Prue noticed that Agapantha didn’t make eye contact very often, preferring to look at an invisible point about forty-five degrees towards the floor.

Prue carefully kept the photograph of Francis hidden by folding it inside her jumper in the drawer. She allowed herself a quick peek when she was sure the others weren’t looking.

Prue shut the drawer. “I still find it amazing that Queen Adelaide, or Finblewick, or any other of the personifates we’ve seen today, aren’t real. Well, they’re real, but you know what I mean? How do you think they actually work?”

“I expect we’ll find out soon,” said Agapantha.

Cora cleared her throat loudly. She was sitting on her bed smiling.

Prue sat down on her own bed facing her. “Come on, spit it out.”

Agapantha sat on the end of Prue’s bed.

“I can’t possibly tell you. Larkin swore me to secrecy.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” said Prue. She turned away and rested back on her pillows.

There was a slight pause, then Cora said, “Well, if you insist.” She leant in towards them. “He told me that it’s all down to a material called qwortzite.”

Prue let the word run through her mind: qwortzite – she’d never heard of such a substance, but it sounded almost magical.

“It’s incredibly rare and hugely valuable – only the wealthiest families in Medlock can afford it, so I’m afraid you’d stand no chance to buy it, Frances.”

Prue scowled at Cora but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Not that it’s available to buy freely, anyway,” said Cora.

“What does the qwortzite actually do?” Prue asked.

Cora widened her already moon-like eyes. “It can hold the soul of a spirit.”

“How does it do it?” Prue persisted.

“I think I’ve told you more than enough.”

“Oh, you mean you don’t know,” Prue said.

“No, I just don’t want to say,” Cora said haughtily.

Prue noticed a small grin on the edge of Agapantha’s lips.

They changed into their night clothes and Prue went to the window. It was now dark, and stars specked the sky. As she looked at the ash-grey twists of chimney smoke, spires and rooftops of the city reflecting the ivory light of the three-quarter moon as far as the eye could see, she thought of how much Francis would have loved it here. The summer before the illness, they’d snuck out late one evening and climbed Haywood’s Oak. It had been a three-quarter moon that day too, and they stood in the uppermost branches looking over the pearl-brushed fields under a cloudless sky. If she closed her eyes, she could still see it just as it was.

“Look, sis, it’s the lights of Medlock.”

“Where, Francis? I can’t see them.”

“There – just within reach.” He held his hand out and grabbed the air.