And with them the Being Beauteous,

Who unto my youth was given,

More than all things else to love me,

And is now a saint in heaven.

Cobwebs. Itchy, sticky cobwebs are passing over her face. Frantically, she tries to bat them away.

It’s only when she lowers her hands that she sees the cloud of downy white, floating before her.

With a slow and noiseless footstep

Comes that messenger divine,

Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine.

The cloud expands.

The others keep on singing as something rises up from the middle like a head beneath a bridal veil.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,

Like the stars, so still and saint-like,

Looking downward from the skies.

Shoulders emerge but it has no arms, no body, no legs.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,

Breathing from her lips of air.

From behind, a freezing hand falls heavy on her shoulder.

Pearl screams.

The singing stops. Chairs scrape but Pearl is faster than them, flinging the curtain back on its rail so hard that it makes the rings clatter.

She runs.

‘Pearl!’

Commotion erupts around the table. She can’t stop to explain herself to the Society; she can barely breathe for sobs. Hands – mortal, this time – try to restrain her.

‘No!’ she cries, flinging them off. ‘No, I won’t do it!’

She darts for Father’s room.

There’s a shout behind her. A sudden bang and splash.

Pearl doesn’t stop until she reaches the door, where she risks a quick glance back.

The fishbowl of flowers has exploded outwards, drenching the spiritualists in water and glass.

Mrs Lynch stands spluttering, her arms held out at her sides. The ends of Myrtle’s curls drip.

Water, again.

Pearl races inside Father’s room and locks the door.

CHAPTER 7

Every year it’s the same. Agnes does not wait for the almanac to tell her that winter is approaching; she feels it in her knuckles and her wrists. They become burning, swollen lumps: the price she must pay for her decades spent cutting shades.

With difficulty, she coaxes her gloves from their stretchers and pulls them on to keep her hands warm. The cold season seems to be starting earlier and earlier – either that, or she is getting old. Perpetually chilly, like Mamma with her thin blood and eroded defences. Agnes shoves the thought away. Not yet.

As she goes to leave her bedroom, her skirt sweeps against something on the dressing table and sends it floating to the floor. Constance’s silhouette. She forgot she had left it there.