Emily suspected that her brother had considered the secrecy of the love poems he had submitted to the Halifax Guardian to be a great success. Of course, it was obvious to anyone who happened upon the verses who they had been penned by and whom they were for, for Branwell was not quite so practised at artifice as he liked to think. No doubt he prayed that his mistress would see his passionate words and sacrifice all to be with him. In fact, Emily had hawkishly observed, the result of his efforts had been the arrival of small sums of money, in a bid to quiet him. But Branwell was not a man given to hiding his passion away, no matter what it might cost him, or any of them for that matter.

—

When Top Withens Hall came into sight at last, it stood out against the monotone background like a black crow perched on the highest branch of a tree, swaying in the wind and yet sure-footed and certain of its right to be there.

The few remaining living human souls who occupied it kept it as warm as they could, which was no easy feat in most houses, let alone one that was precariously positioned. Heat escaping through the rafters had melted the snow, exposing the slate roof tiles, and candlelight flickered hesitantly at three of the visible windows, all of which were shrouded in frost.

“Infernal-looking place,” Charlotte said as the four of them paused to catch their breath, the incline levelling out at last. “If hell was a frozen place, this is how I would picture it.”

“How any can live here and stay decent, I do not know,” Anne added, her dear face made red raw by the cold. “It’s a cruel place, and such an unkind home makes for cruel occupants.”

“Liston Bradshaw is no animal,” Branwell admonished them, rubbing the blood back into the tip of his nose. “He might be less educated than you or I, and have had fewer chances to see the beauty in the world, but for all his father’s brutality, Liston has a kind heart and a good mind. You will like him.”

“For my part, I admire it, if not like it exactly,” Emily said. “There’s something to be said for the first to choose a desolate place for their home—an admirable stubbornness that appeals to me. Though it has a rather ominous presence, as if the house itself is watching us.”

“That, my dear,” Charlotte said, heading on towards the gate, “is because you would love nothing more than to live in a cave like the Ponden Hermit, and never speak to another human being again.”