The gas lamps are up. Not high, but enough to taunt her. By their light, the parlour looks shabbier: the wallpaper a weak and faded lilac chintz that depresses the spirits. Pearl’s spirits, that is. She doesn’t know about the ghosts. They haven’t complained about the decoration as yet.

Myrtle’s been buzzing around like a honeybee all day. It’s tiring just to watch her buffing the chipped wooden furniture, arranging the doilies in a thousand different positions before settling on the right ones. She’s managed to get a tea service, good stuff but not matching. The seedcake she baked earlier still flavours the air.

Pearl can only watch her sister in admiration, wondering if they’re really related. It’s not just Myrtle’s energy that amazes her, it’s her dogged patience.

That hairstyle alone must have taken hours. Fat, sausage ringlets fall over one shoulder. Pomade makes them look like meadow hay. It’s a big improvement on their usual dirty blonde colour. Myrtle can’t afford to dress in a crinoline, but the deep maroon gown – which she sewed herself – has enough pleats in the skirt to swing full and fashionable.

Pearl has been decked out in dove grey, but she doesn’t care what she looks like. The whole point of girls like her is to not be there; to subtract herself from the room.

‘I’ll introduce you to Mr Stadler and Mr Collins – he’s the chap who takes the photographs,’ Myrtle calls over her shoulder as she plumps cushions. ‘Just a few of them tonight.’ She smiles artificially and adopts her posh accent. ‘A private gathering. Can’t have them thinking we’re putting on a show.’

‘But you said the other day—’

‘I know, but you can’t have them think it, Pearl. The minute they see you actually want to get paid for your work, they’ll call you vulgar. Who else? Oh, Mrs Lynch—’

‘I’ve already met them,’ Pearl points out. ‘You don’t need to introduce me to Mr Stadler. I’ve sat on his lap as Florence King.’

Myrtle releases a sound of exasperation. For a minute, Pearl fears she’ll throw the cushion at her. ‘For God’s sake, don’t act like it! Don’t let on. You’ve been an invalid, confined to your bed, remember?’

Pearl shuffles in her seat. She’s going to say something bad. It tickles in her chest, then bubbles in her mouth. Usually good sense would press it down again, but the gas lights make her peevish.

‘Don’t you feel guilty, lying to them?’

Myrtle’s cheeks turn the colour of her gown. ‘I never lied. I did hear a spirit called Florence King. I just got you to play her. There had to be some use in you being pale as a ghost.’