A female voice calls. ‘Hello?’

Pearl can’t breathe.

‘I say, hello?’

It isn’t Mother. It’s just someone at the front door.

Miserably, Pearl gets up from her cross-legged position on the bed and walks out into the hall. Myrtle’s gone on an errand and she’s not meant to make a peep while she’s out. But the woman sounds so forlorn …

‘Please, I am desperate for your help. It is wet out here and people are beginning to stare at me,’ she wheedles.

Pearl dare not speak above a whisper. ‘Who are you?’

‘Miss Darken, dear,’ the voice says. ‘We met at the séance.’

A swell of giddiness overcomes her. Miss Darken must mean the séance that took place before she became so ill. Her body still hasn’t fully recovered from that evening and what’s worse, she remembers so little about what happened.

‘My sister’s out,’ she stammers.

‘I know that. I saw her leave.’

‘You must go away,’ Pearl calls. ‘I’m not supposed to open the door.’

‘But I need to speak with you.’

Nobody ever wants to talk to her; it’s always Myrtle they’re after. And if Myrtle finds out that she’s spoken to someone at the door, she’ll be in a whole heap of trouble.

‘I’m not allowed.’

‘Please.’ The lady is taken by a cough.

Pearl’s within an ace of turning back and running to Father’s room for safety, but something stops her. Her hand grows cool and tingly, like it does when a spirit’s about to come, and suddenly it’s moving, sliding the bolts and turning the handle to open the door a crack.

‘Ah! Thank you, my dear.’

Pearl squints. The lady standing outside does look vaguely familiar. She’s petite and fine-boned. Her eyes are not big like Myrtle’s, but they grab Pearl’s attention because they’re so lined and troubled. She must be nearly fifty years old.

‘What d’you want?’ she asks.

‘Please let me inside. I am tired and rather cold.’

Pearl hesitates. She can smell the rain, and she doesn’t want to be stuck here talking at the door where the light’s too bright. Reluctantly, she steps back to let the slender lady and her carpet bag into the hallway.

‘Thank you,’ the visitor wheezes, shutting the door behind her. She removes her gloves and a drooping bonnet, revealing dull brown hair with a streak of brilliant white through it.

Pearl’s fingers stray to her own loose tresses.

‘May I sit down for a moment?’

‘I suppose you’d better come to the parlour, ma’am.’

The lady clears her throat. ‘I hope that we shall become friends, so I am happy for you to call me Agnes, dear. And you – well, I only know you as the White Sylph. I am certain that is not your real name.’