All at once the figure started towards Emily with such speed she dropped the lantern, stumbling backwards and falling on a low stone. Sprawled on its damp surface, she was certain the person would be upon her at any second. Gripping the yew branch hard, she turned the splintered end towards where she thought her assailant might come from, yet, at the very moment Emily made herself ready, Keeper leapt over her, growling and barking ferociously as he charged towards the spot where the woman had been standing. Confused, fearful that the woman had merely been seeking help, Emily called to her dog to stop, and he dropped on to his haunches at once. Scrambling to her feet, Emily picked up the lantern, somehow still alight, and made her way to where she thought the woman was standing. There was no trace of her existence to be found.

19

Charlotte

The day was grey, and snow fell like ash, heavy and suffocating. No matter how she tried to rally her spirits, Charlotte could not escape the great sense of unease that continued to follow her at every moment, as if disaster was looming around each corner. The renewed snowfall only added to the sensation that they were cut off from the world entirely, a little island of isolation far away from the world of logic and reason. Here the old spirits still walked the moors after dark.

Drawing her shawl a little tighter around her, Charlotte made herself search the graveyard that lay more or less right outside her bedroom window for any trace of the mysterious woman Emily had told them she had seen last night. But there was nothing or no one there now that Charlotte could see: just a shroud of morning mist, a palette of muted greys, as the weary sun struggled into the sky, and every footprint was covered anew. All seemed quiet.

Emily was at her writing desk scribbling away with what looked like alarming commitment, and Anne sat at the other end of the table turning over a small object again and again in her hand. As Charlotte took a seat and prepared herself to try to write, she saw it was the medallion.

“I thought it was buried with the child,” Charlotte said, eyeing the item.

“As did I,” Anne said. “I found it caught in my clothes, and somehow it felt as if it was not wanted in the grave, so I put it in the evidence caddy. It might yet tell us something.”

Charlotte fought the urge to snatch the thing from her sister and throw it on the fire. This was foolishness indeed—she had let Tabby and her tall tales insinuate their way into her head, whispering stories to her in the dead of night. What had really happened—a poor innocent killed—was bad enough, and that was what she must focus on.