The crumpled papercut is there too, on the widow’s lap. She does not heed it. Instead she strokes at the glass, leaving smudges.

In paint, the line of the face is softer. There is something angelic about this black and gold rendition of Mr Boyle. He is a mate for the shadow bride behind her veil.

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Boyle croons. ‘Thank you, Miss Darken. What a blessing. He said there was to be a surprise. That was his way.’

‘For the anniversary of—’

‘Yes.’

Without the package, Agnes’s hands feel obtrusive, too large. She could let matters rest here; retreat and leave the poor widow with her memories.

But that squashed papercut is like a rotten tooth: she cannot help worrying at it, glancing out of the corner of her eye to see its black curl. Someone else needs to share the horror of this coincidence.

‘I included my preliminary cut in paper, madam. You will find it there, loose in the package. I am afraid it became rather damaged, but …’ She trails off as Mrs Boyle picks up the shade and smooths it out.

Agnes watches intently, unable to close her mouth or breathe until the widow speaks.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

That is all.

The anticlimax is so great that her shoulders drop. Can Mrs Boyle not see it?

‘He told me to expect a surprise,’ Mrs Boyle repeats. ‘He must have known that you would come.’

‘I do not understand.’

The widow’s expression is opaque through her veil. ‘I spoke to him, Miss Darken. Across the divide. The things that are possible, these days. When I think back to my youth, I would not have credited such discoveries. Railways, telegraph, spirit mediums like the White Sylph … Why, the Abolition of the Trade was thought radical enough!’

Agnes shivers. This is not the first time she has heard of spiritualists, although she usually keeps such talk at a distance by saying she does not believe. A more honest statement would be that she does not want to believe. She wants the dead safely caged in Heaven or Hell, not wandering, watching her through the cloudy eyes of a corpse. But a small part of her acknowledges it could be true. It feels true, when Mrs Boyle speaks it.

‘And the … spirit …’ Agnes gulps. ‘He did not give any hint as to who ended his earthly life?’

Mrs Boyle shakes her head. ‘He has moved beyond such concerns. He does not call for justice or vengeance. He is at peace, and I suppose I should be also. I shall endeavour to be. But it is very difficult. How can I forgive those brutes?’ Sudden as a gust of wind, Mrs Boyle’s composure blows apart. The paper on her lap begins to rustle. ‘Heaven help me! Was it not enough to cut his throat and take his precious life? Why must they be so cruel as to obliterate his dear face too?’