“Unhand my sister!” Emily looked around for a heavy object to batter Bradshaw with. Fortunately Liston dragged Clifton away.

“Let her go, Pa,” Liston said as he battled with his father’s iron grip on Anne’s arms.

Anne felt the bruising bones of his fingers, the heat and weight of him on her, and could take not a moment more. She remembered something Branwell had told her once, and in one swift movement, she kneed Bradshaw hard in his unholies.

“There is no girl, sir,” Anne told him as he released her, doubling over in pain. “I am a woman grown—a woman who works for her living and has endured as much loss and grief as you and your son—as much as any has hereabouts. It is clear that you know more about the bones hidden inside that room than you are willing to say. But mark my words. We shall reveal the all of it, and you shall answer for your sins.”

“You’re a witch,” Bradshaw gasped, glaring at her as he struggled to catch his breath.

It was rare for Anne to be looked upon with such naked dislike—hatred, even—and yet she found it exhilarating and, yes, it was genuine, in a way so few of her interactions were.

“You are not the victim, Mr. Bradshaw,” Anne added. “Your wife was a victim of disease, your son is a victim of your grief and anger, and the poor nameless child concealed within the walls of your house is the greatest victim of all. But you are not. You are a man grown, and unless you yourself hid a body in that room sometime after the death of your wife, then you should want to answer our questions, not evade them. After all, my sisters and I may be the only individuals who can help you and Liston clear the family name.”

“I do not need your help, she wolf,” Clifton said, turning and half staggering down the stairs, “but neither do I have anything to hide, and I’ll show you that. You may ask me your questions, Miss Brontë, and then you will be on your way, and you shall not darken my doorstep again. For you will not best me twice. I promise you that.”

15

Emily