“Branwell, you have been such a good, stoic companion today,” Charlotte said. “Though you have been silent and kept your thoughts to yourself, I hope you know what comfort your presence brings me—brings us all, I daresay. These past days, when we have been companions just as we used to be, have reminded me how much we need you, brother.”

“Have they?” Branwell asked with a bitter laugh. “You need me to escort you—to protect you—though I’ll wager that Emily Jane could land a harder punch than her wasted brother. You need me to lend your little rabble authority, perhaps, for as brilliant and as brave as you each are, you are still but women. But you don’t need me, Charlotte—far from it. You have left me behind, all of you.”

With a jerk he freed himself from Charlotte’s embrace and marched on a few quick steps.

“You would think,” Emily called after him, “that there were more important events happening than your own discontentment, Branwell! We are not the architects of your misery. Indeed, we do all we can to bring you back to life when you yourself have courted death just as readily as you did Mrs. Robinson.”

“Emily, don’t speak her name aloud,” Charlotte muttered.

“None of this matters a jot,” Anne told her sisters. “All that matters is that we locate Miss Goddard and the boy as soon as we can.”

“No,” Branwell said, marching back towards them out of the dark. “That’s right—nothing I do matters. Nothing I do is right or worthy or good. I am a joke to you—a laughingstock. That the whole world looks upon me as a pitiful fool, I can bear. That my beloved Lydia must adhere to her cruel marriage when she longs to be with me, I can endure. But that you, my sisters, have sought the publication of your poetry without me?” Branwell shook his head. “That is intolerable.”

“How . . . how do you know?” Charlotte asked, aghast.

“The letter Martha gave me after we returned from Ponden was addressed to a Mr. Brontë, but it was meant for you, Charlotte. It was from an Aylott and Jones, offering to publish your collection if you cover the cost.”

“Oh!” Charlotte stopped in her tracks, reaching out for Anne. “Emily, Anne—we are to be published!”

The three sisters caught one another’s hands and, a moment after, clasped together in an embrace.

“I can hardly believe it,” Anne said. “Can it truly be real?”

“I believe it,” Emily said. “I knew it would take only the right editor to see my genius, though I shall not enjoy the fame that will surely follow.”

“To hold a printed, bound book with our words in it.” Charlotte’s voice was soft with awe. “I hardly dared dream it possible, but now . . . now the whole world shall see who we are.”