“Us?” Emily said. “Because he knows us, and he knows that we are looking for him?”

“You didn’t come here for a prophecy,” Lizzy said very gravely, “but you are going to receive one anyway, it seems, so listen and listen well. The one who made this mark is seeking a terrible kind of peace, the kind that is only found after the acquisition of a new soul. There will be more to come. The next dark moon is tomorrow night.”

34

Anne

“If Clifton Bradshaw killed that child,” Anne told Charlotte the moment she returned to the parsonage, almost before she set foot through the door, “then it is likely that there are more victims, Charlotte—and that there may be another soon.”

“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked, taking off her bonnet.

Anne had expected her to look as bright and as vivid as she had yesterday when she had spent time with the vivacious Lady Hartley, but today the opposite was true. Her sister looked pale and drawn, depleted by the day. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and as little as she was, she seemed even smaller somehow, as if a piece of her had been stolen away by the hours that had passed since last they met. Perhaps, Anne thought, she should have insisted on them all staying together after all, especially when there was so much danger abroad.

Anne took Charlotte’s cloak and led her into the kitchen, where Emily was making bread for the morning. Tabby, having prepared that night’s supper, had already taken to her bed, and Martha had gone home to her pa’s house. Emily was alert, as on edge and keen as Keeper at the scent of a rabbit, and since both her sisters were out of sorts, Anne took it as a sign that what they needed more than anything now was each other.

“Branwell!” she called up the stairs, forgetting for a moment that she was likely to disturb Tabby. “Do stop brooding over whatever was in your last post, and come and be with your sisters, for we need you.”

“He’s been strange all the day,” Emily said, thumping down the dough on the flour-covered tabletop with quite some clout. “Kept asking us if we had anything to confess. Anne and I? We never have anything to confess—it’s always you older two who are piling up secrets and scandals.”

“I have no secrets,” Charlotte said wearily, taking a seat by the range. “I cannot claim that my misplaced affections for a certain gentleman are a secret to anyone who loves me. Indeed, Emily, you and Anne know me better than I know myself. Look at me and tell me what scandals I might be harbouring, for at this moment, I feel quite undone and tired of feeling at all.”

Emily stopped kneading the bread and looked at her sister.