She has a beautiful singing voice. Agnes knows the words and tries to join in, but her vocal chords are taut.

Weary of this war within,

Weary of this endless strife,

Weary of ourselves and sin,

Weary of a wretched life.

The White Sylph does not sing. She stares into the candle flames, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks as she retracts, further and further inside herself.

Lo, we come to thee for ease,

True and gracious as thou art:

Now our weary souls release,

Write forgiveness on our heart.

The last notes of their hymn hang suspended for a moment, then everything falls still.

One of the candle flames silently dies.

Slowly, the Sylph lifts her chin. Material whispers as her head lolls backwards, strangely contorted. Her glassy eyes roll to the whites.

Agnes’s hand twitches involuntarily.

‘Yes, come,’ Miss West murmurs.

And they do.

An invisible bell rings. Agnes’s heart leaps into her throat. The Sylph’s neck grows turgid, her white cheeks flush and she is glowing, actually glowing with light from the afterlife.

Her lips begin to move. Agnes leans forward, desperate for the words, but this is not language it is … bubbles. Kisses popping from a fish’s mouth.

‘Spirit.’ Miss West’s hushed tones are calm. ‘Welcome. Have you heard Miss Darken’s call?’

The Sylph’s head jerks in a nod. Agnes did not realise it would be like this. She thought the spirit would speak to the child, not take possession of her.

‘You are the man I found in the river?’ Miss West confirms.

Agnes watches, transfixed, as the lips try to form a reply. All that comes is a heaving gasp.

He is drowning. He is still drowning after death.

The Sylph tosses her chin, trying to break above the surface. It is difficult to keep hold of her hand. Agnes feels something wet pool in her palm and hopes it is sweat. But why can she smell something brackish, like river water?

‘It’s him,’ Miss West hisses. ‘Ask your questions. We will not keep hold of him for long.’

Her tongue has never felt so dry. All she wants to do is reach out and help, to pull whatever suffers there from the water.

‘His … his name?’ she croaks.

Fluid gurgles in the Sylph’s throat as she struggles for air.

‘H-h-h-harg … reeeaves.’

‘Hargreaves?’ Miss West repeats.

The Sylph exhales like a load has been lifted from her. Then she keels forward, her head landing on the table with a smack.

Another candle puffs out.

Agnes breaks their circle of hands, reaching out to see if the child is hurt, but it is not over yet.

No sooner does one spirit discard the marionette than another picks it up. The Sylph’s thin shoulders quake beneath her white gown and the table moves with her.

For the first time, Miss West looks afraid.

‘Sp-spirit?’ she ventures. ‘Look at me.’