“And who was there to stand up for fairness when it came to the fate of that child?” Charlotte asked her.

“That is true, I suppose,” Emily admitted grudgingly. “But has Catherine lost her taste for detecting already?”

“Catherine is not detecting,” Charlotte replied, treading carefully. “That is not an occupation I would ever undertake with any but you, my sisters. She thought she could bring her influence to bear on Bradshaw, and she did. Tomorrow it will be just we three at Halifax. And I am fearful that we may not be match enough to stop this creature.”

“Not so,” Anne said at once, taking Emily’s and Charlotte’s hands in hers. “We are a match for it, sisters—more than a match, fearful as we may be. Let us resolve that this demon in human form shall not pass wherever we stand guard.”

But before they could make such a resolution, there came a furious knocking at the front door, and terrified shouts and cries from without.

“Goodness me!” Charlotte cried, going to the window. “It’s the Earnshaws at the door, terribly distressed. Whatever can the matter be?”

The sisters tumbled into the hallway to discover a scene of chaos and confusion. Tabby, her long silver hair plaited down her back, was brandishing a brass candlestick, and Papa was behind her, his pistol cocked and loaded, though owing to his poor eyesight, it was not pointed in the right direction.

“Begone, villains!” he threatened the longcase clock on the stairs.

“Wait, Papa.” Anne stepped in front of him, gently removing the gun from his hands. “It is not villains—it is our neighbours, and they are in great distress.”

The moment Charlotte opened the door, Sarah Earnshaw collapsed across the threshold, weeping with such anguish that any word she tried to utter was incoherent; all that could be seen was that she was terribly upset. Her husband, Martin Earnshaw, knelt at her side, holding his wife close to him, his own face streaked with tears.

“We need help,” he told the Brontës. “We need help, and you are the nearest people we could think of to go to.”

“Of course, Martin,” Patrick said, walking towards the sound of Martin’s voice. “Tell us at once what has happened.”

“It’s our boy, our Joseph. He’s gone—he’s been taken from his bed, we think. His clothes and boots are left behind. There is a smear of blood on his pillow and in his place this strange thing—a thing we have never set eyes on before.”

Kneeling down beside Martin and his wife, Anne held out her hand, knowing exactly what Martin placed in her palm the moment her fingers closed around it. Her hands were trembling as she lifted them aloft for her sisters to see what lay within.