Pearl shrinks back into her seat. Why does she say things like that to Myrtle? It’s always a mistake. Each time she questions her sister she’s filled with this painful, searing shame.

There’s a rap at the door.

In a second Myrtle’s over, straightening Pearl’s posture in the chair, wiping a smear of jam away from her cheek with spit and a threadbare handkerchief.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she whispers. ‘Just dandy.’

Pearl thinks she might be sick.

She remains frozen in place while Myrtle goes to the hallway and opens the door. The voices of the Society enter before their bodies do. A full bass, another with cut-glass vowels and one at a higher, chirpier octave.

For people intent on peering into the grave, they sound unusually jolly.

‘A dusting of snow,’ Mrs Lynch announces from the hallway. ‘It caught me quite by surprise. Look at my cloak!’

‘Do permit me to brush down your shoulders.’ Pearl is not surprised to hear it’s Mr Stadler saying these words. When she acted the part of Myrtle’s spirit guide, she was forced to endure this man’s caresses. Having summoned a ghost, all he wanted to do was dandle it upon his lap. She remembers him displaying her to Mr Collins for the first time. ‘She is quite real, Walter. Just feel these hipbones …’

Pearl can’t blame the spirits for wanting to talk through her, rather than showing up themselves and letting people manhandle them. The indignity of it all is breathtaking.

There’s a thump as Mr Collins struggles inside with what must be his photographic equipment. ‘Is she here?’ he demands. ‘Is she ready for our experiments?’

Myrtle laughs gaily. ‘You’re very eager, Mr Collins. Won’t you let us drink some tea first?’

Pearl sighs inwardly, knowing the version of Myrtle that comes back into the parlour won’t be the sister who raised her, but the theatrical counterfeit. And she’s right. Myrtle marches at the head of the pack, her eyes sparkling. She waves her hand with a flourish and says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Miss Pearl Meers? Or, as those who have seen her powers have come to call her, the White Sylph.’

The four visitors, two men and two women, stare. Pearl opens her mouth and closes it. Ought she to stand? She’s left it too late.

‘Hello,’ she offers.

No one says a word.

The clock ticks. It makes the visitors’ silence seem even more profound. Pearl registers their blank, shocked expressions, and feels a stab of foreboding. Do they recognise her as Florence King? Myrtle took so much care to make her look different tonight, and they both presumed that no one had seen her face clearly behind Florence King’s long veil. It would destroy Myrtle if the Society found out …