The girl did not answer. She believed the less that people knew about you, the safer you were. And if they knew nothing at all, they could not harm you. And so she did not answer him.

‘Come on, little colleen. What’s your name?’

‘Emma. Emma Harte’s me name,’ she finally said.

‘So let’s be a-marching, Emma. Devilish cold ’tis out here.’

‘Come on,’ she muttered, and hurried ahead of him, leading the way out of Ramsden Ghyll, and up onto a flat piece of land, a plateau of moors that led directly to the Hall.

Within a short while, the mist had cleared, and Emma stole a glance at Blackie, her curiosity getting the better of her.

To her surprise, although he was the tallest man she’d ever seen, he only looked about eighteen. She wasn’t sure. But she was sure of one thing, his kindness. It had echoed in his voice when he had spoken to her in the Ghyll, and now it was reflected in his face. Instinctively, she knew he was a good man.

Blackie smiled back at her, taken by her pretty face and those emerald eyes. ‘So, where is the Hall, colleen?’ he asked.

‘Yer can’t see it from here. But it’s not far. Just over the crest.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll show yer,’ she exclaimed, somewhat taken with her new friend.

‘Do ye live nearby?’ Blackie asked, as they headed towards the crest of moors in front of them.

‘At the edge of the moors back yonder. In a cul-de-sac called Top Fold, the highest part of Fairley village. I’d just been walking five minutes when I heard yer blundering behind me.’

‘I’m sorry I frightened ye, little colleen,’ Blackie apologized. ‘I was lost, though. Well, so I thought. Ye were a welcoming sight, I can tell ye that.’

‘Never been on the moors before then?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘So where do yer live?’ Emma asked, riddled with curiosity about Blackie.

‘Leeds. Do ye knows it?’

‘No, I’ve never been. What’s it like then?’

‘Ah, ’tis a wonderful place, Emma. A great industrial city with wonderful buildings, a fine Town Hall – very imposing it is, to be sure. And there are shops, Emma, the best of them in arcades—’

‘What’s that? An arcade? I’ve never heard of it,’ Emma said, looking at him intently.

‘Ah, a place to feast the eyes, sure an’ it is. An arcade is like a wide passageway between two big buildings, but it has a roof over it, and shops line each side, selling beautiful things. Jewels, handbags, silken scarves, woollen jumpers, all kinds of things for ladies. And for men too. And there are also restaurants in Leeds, for delicious meals, and theatres. I can go on and on talking about Leeds, on the heads of the Blessed Saints, I can. And they say the streets are made of gold. Imagine that.’