“Emily Jane!” Anne said, pretending to be scandalised. But she did not disagree.

The unhinged gate hung dormant now that the wind had dropped, and the dogs were silent and nowhere to be seen as Anne and Emily walked into the muddy yard. Emily shuddered, but not because of the cold. There was a sense of isolation here that seemed to have nothing to do with the location. It was as if the house itself were a half-mad hermit, pushing back intrusion with its own independent force of will.

“Miss Emily, Miss Anne.” Liston appeared from within the barn, where he had clearly been working hard at something requiring a deal of physical effort, his curly dark hair and skin damp with perspiration, his shirt clinging to his work-hardened torso. “I am very glad to see you both.”

“We are glad to see you too, Liston,” Emily said, suddenly greatly interested in the mud at her feet. “Very glad indeed.”

“Mr. Bradshaw,” Anne said, lowering her eyes and somewhat improbably bobbing a curtsey, her cheeks aflame, “have we happened upon you at an inconvenient moment?”

“No, please excuse me.” Liston became acutely aware of his appearance, beckoning them after him as he hurried towards the house. “I bring the sheep in in this weather, but it involves a deal of mucking out, and as they are my enterprise and not Pa’s, he says I may not use his employees. So needs must, and I’ve never been shy of hard work.”

The moment they were within Top Withens, Liston grabbed an ancient-looking greatcoat flung over a chair and hastily shrugged it onto his shoulders, hugging it around himself as he closed the door behind them and bolted it shut.

“If we don’t bolt it, the northeast wind will blow it in,” he explained when Emily raised an eyebrow. At least there was no sight of old Bradshaw—only Molly the maid, who sat chopping onions at the table, and the elderly housekeeper Bess, ensconced silently by the fire, watching over a pot of something that smelt like mutton stew. If she registered their arrival at all, she did not see fit to remark upon it.

“Are you well, Liston?” Anne asked the young man, her sweet, serious face made grave with concern. “We’ve been so worried about you since you returned to Top Withens. Was your father’s wrath very bad?”

“Not so bad, Miss Anne.” Liston smiled stoically. “Pa has been powerful drunk since I returned—he ranted like a madman at me, though I couldn’t say if the cause of his fury was my helping you remove the bones or inviting further scrutiny of his dealings, as he was hardly comprehensible and certainly in no state to attack me. He was barely able to raise his head off the table, in fact. So Bess and I put him abed, where he has been ever since and has shown no sign of stirring yet.”