Pearl jerks her hand away and climbs speedily to her feet. The parlour wobbles. ‘You need to leave,’ she frets. ‘She’ll be back soon. She’ll come home and find us.’

Agnes does not budge. ‘The séance …’

‘There’s no time now! What will I do if Myrtle catches you here?’

‘We could make up an excuse.’

Pearl doesn’t think she could lie to save her life. The few times she tried, growing up, she bungled it terribly. Myrtle always caught her out.

She opens her mouth to explain, but then she hears a horribly familiar step.

‘It’s her!’ Panic strangles her voice. ‘Hide!’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Shh!’ She hears a jangle; Myrtle must be getting out her keys. Pearl thinks she’s going to faint. ‘Oh God, please hide, ma’am. I’ll never, ever help you if you don’t hide right now.’

Agnes purses her lips, but suddenly she moves. If she hadn’t seen it, Pearl would never believe this lady could move fast, but she does, nipping quick as a bullet from the parlour to Pearl’s bedchamber and shutting the door behind her.

A mere second later, Myrtle comes in. Her cheeks are flushed from walking. She looks impossibly tall and bright as she stands there in the hallway and removes her bonnet. ‘All right?’

Pearl makes a squeak.

‘What you looking all het up about?’

‘Nothing.’

Myrtle narrows her eyes.

It’s one thing to act a part when your face is painted in ashes and everyone thinks you’re the spirit of Florence King. But here, in the light of day, dressed only as herself, Pearl can’t do it. The secret’s heavy in her chest, and she can practically taste her heartbeat.

‘I did a bad thing.’ The words spill out.

Slowly, Myrtle enters the parlour. Her presence is totally different to Agnes’s – youthful and almost overpowering. ‘What did you do?’

‘I – I …’ Pearl’s gaze drifts to the carpet bag, still beside the sofa. Myrtle’s follows. ‘I went upstairs,’ she invents. ‘While you were out. I was nosing about upstairs and I found that bag.’

Myrtle sniffs. ‘Well, what’s in it?’

‘I dunno. Haven’t opened it yet.’

Myrtle herself once told Pearl that all the best tricks are based on truth.

Her sister glances at her, at the bag again, and laughs. ‘You’re a rum one, ain’t you?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, you’d better put it back. I don’t care if you want to poke around upstairs, but if the bloody landlord finds anything missing he’ll chuck us out in a flea’s breath.’

‘Yes, Myrtle.’

Myrtle rakes her with one more searching look. Pearl’s guilt shifts and stings.

‘Guess I’ll make us a bit of supper, then.’

Pearl tries her best to smile. ‘Thanks.’