She needs guidance. It’s times like these that she really wishes Mother hadn’t died. In stories, the mother characters are always kind, with words of wisdom to bestow. Myrtle’s not like that much. She can be wise, but she has a limited supply of pity, and most of it is used up on the mourners.

As for Father … She misses the sound of his voice. They hardly communicate now, and while his presence still brings some comfort, it’s also harrowing to look upon his face. Or what’s left of it.

She scrubs the tears angrily from her eyes. She should look at his face, and remind herself why she’s doing this. Her pain is bad, but it must be nothing compared to his.

Pearl stands up, opens her door and stumbles out, past Myrtle’s room and towards the sick chamber. Already the stink is bubbling. She takes a deep breath and forces down her biliousness.

It’s far too bright inside. Pearl yelps. ‘Myrtle!’

Myrtle’s sitting at his bedside, reading penny papers by the light of an open window.

‘I was taking a rest,’ she says defensively, clearing the papers away. ‘See that water he’s just drunk? I magnetised that.’

Pearl doesn’t answer, just pulls at the curtains.

‘Does him good to get some daylight. We don’t all want to be shut up in the dark like you.’

In deference to her sister, Pearl only closes the curtains partially, leaving a sliver of burning sun. It doesn’t look like it’s done Father any good.

The hinge of the jaw is fully exposed, all gristle and string, but she takes care not to dwell upon that. She just kneels down on the opposite side of the bed from Myrtle and takes his hand in her own.

She must help him. She must.

‘Don’t look so glum,’ Myrtle cajoles. ‘We’ll have punters knocking down our door for séances soon. They’ve just found another body.’

Pearl holds her tongue. She yearns to ask how, where, if it had anything to do with her uncontrollable shivering, but she remembers their previous argument.

Besides, the murderer doesn’t seem important any more when she’s kneeling here, listening to Father’s struggling, gummy breath.

‘When will you treat him again?’ she asks.

‘In a minute. With a new technique. I was just reading over it. Business has been that good, I’ve been buying The Zoist.’ Myrtle flourishes one of the rustling sheets in her direction. ‘I’ll be a proper expert soon.’

‘But …’ Pearl glances down, unwilling to meet her sister’s eye. ‘Will it work? Promise me it’ll cure him.’