Without asking for permission, Ned reaches and opens the hatch. A small brass cylinder, topped with a metal hoop, protrudes from the bottom of the box. Opposite it, on the far ‘wall’ a piece of yellow paper is tacked.

‘Smells a bit musty!’ he laughs. ‘Well, how does it work?’

‘Let me change the paper first, and then we will fit the pole.’

The holders are a little corroded, but Agnes manages to work the old paper free. It is powdery in her hands, as insubstantial as the past. Casting it aside, she reloads the machine with something crisp and white. She is quite looking forward to trying this again.

The other lengthy pole belonging to the machine is propped in the corner beside a bookcase. One end still holds a pencil, miraculously hard and sharp after all this time, while the other tapers into a rod.

Ned guffaws. ‘Bless me! You could take someone’s eye out with that pole.’

He means it innocently. He is not to know that his words bring Mr Boyle bobbing to the surface of her mind. Smashed, broken …

But she must put that behind her.

‘I promise to be careful. If you would fetch the chair and position it … yes, that will suffice.’ She threads the pole through the metal hoop.

Ned sits, keen as a puppy. ‘And what – the rod passes over my face, does it?’

‘Yes.’ She smiles at him. His zest seems to be infusing into her. ‘You must remain very still, even if it tickles.’

‘And the pencil on the other end draws it there, in the little box?’

‘Indeed. The image will be small, and upside down. That is of no matter. I will use a pantograph to make it larger, and we will turn it into an artwork worthy of your grandmother.’

‘Well, fancy that! Let’s get underway, shall we?’

She starts the rod at the nape of his neck. Feels the heat of his body rise to her trembling hands. He smells of bergamot pomade.

It is all rather enchanting. She cannot remember the last time she stood this close to a man. Other than Simon. And there is nothing thrilling about Simon’s clammy fingers at her wrist, feeling her pulse.

She holds the rod steady with both hands and softly traces the top of Ned’s crown. His greased locks ruffle out of place. One or two strands cling to the pole with static. She senses him tense, trying not to laugh.

He closes his eyes as the rod comes sweeping over his forehead and down his nose. It kisses his lips, dipping between them and departing with the slightest gleam of moisture.

She is disappointed when it ends.

‘Is it done? Can I see?’

‘Just a moment.’ She opens the contraption and reveals his double, inverted and ever so faint.

‘How clever! That is me, isn’t it? You can see, even though it’s so small. It’s unmistakably me.’