‘We could … go upstairs,’ she suggests. ‘Further away from Myrtle. Maybe we won’t wake her.’ The light is burning dangerously near to Pearl’s fingers and she blows it out. ‘But there’s a condition,’ her whisper continues from the pitch-blackness. ‘I won’t do any séances unless you agree to it.’

‘Anything, my dear.’

‘These circles won’t just be for you. We’ll talk to your dead men, but then I want to contact my mother.’

Agnes feels a flicker of annoyance; she does not see why the girl cannot do that in her own time, but in the grand scheme of things, what is one more ghost amongst so many? She does not hold the power here; she must remember that. ‘Very well. I agree.’

Small, hot fingers thread themselves through her own. The little hand tugs at her, forces her to walk onwards into the dark.

The bedroom door opens softly. Pearl seems perfectly comfortable in this twilit world, pulling her down the hall and up the first few stairs with ease.

Agnes reaches out a hand for the bannister. She cannot see her feet.

‘Shhh!’ Pearl hushes her.

Shabby as the house is, the stairs are actually in better condition than the ones where Agnes lives; they have endured less use and the treads hold their tongues.

On the landing, Pearl loses some of her confidence. She does not seem to know which way to turn. Choosing a door on the left-hand side, she drags Agnes into a room that is bare of furniture and even carpet. Ash stains the maw of the fireplace. There is one bottle-glass casement, blinded by dirt, but it lets in a faint tint of lamplight from the streets.

Pearl scowls. ‘I’d prefer it to be completely dark.’

‘Oh, but we had candles at the séance. Surely this light is comparable? I am positive a talented girl like you can manage.’

Pearl shrugs and seats herself cross-legged on the floor. Apparently it does not occur to her that Agnes cannot do the same with ease.

She holds out two lily-white palms. ‘Come on, then. Form the circle.’

Painfully, Agnes lowers herself onto her knees. Her dark skirts pool around her. She hopes there are no mouse droppings on the floorboards.

She reaches out, clasps the child’s hands in hers.

There is a connection.

She remembers standing like this with Montague, ready to lead a dance.

‘Do we … sing?’

Pearl shakes her head. Locks of hair pale as lint rustle. ‘We’re doing it my way tonight.’

Agnes attempts to concentrate, shut out the squalor and focus upon the little girl who, in another life, might have been her own. She notices there is a yellowish tinge to her, like the first rays of a rising sun.