Emily met her gaze steadily. Yes, Miss Sladden’s spine seemed to be twisted, her cheek resting on one hunched shoulder, and the whole of that side of her face tugged down. But all that Emily saw was a fearful woman, doing her best to be brave for the sake of others.

“This house has been my prison all my life, Miss Brontë. My only escape is books and my own imagination. But now my sister is dying, and as I cannot go out, I must invite help in. Miss Goddard and the boy are within. You may speak to them.”

“Miss Sladden, I am truly grateful for your trust,” Emily said.

“Then you will call me by my name,” Miss Sladden said. “You will call me Rose.”

42

Charlotte

Anne had been right in her assessment that the main living at Tewit Laithe was done mostly at the back of the house. Rose led them into a small kitchen that was warmed with a bright fire and several lamps. Boughs of evergreen firs and holly adorned the mantel top, oak beams supported the ceiling, and it was cheering to remember that in every hidden corner, it was still Christmas.

The convivial atmosphere disappeared at once the moment Emily and her sisters were seen standing behind Rose Sladden. A young woman who Emily imagined had to be Lucy Goddard stood up abruptly, her sewing sliding off her lap, and with one look, the boy who had been sitting opposite her at the kitchen table scrambled up some thick stone stairs.

“We have not come to harm you in any way, Miss Goddard,” Charlotte said. “We don’t have time to explain ourselves, but please, we need to talk to you and Tom about his escape from the clutches of the creature the boys at Crossed Keys call the monster.”

Miss Goddard observed each sister carefully, and Charlotte could see how easy it must have been for sweet Mr. Markham to lose his heart to this delicate, copper-haired creature, her eyes so large and expressive.

“You believe his story?” Miss Goddard asked uncertainly.

“We do,” Charlotte said.

“For the most part,” Emily added. “A boy called William told me the monster flew away with his captives, and I must admit to some reservations about that part.”

“It’s a cloak.” It was a boy’s voice that came from deep in the stairwell. Eventually Tom Hawthorne came back down into the room, crossing at once to Miss Goddard, who folded her arms around him as if he were her own beloved child. “A great hooded cloak that flies out behind, for they walk very fast. It might look like wings at night to the little ones.”

“But, Tom, it was a human being who took you from your bed?” Emily asked him, sitting down.

“Yes, miss—a monster but in the form of a man,” Tom said.