Trembling, the Sylph raises her head from the table. Her jawline is in constant motion and Agnes realises the girl’s teeth are chattering.

The temperature plummets. Breath steams not just from the Sylph, but from all of them.

Miss West swallows audibly. ‘Spirit, name yourself.’

Agnes does not need the answer.

‘Dear God,’ she breathes. ‘It’s Ned.’

The Sylph turns to face her. It is not the girl’s physiognomy, nor even Ned’s, but a death mask with staring eyes.

This is what Agnes wanted: to converse with the dead, yet she is speechless before their eternity. She tries desperately to remember the easy-going young man in her studio, what she would say to him if she still had the chance.

‘Oh Ned, what happened to you? I am sorry, I am so, so sorry. You were so young, and—’ The fixed, glassy eyes seem to look right through her. ‘Was it my fault? Did someone murder you just to hurt me?’ she whispers.

At first there is no reaction. The Sylph – or whatever moves the Sylph – seems to consider. Then it says in a low, creaking voice, ‘Y-y-yes.’

She nearly sobs.

‘Poor Ned! Stay a while. Are you so cold? If only I could warm you! Won’t you tell us, dear? Tell us what monster did this?’

Abruptly, the eyes slide to the right. Agnes starts back. The Sylph is still shuddering, but she seems to be taking furtive glances about the room.

‘A-f-f-fraid.’

Miss West flexes her fingers nervously, regarding her sister as if she has never seen her before. ‘What of?’ she demands in her natural voice. ‘Whoever killed you can’t hurt you no more, can they?’

The Sylph’s lips are turning a sickly shade of blue. She is losing the power to move them. ‘S-s-s-sent Ag-agnes-m-m-message.’

Agnes gasps. ‘The killer sent a message to me? What message?’

But the mouth is freezing up, too numb to speak. The Sylph distorts her face to no avail.

‘Tell me the message!’

Agnes is trembling so fiercely that it takes her a moment to realise that the room is shaking too; the picture frames are rattling on the walls.

Miss West releases a strangled shriek.

The lips. She must focus on those dead lips and read the words, or all of this will have been for nothing. Straining with all her might, Agnes manages to catch the last word.

‘… m-mine.’

All of the candles blow out.

As quickly as it dropped, the temperature returns to normal. A chair scuffs against the carpet and Miss West lights the gas. Her face is almost as pallid as her sister’s.

‘She’s … never done that before.’

Both of them glance at the child, flung back in the chair with her arms hanging loosely by her sides. Cataleptic. Helpless. Is it Agnes’s imagination, or has the Sylph physically shrunk? Her white gown seems loose upon her.