Myrtle tuts. ‘Of course it will! Look at this. If Mesmerism weren’t real, would they have opened a special hospital for it? The London Mesmeric Infirmary. Says right here. And the women, Pearl.’ Her voice climbs a notch in excitement. ‘They’ve got women mesmerists. Working right alongside the other doctors. Like equals. That’ll be me, one day.’

Pearl can see it. She’s never been in a hospital, but she can imagine a lot of beds lined up with people like Father in them, and Myrtle striding confidently down the aisle between them, waving her pretty hands.

The only problem is, there’s no room for Pearl in this dream.

‘You wouldn’t just … leave me alone here, would you?’

Myrtle laughs. ‘Don’t be daft. When your dad’s better, he’ll look after you, won’t he? Then I can go off and do what I want to do. That’ll make a change!’

Father’s hand squeezes Pearl’s. She glances up and shrinks from the expression in his tortured eyes.

She wants to believe Myrtle. She does believe. Her sister can do anything.

But she knows that Father isn’t so sure.

Father thinks he’s going to die.

CHAPTER 14

Agnes makes the practice cuts in waves: peaks and troughs that roll smoothly like a black ocean. Papa and Montague would have seen the sea at night many a time during their travels – she wonders if it looked anything like this. They were brave men; Agnes would find such pitch-darkness utterly terrifying. It is true that she likes shadows – but even shadows need light to exist.

Today’s light is sodden and pale. It seems to hesitate at the window, irresolute.

Her studio, on the top floor of the house, is not in the direct eyeline of any other residence, yet as she sits curving the sable paper with her second-best pair of scissors, she has the uncanny feeling of being watched. It is as if her work and her person are under scrutiny – and both have been found wanting.

She pauses, flexes her fingers. She is not used to feeling this way inside her studio, her refuge. Perhaps it is a magpie observing her from the window. The birds have been clattering away on the roof all morning; she dare not imagine how much of the property is infested with their nests.

She starts to cut again. None of her usual joy sparks. It must be these scissors – they are of no use. How did she manage to make Ned’s hollow-cut with such a clumsy instrument? Poor, poor Ned. She sighs, shakes her aching hand. After all that has happened, maybe it is time she stuck to painted shades instead.