluctant to lose sight of the bird, she starts to totter after him, but her energy’s nearly all gone. In another few minutes, she’ll faint.

With a last flap, the bird settles himself on a ledge supported by leafy pillars. That must be his home. Half-dazed, Pearl inspects the building, wondering what type of house a bird would choose for its nest. That’s when she sees the papercuts in the windows.

Agnes’s papercuts.

It’s the house from the map.

Relief nearly fells her.

She has no idea what she’ll say to Agnes; she doesn’t really care so long as there’s somewhere to sit down and drink, where it’s cool, and the shadow that’s following her will go away.

Stumbling towards the door, she risks a glance over her shoulder. It’s still there, attached at her ankles.

The door sits right underneath the bird’s nest; she can hear him squabbling with his family above her as she raises a hand and knocks as hard as she can. Only a feeble, hollow sound comes back.

What will she do if Agnes doesn’t answer, where will she go? Too late she remembers there’s a murderer on the loose in Bath.

An image flashes across her vision: the knife, the jaw. Maybe she doesn’t need to be afraid of killers any more; not now she’s a killer herself.

The door creaks open a fraction, held back by a chain. Two beady eyes peer out from the darkness within.

Pearl bursts into tears.

‘Cedric? Cedric!’ The chain rattles off the door and Agnes is out in the street, gripping her by the shoulders, before she realises her mistake. ‘Simon said you – Oh! Good God. Pearl, is that you?’

She gasps, choked by sobs.

‘Pearl, is this blood?’

‘Let me in,’ she pleads. ‘The light, it’s too bright.’

Agnes’s pointed face shows her astonishment, but she holds open the door and ushers Pearl inside without another word.

Pearl staggers into a narrow hallway with a staircase taking up the left-hand side. There are darker patches on the wall where pictures once hung. For some reason they’re lying on the floor now. She sees some dead flowers in a vase upon a little pier table.

She thought Agnes would live in a house much fancier than this.

‘What happened?’ Agnes urges. ‘Come here, into the parlour. Is it your sister? Did she beat you? I can send for Dr Carfax …’

She goes wherever Agnes’s hands push her. The parlour’s blissfully dark, but it smells like the past has been bottled up inside and refuses to leave. Stacks of newspapers crowd the floor. Used plates and teacups litter the surfaces – one with paintbrushes sticking out of the top. She hears the low hum of a fly.

A sofa stretches before the unlit fireplace and Pearl collapses gratefully upon it.