‘I won’t have my sister bound like a criminal. She isn’t in the penitentiary.’ Myrtle pats her hair back into shape. ‘But let her try the cabinet by all means. We might get a surprise.’

It’s a reprieve, of sorts. Pearl should probably be grateful.

Standing up, she edges reluctantly towards the cabinet. It gapes at her like a giant mouth. She thought this would be like the last séance. Why aren’t they sticking to what she knows?

At least it’s dark inside. She pulls the black damask curtain across the rail, free for a blissful minute from the Society’s scrutiny. A sigh escapes her as she sits down.

Now what?

Her spine presses hard against the loose panel in the back of the cabinet. That’s where she used to wait, dressed up as Florence King, quiet as a mouse, while the others tied Myrtle with silk scarves and sealed the knots with wax.

One time, she remembers she felt a sneeze coming, and nearly bit through her lip trying to stifle it. But even that was easier than what’s being asked of her tonight.

She hears the fizz of a match lighting a candle. The gas lamps go out. Chair legs shuffle, Mr Collins clears his throat.

There is an ominous, charged silence.

Then they begin to sing:

When the hours of day are numbered,

And the voices of the night

Wake the better soul, that slumbered,

To a holy, calm delight.

The table is just on the other side of the curtain, but the distance between Pearl and the others feels huge.

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful fire-light

Dance upon the parlour wall;

It’s horrible to be trapped here, cut off from flesh and blood. The Society all get to sit with another person’s warm hand in their own, but Pearl … She trembles, realising anew how small and thin she is.

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door;

The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

Tears form. It never used to feel like this in the cabinet. Myrtle was always there. There’s something different in the air behind the curtain tonight. It’s … agitated.

He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife,

By the roadside fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life!

She looks from the left to the right. There’s nothing there, just black, but it feels, it feels …

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,

Folded their pale hands so meekly

Spake with us on earth no more!

A current of cool air lifts the hair from her neck.

What is it? A trapped bird, fluttering around her, stirring up the atmosphere? She can’t move, she can’t speak, but she knows there’s something alive inside the cabinet.