“Hmm,” Emily said. “She is resilient, our Charlotte. Look how quickly she’s got over Monsieur Héger. Why, even if the reviews are bad, she will be right back at her writing desk within four years at the latest.”

Anne laughed, then covered her mouth with her gloved hand, no doubt feeling a little guilty.

“Do not worry on Charlotte’s account,” Emily said. “Her work is rather good. Don’t tell her I said that. It is not as good as mine, I’ll admit, but it’s passing fair.”

“It’s different for you and Charlotte,” Anne said. “Both of you have a gift for creating worlds out of words—whole landscapes of emotion. I fear that all I have is myself, my own thoughts and feelings, regrets and hopes that are so very small and ordinary. How can that ever be considered to have any literary merit?”

Emily took her sister’s hand as they picked their way across the slippery-boulder stepping-stones that stood unevenly in the still half-frozen stream.

“Why wouldn’t your honest and true reflections have merit equal to any words ever written by anyone?” Emily asked. “What greater merit is there than the communication of the experience of one human soul to another? In this world of men, the literary types seek to elevate themselves above the ordinary. Their thoughts must be superior, their feelings more important than yours or mine. It’s all artifice, Anne. Your thoughts, your feelings, your sentiment, as you put it, will ring true with those who read it. They will see honesty and integrity, and though you may never know their names, you and they will be connected somehow, not only now but for all of time. Besides, if I am honest, it is you who have the greatest courage of us all, you who speak the truth and will not flinch from it.”

“Perhaps if that is so, it will be enough,” Anne said modestly, but she squeezed Emily’s fingers in thanks just before she let them go.

“Besides, we don’t write for accolades.” Emily thought for a moment. “We write because our souls demand it of us, and that is enough.”

Conversation fell away into silent diligence as they walked that last mile up to Top Withens. The freezing air made every breath raw, and even within their gloves, their fingers were numb, their toes wet and icy. When the isolated moor-top house came into view at last, they paused for a moment, and the reason why they were there greeted them like a dark spectre waiting at the gates.

“I do not look forward to returning to this sad and terrible place,” Anne said unhappily. “It feels as if misery has been cemented in between every stone that built it.”

“Indeed,” Emily said. “Still, let us warm ourselves with the thought of seeing fair Liston again, and that’s a prospect to brighten any maid’s day.”