Between each pass, Myrtle shakes her hands, ridding herself of the diseased magnetism. Pearl studies the air for a hint of the force but it’s invisible to her.

Why can’t she get a glimpse of it? Myrtle says it has colours, a different one for each person. It sounds pretty.

Pearl shivers and wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She’s been freezing all day. She turns even colder when she remembers that the shivering started just after Myrtle came home, yesterday afternoon. Almost the exact minute her visions of water abruptly stopped.

She shakes her head like Myrtle shakes her hands; ridding herself, casting it off. No good. Bad energy might drip from Myrtle’s fingers, but it remains firmly lodged in Pearl’s mind.

The ceremony reaches its conclusion. Myrtle dips into her apron and produces a clean handkerchief.

‘What’s that for?’ Pearl whispers.

She doesn’t receive an answer.

Myrtle opens the handkerchief out and lays it gently over Father’s face, like a shroud. It sticks to the ooze around his jaw. Myrtle leans over him. Then Pearl hears her breathe.

A heavy inhalation through the nose and out through the mouth, onto the handkerchief. Four, five times. The sound of air puffing through her sister’s lips. She’s reviving him. Trying to pass some of her own vigour to Father.

Pearl hunches into her shawl and closes her eyes. It’s so cold. But only she can feel the chill, and that means … After yesterday’s discovery, she daren’t think what it means.

Myrtle’s hand latches on her shoulder. ‘Come on. Let him rest now.’

Her sister bundles her out of the room, back into the darkened parlour. Pearl climbs into an easy chair and curls her feet up beneath her for warmth. The crystal ball is back in pride of place on the table opposite her. It took them ages to clean up the shattered fishbowl. All that glass and water, everywhere …

The kettle whistles.

When the teacup finally arrives, it’s so hot that it burns. Pearl cradles it in both hands, nonetheless.

‘Don’t spill it,’ Myrtle warns.

Pearl thinks she wouldn’t mind being scalded by hot liquid today.

Myrtle sits down, takes a bite of the toast she’s made them. She’s given all the jam to Pearl. ‘That went well, I think,’ she says through her mouthful. ‘I’ll keep at it. Phew! Mesmerism don’t half take it out of me.’

But she doesn’t look depleted in any way. Her eyes still dazzle beneath the frame of her widow’s peak.

‘How can you be so calm?’ Pearl marvels.

‘What d’you mean? He weren’t no worse than usual …’

‘No! Not about Father. I mean after yesterday.’

‘Oh.’ Myrtle picks at the crust of her toast. ‘That. It’s sad, Pearl. But these things happen. And we both know death ain’t the end.’