‘I do not have the money, but we could come to some arrangement,’ she pleads, turning back. ‘I am a silhouette artist. I could cut you a shade for payment. They usually cost a shilling apiece. I would do one of each of you. Two shades – that’s worth even more than you asked for.’

Miss West shakes her head darkly. ‘We’ve got enough shadows in this house.’

She shuts the door with a bang.

CHAPTER 15

It’s coming again. Burning, corrosive. Myrtle holds back Pearl’s hair as liquid fire spills from her lips into the chamber pot. There’s no other pain like it. She’s doubled up, squeezed together.

Wasn’t she cold, a while back? She’d give anything to shiver now. The heat is unbearable, inside and out. Sweat pours from her skin as freely as the vomit issuing from her mouth. Why won’t it stop?

Tears half-blind her. She’s already felt the chill of the grave; maybe she’s gone further still: deep in the ground – like those do-gooders warned Myrtle – into the fires of Hell.

Bile dribbles from her chin and Myrtle wipes it with a rag before crossing the room to push open the sash window.

Pearl’s got a horrible compulsion to see what’s come out of her. Struggling for breath, she opens her eyes and instantly wishes that she hadn’t.

The chamber pot steams with white smoke, the same as the stuff that rises up from her during the séances. The ghosts have got right inside her. It’s like she’s eaten them for supper.

Myrtle hands her a glass of water. Pearl’s mouth is parchment dry but she swallows slowly, carefully, afraid to set her stomach muscles heaving again. Drinking doesn’t dull the scorch within. The flames are still there, simmering.

‘Myrtle,’ she wheezes.

Her sister clenches her free hand. ‘Another mess I’ll have to clean up,’ she jokes.

Pearl tries to smile and holds on tight. Myrtle is one of the living. She needs to anchor herself to that.

‘You gave me a scare,’ Myrtle admits. ‘Getting too powerful for your own good.’

‘I don’t feel powerful.’

Even speaking tires her. She’s never been weaker in her life.

That’s how it seems to work: the stronger the spirits get, the more listless she becomes. There’s only room for one or the other.

She struggles to hold the glass upright in her feeble hand. This isn’t a fair fight. The dead – they are legion. Pearl’s all alone.

‘I want us to try,’ she bursts out.

‘What?’

‘If you think my powers are strong now. I want us to try and reach …’ She bites her lip, waiting for courage that never comes. It’s almost as painful as pushing the vomit from her mouth. ‘Mother,’ she finishes in a whimper.

Myrtle lets go of her hand.