As they approached, Emily could see that the structure was more of a hut than anything resembling a house. It was made of drystone walling that seemed to have been gathered from the moor, every irregular shape fitted together in a lovingly crafted puzzle and formed into a circular construction. It was not thatch that showed through the snow where the warmth escaped, but the grasses and heathers of the moor itself, draped over the humble abode like a rather magnificent cloak.

Even then its location was supremely discreet, situated as it was halfway down one of the steeper slopes of Crow Hill, facing towards Pendle. Perhaps, Emily thought, that was so that the visionary could better keep an eye out for approaching witch-hunters.

A makeshift door made of old timber fitted a low entranceway quite neatly, and Emily found herself rather taken with the little dwelling, for it looked as if it might have stood here for a thousand years or just been thrown up yesterday, and she was drawn to the notion that a person couldn’t tell which. Its solitude and remoteness, and the way that it was enfolded so gently into the arms of the landscape, appealed greatly. Indeed, if it had been on the Yorkshire side of the border, it would have been perfect.

“Miss Visionary, are you in?” Emily called out before knocking on the door as Tabby had instructed her to do. “My name is Emily Brontë. I am visiting with my sister Anne—our friend Tabby Aykroyd sent us and sends with us the message that when the crow speaks the truth, the very hills rumble.”

Emily had questioned Tabby closely on the meaning of the nonsensical phrase, but Tabby had simply made her repeat it over and over again until she was certain Emily had remembered it correctly.

“You don’t want to end up as a puff of smoke, do you?” Tabby had said, and Emily could not be sure that she was teasing.

A low growl came from the other side of the door, but there was no sound or movement within. The growl turned into barks that sounded strangely familiar to her, which was explained when the door was dragged open and Keeper burst out of the hut and into Emily’s arms, planting her flat on her back and covering her in drool.

“Calm yourself!” she laughed, struggling into a sitting position with the great hound nestled on her lap as if he were Flossy. Emily was rather surprised to find a very pleasant-looking, rosy-cheeked young woman standing over her, holding on to the collar of another great thickheaded black dog.

“How did my dog get here before me?” Emily asked her.

“Dogs know things,” the young woman told her. “Your dog saw fit to tell me that you were coming visiting today, and that is just as well, as I do not like to be startled by company.”