‘Pshaw, my dear!’ Mrs Lynch cries. ‘You cannot trust a physician. These medical men seek to impose their control on our bodies and souls with their drugs. They think to steer the course of our destiny.’

But why is that a problem? Pearl has never been in control of her own destiny.

She focuses on the centrepiece of the table, wishing she hadn’t spoken.

Tonight, the crystal ball’s been replaced with a large glass bowl, half full of water. On the surface, purple flower heads float.

She’d like to drink that water. The tea hasn’t quenched her thirst at all. Ever since market day, she keeps thinking of water. Does it mean something? It feels like there might be water building inside of her: this heaviness across the chest and at the back of her neck. It’s like the pressure of a river behind a dam, desperate to break through.

‘Must we delay any longer?’ Mr Collins gulps the remains of his tea and surges to his feet. ‘I am eager to begin.’

Mr Stadler cocks an eyebrow. ‘We had not guessed.’

Everyone except Pearl puts their napkins aside.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. The others seem to have tasks: Myrtle turns down the gas lamps; Mrs Lynch and her daughter unpack notebooks from their bags; the men begin to assemble some monstrous contraption with a single glass eye.

Pearl looks at the machine, unnerved. Can it … see her? Maybe the glass part is just like the crystal ball: something for her to stare into and glimpse the Other Side through. But whereas Pearl’s crystal ball is a bubble of soft light, this shape is blind. She squints, trying to see into the big wooden box behind it. Only darkness lies within.

‘Careful with that, careful!’ Mr Collins scolds his companion.

She’s so intent upon the men that she loses sight of the ladies. Pearl almost forgets that they’re in the room – until one screams beside her ear.

She whips round to see what accident has happened, but Miss Lynch is standing still, unharmed, gaping at Pearl.

‘Look,’ she gasps. ‘I can see it. I can see the spirit matter flowing from her.’

A reverent silence falls.

Pearl looks down at her pale hands. Gentle wisps rise from them like breath on a cold day. They are coming, then. Ready to claim her.

Her shoulders turn solid with fear.

‘The plate,’ Mr Collins urges. ‘Quickly, man.’

Before Pearl can draw another breath, a flash of white-hot pain scorches across her vision. Stunned, she claps her hands over her eyes, but that burst of light keeps repeating and repeating.

‘Myrtle!’ she cries.

Myrtle runs to her, buries Pearl’s face safely inside the folds of her new gown. It radiates her familiar scent of berries and violets.

‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ she demands.