A sound of irritation escapes her sister, a harsh tssssk. ‘Well, work with me, then! Think up something you can stand.’ She’s pummelling the berries so hard that the bowl shifts. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate trying to work on my gift. Mesmerism ain’t easy, you know. Don’t you want to help me? Don’t you want your father to get better?’

This stings sharper than the firelight, and Myrtle knows it.

Pearl grits her teeth. ‘Yes.’

‘Then act like it. Cudgel your brains.’

‘I’m trying, but it’s hard. Lifting the veil makes me feel sick. Did it make you sick at the start?’

‘’Course it did,’ Myrtle says, more kindly, putting her spoon down. ‘But you don’t see me whining, do you? Buck up, my love.’

She envies Myrtle’s strength. The spirits are right: her sister is vital, magnetic. Even in their shabby kitchen, wearing an apron, she vibrates.

‘Can’t the almshouse help Father?’ Pearl pleads. ‘While you’re learning to heal with Mesmerism?’

Myrtle looks as if she’s bitten into rotten fruit. ‘Told you, they’re stuck up. Either you ain’t destitute enough for their help, or you don’t deserve it. Them do-gooders don’t consider “spirit medium” a good trade. They think we’re all atheists, hysterical women and lecherous men.’

Pearl watches the smoke drifting from the chimney stacks outside, dark and free. How must she appear to those charitable workers? She didn’t choose this gift, any more than she chose her albinism, yet she’s punished for both.

‘The Dispensary, then. Don’t they help no matter what your religion?’

Myrtle’s face shuts. ‘Blinkered ignoramuses. Poisoners. Do you want them touching him?’

These fancy words are straight from the penny spiritualist paper, Missives from Summerland. The Society of Bath Spiritual Adventurers echo them in other forms. Drugs alter the natural flow of energy, Pearl is told. It’s the one topic she dares to nurse a different opinion on – but she keeps that to herself.

The sun peeks out from behind a cloud. Even its watery autumn rays cause pain. Pressure masses beneath her forehead. She’s a terrible thirst upon her.

‘Too much light.’ Pushing up off her chair, she wobbles to the kitchen where a jug of water sits waiting. She drinks one glass, two. She’d gladly drink the whole thing.

But that would be selfish. She’s being selfish, even now: not helping her sister make the jam, getting in the way of her father’s recovery. She gazes around the damp room and up to the sooty ceiling. Is Mother here somewhere, watching her disapprovingly?

Myrtle goes on smashing the berries.

Prodded by guilt, Pearl fills a fresh glass and totters down the narrow corridor to the sickroom. She can’t recall it ever being anything else. Father has always been ill.