It is all very well for Simon to claim that the girl was being mesmerised. But how did she and Agnes see the same delusions? The shadows; the writing on the floor; the grandfather clock that whirred and the dark figure of a woman, reaching out her hands.

All of these spirits were definitely there.

Someone had the power to raise them. If it was not Pearl … could it possibly be Agnes?

She braves a chair back to Alfred Street. The jogging, jolting motion does not disturb her as much as she expects. It is not so very like a carriage after all. Stalwart men carry her along, instead of horses. They seem sturdy and reliable.

Just like Simon.

He has been so good to her. What must it have cost him to care for her these past two years? Few men would have acted with his devotion. He has saved her from death not once, but twice.

She has always reserved the word hero for men like Nelson, but it is conceivable that Simon may be one too.

She never thought them suited in temperament; could not imagine them living together. But as the chairmen set the sedan down on the pavement in Alfred Street, she realises that the house behind the black iron railings is already starting to feel like home.

Much of Bath has been a strange welding together. The Royal Crescent is orderly and geometric at the front, yet a jumble of different roof heights and depths at the back.

Perhaps it is the same for her and Simon. Perhaps they can meld, after all.

It may be that, given the right circumstances, two very different people can find a way to become one.

After attending the Octagon Chapel on Christmas Day, they set about preparing a feast. Naturally, the holiday will be a muted affair, but what they lack in spirits they make up for in food.

Simon knows how to cook a goose. They have chestnuts besides, butter-coated potatoes, a cranberry pie, ham and oysters which part at the merest touch of the knife.

It is pleasant to spend hours toiling in the kitchen, drinking wine as they work. Agnes finds she does not mind the sweat. While she is busy, she cannot dwell upon the family members she has lost.

It is only when the table is all laid out and she is sat at the end of it, facing Simon across the divide of two lit candlesticks, that she notices the empty spaces.

These gaps should be filled by Simon’s siblings and parents. On previous Christmas days, Constance, Mamma and dear little Cedric occupied them. Now there are only two chairs and a dog who noses under the tablecloth, licking her ankles in expectation of dropped food.

Simon raises a crystal glass. He has drunk a touch too much wine and his nose is red. ‘Your health, Miss Darken.’

She toasts it.