At last they reached Top Withens, standing square against the elements, feet planted firm with resolve. So strong were the gusts of furious cold that Anne felt she might be lifted from her feet and snatched into the air at any moment, as she and Emily helped Papa to find his feet. John tethered the cart horse in the shelter of the courtyard, and the small party stood at the door of the house.

“What’s this?” Molly asked, opening the door. “Miss Anne, Miss Emily—come in, Mr. Brontë, sir. Come in, all. Why, what a night to be abroad! Is it that they have found the boy?”

Anne was glad of the shelter, though the hall was hardly warmer within than without. The fire had gone out, and there was no sight to be had of Old Bess. Liston appeared from upstairs, wearing a coat and over that a kind of shawl. Molly went at once to his side.

“Where is your father, young man?” Papa asked him. Anne was glad to hear his voice strong and firm. “We must speak with him at once.”

“I am here, Brontë.” Clifton’s voice rang out of the dark, and Anne realised that the older Bradshaw had been sitting in the shadows all along. “What do you want with me?”

“Tell me where my son is, you devil!” Martin Earnshaw flew at Clifton, dragging him out of the chair he had been slumped in and into the meagre candlelight by the collar of his shirt.

Anne gasped at the man she saw there, gazing round at them half-crazed. His face was gaunt and grey, his lips and hands fair blue with the cold. He looked no more than an hour or two away from death.

“Where is he, you demon?” Martin’s voice cracked with his own emotion as he seemed to try to shake some into Bradshaw. “Or have you done away with him already?”

“I do not have the boy,” Clifton said, gruff and yet calm at the sight of their party. “I’ve been out all day and half the eve looking for him, same as you, I don’t doubt. I’m just back, sat down in the chair to take my boots off, and I found myself too exhausted to make a fire. You searched my property already. The boy is not here, nor is he on my land. I have looked over every inch.”

“And why would we take your word?” Martin shook him again. “Where have you hidden him? My boy will die if left out much longer. Please, have you no mercy? I beg you. Tell us what you’ve done to him so that I may know the fate of my child!”

Martin let go of Bradshaw, turning away. Clifton’s whole body shook, his knees buckled, and Branwell caught him, sinking to his knees on the flags, the larger man in his arms.