“There is more to discover yet. I am sure of it,” Emily said. She drew out a folded sheet of paper from within her writing slope and pushed it towards Charlotte. It was a hasty sketch of the design that they had reconstructed last night, barely completed before Tabby had come upon them. “It is not as precise as I would like it to be, but I believe it is enough to try to identify the nature and the meaning of the symbols here.”

“I suppose we could look for an anthropologist to converse with,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “Perhaps the Leylands might know of such a person? Or I could write to Monsieur Héger—he is bound to be acquainted with one. All his circle is so learned and intelligent.”

“Perhaps—but I don’t think we have six months to wait for a reply,” Emily said. Her face instantly fell as she observed Charlotte’s do the same, and though Charlotte turned away from her sister, Emily took her hand, sinking to her knees before her.

“Charlotte, forgive me. I did not mean to be so cruel. I am thoughtless and unkind, and you may slap me as hard as you like.”

“I do not wish to slap you,” Charlotte said, blinking away the tears that threatened. “After all, you speak only the truth.”

“Well, perhaps, and yet I could have done so without hurting you. I am rarely wrong, Charlotte, but when I am, I own it, and I own it now. Will you forgive me?”

“How could I not?” Charlotte looked into Emily’s grey eyes. “How could I not forgive the other half of me?”

The sisters embraced, and for a moment, Charlotte felt at ease, as if just for a few moments all her hurts and fears were salved by sisterly love.

“Well, while you two have been insulting each other,” Anne said, “I have examined the ledgers Clifton gave us. They are rather haphazard and made up of more than one hand, but they do give us a fairly detailed picture of the comings and goings that summer at Top Withens.”

“Any useful entries such as the name and residence of a killer?” Emily asked, climbing to her feet to peer over Anne’s shoulder at the books.

“I’m afraid not.” Anne shook her head. “So many passed through Top Withens from the beginning of that year to the end—almost a hundred. Hardly any were there for more than a week, and only one throughout that summer into the autumn—Annie Fielding, a kitchen maid. It is not a name I know, but even if it were, there must be scores of Annie Fieldings in Yorkshire alone, and she could be anywhere or most likely married by now.”