As for Clifton Bradshaw, after that night of searching for Joseph, he had fallen gravely ill. None expected him to see the new year, but when Liston visited, he told them his father seemed at peace at last, in a way he had never known him to be before. Papa had been taken to his bedside and prayed with him.

Soon after Clifton passed, Liston had come to the back door of the parsonage and sat with his head in his hands in the kitchen.

“All I can think is that he is there with her now. That she has his soul, and she will never let him be at peace,” he told them in anguish.

“Then you must cease such thoughts at once,” Anne said. “Your father confessed his every sin to our papa. They prayed together before he died. There is only one who has command over his soul, and it is He who watches over your father now. If he was truly repentant, which I am certain he was, then he is redeemed and at peace. And as for you, Liston, you have a whole life ahead of you to live well and justly. To make good your corner of the earth.”

Liston took great comfort in Anne’s words, and afterwards, though still hardly speaking to his sisters, Branwell had escorted his friend home.

Last night they had all gathered for the Christmas Eve service, the church full of candlelight and song, warmed by the companionship and community of the whole village, and it seemed to Emily that whatever darkness had stalked their lives was entirely gone away—in fact had been chased away by the brave Brontë sisters.

After the service, Emily had found Zerubabbel Barraclough waiting at the door, intent on avoiding small talk with the other parishioners.

“Are you and your sisters, quite well?” he asked.

“We are,” Emily replied.

“I did not ever come to see to your clock,” he told her. “Events overtook me, and I was out looking for Joseph.”

“The clock is working perfectly,” Emily confessed with a small smile. “But I think you knew that, Mr. Barraclough.”

He nodded. “I didn’t suspect her of anything until the bones were discovered,” he said. “I saw her that night, the night that Mary Bradshaw died, and supposed she had been drawn into the goings-on in the copse. I considered it no business of mine—we all have our secrets. Then I remembered that years ago, just before Mary Bradshaw died, when I’d been installing a clock up at Ponden, she’d been there in the library, and when she left, her eyes were glittering as if she had a fever, and she raced past me without a word. I recalled those books, and my suspicions led me to seek them out again that morning we met at Ponden. There was nothing there that enlightened me, but you, Miss Brontë, you understood it, did you not?”