She pretends not to heed their chatter, but she can feel herself growing cold. They seem to be talking of the River Avon, which always sends her into a panic. Whenever she thinks of it, her mind fills with black water, her mouth with a brackish taste.

Agnes clears her throat. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she requests loudly.

They draw aside to let her past.

Before she opens the door, a hand reaches out and touches her arm. She stops and sees Miss Grayson: a small, sweet-looking woman; a portrait painter by trade, almost as short on work as Agnes herself.

‘Pardon me, Miss Darken,’ she says, drawing her aside from the group. ‘I wanted to tell you the news, in case you had not heard.’

‘News?’

Miss Grayson offers a wistful smile. ‘I felt for you so awfully when that man was killed, right after your appointment. It was all anyone talked about.’ Her hand squeezes Agnes’s arm gently. ‘But that’s done now.’ She nods at a wide, red-faced woman holding forth to her companions. ‘Miss Betts has something new to gossip about.’

Agnes knows the reassurance is kindly meant, but she feels belittled by it. ‘How fortunate for Miss Betts,’ she says tartly. ‘Pray, what is the latest scandal the crows are feasting on?’

Miss Grayson shoots a glance over at her companions. They really do resemble carrion birds, and perhaps she sees this, for her mouth puckers.

‘A dreadful tragedy, Miss Darken. I swear it does not bring anyone pleasure to hear of it, but for your sake. A body has been pulled from the river at Weston Lock.’

Although Agnes prickles with sweat to hear of it, the event itself is not uncommon, particularly amongst the poor wretches living down in the Avon Street slums. ‘Another drunk,’ she guesses. ‘Or perhaps felo de se?’

‘No, Miss Darken. That’s just it.’ Miss Grayson shakes her head sadly. ‘The man was a naval officer. He drowned wearing his uniform.’

CHAPTER 8

There’s an airless silence in the chamber as Myrtle stands over the bed. She looks at Father as if he offends her sense of order. Beside him she appears more vital than ever, her skin peaches and cream.

She takes a breath. Then she begins.

Crouched in the corner, Pearl watches, fascinated. Myrtle’s hands move with a careful intensity. Up and down, side to side, in fluid motions. It’s like hearing poetry.

Sometimes Myrtle’s palms face downwards, magnetising the body. As she makes a pass from shoulder to shoulder, she flips her wrist, so that the backs of her hands are closer to Father’s skin.

How does she know when to do that?

Myrtle says a good mesmerist can see inside their patient, like they’re made of glass. Pearl wishes she could see, too. She’d rather that cold, clean image than the one actually before her eyes: the discharge and the wasted skin.