“Listen here, little girl . . .” Bradshaw began, and Emily felt a rage that began in her toes propel itself through her veins like a short, lit fuse.

There would have been no telling what choice and decidedly unladylike words might have erupted if Branwell hadn’t halted her in her tracks long enough for her to think better of speaking her mind.

“Mr. Bradshaw, sir.” Branwell offered him his hand. “Please excuse my sisters. They are sensitive creatures, emotional through and through, and are apt only to see the tragedy of the situation, not the scientific or historical value of your discovery. Please, will you excuse their womanly weakness and invite us inside? My sisters are fragile, and I do believe we all may perish if we stay outside in these conditions a moment longer.”

Clifton looked at Branwell, then at the three cloaked women who accompanied him, before turning on his heel and kicking a small lurcher out of his way as he strode into the house.

“If you must,” he said. “Be quick about it.”

Bradshaw turned on his heel and strode into the house. After a moment the three sisters and their brother followed him, deep into the devil’s den.

5

Charlotte

The interior of the hall was altogether brighter and more welcoming than Charlotte had expected. At one end of the large room, an elderly woman busied herself with overseeing a young maid at the fire in the making of what smelled like mutton stew. At the other a huge dresser stood against the wall, and all manner of animals roamed around their feet, including more dogs and several cats. Even a hen wandered around the old lady’s feet, oblivious to the fierce-looking cleaver that was embedded in the butcher block nearby.

Swinging from the ceiling were haunches of pork and mutton tied up with bunches of herbs that gave the room a pungent but not unpleasant scent of sweet and meaty smoke, combining with the perfume of heating spices. The room was clean, the floor swept and scoured; the pewter that lined the great oak dresser that took up almost a whole wall shone as if freshly polished. Though the room was not dressed for Christmas, as other homes might have been at the time of year, it hardly seemed the home of the half-wild heathen Tabby had warned them of.

“Bess, Molly,” Bradshaw barked, gesturing at their bedraggled party when the old lady turned at the sound of her name. “People.”

“Oh, aye. Now, then, lasses”—the old lady blinked at them—“take off ye cloaks and draw closer here ’fore you freeze to death!”

“Thank you,” Anne said, “Mrs. . . . ?”

“Nay, you know me, mistress. I am your Bess! Perhaps the cold has frozen your head, hey?” Bess laughed merrily.

“Don’t mind her, misses,” Molly said as she took their sodden cloaks. “Bess is half in heaven already, and it is my job to mind her, though she does not know it.”