The door opened to reveal their father peering into the room as if he was trying to make out their whereabouts. They all stood at once, and Charlotte went to him, guiding her father towards a seat at the table. Branwell entered behind him.

It was hard to see him so, their tall, proud, vigorous father, so blighted by the loss of his sight. But as hard as it was, Charlotte knew it was even worse for Papa. He hated to feel anything less than in charge of his life and the lives of his children, which was why it was rather concerning that he had chosen to bestow a visit upon them. Could it be that he sensed what they were about?

“Papa,” Charlotte said, “how lovely! Shall I ask Martha for some tea?”

“No, Charlotte, I am soon to work,” Papa replied, using the back of her chair to lean on. “But I was moved to come and talk with you all, for I had a most troubling night last night beset with bad dreams and ill feeling, a feeling that has persisted into daylight hours. I wanted to see all my children this morning and know for myself that you are all quite well. You’ve been out in this cold far too often and far too late for my liking.”

“We are all well, Papa,” Charlotte said gently, taking his hands, “are we not, sisters?”

“We are,” Emily and Anne agreed at once.

“Quite the pictures of health,” Emily added.

“I am faring well also, Papa,” Branwell said, his voice a little husky. “Perhaps I sang rather too much and rather too loudly last night, but all in all—for a man whose heart is crushed into dust—my spirits are good.”

“Papa, what disturbed you in the night?” Charlotte asked anxiously, a little worried about the salt that still lined every doorway and the scent of sage that still hung in the air.

“Dreams, dear, dreams,” Patrick said. “I dreamt of your mama, that she came to visit me. I dreamt I saw her standing at the end of my bed, and she told me, ‘Watch out for your children, Pat; be sure you keep them safe from harm.’ It was the strangest dream—most wondrous to behold my love after all these years, but unsettling indeed.”

“It was just a dream, Papa,” Charlotte said. “And a dream of Mama cannot be so very terrible, can it?”

“And you are all quite well?” Papa asked again. His children gathered around him, kissing his hands and face.

“We are, Papa, we are,” Anne said earnestly. “Please, do not fear for us.”

The small room became crowded even further when, after a quick knock, Mr. Nicholls entered.

“You seem to have strewn salt about all over the place,” he said with some confusion.

“Slugs,” Emily and Charlotte said at once.

“In December?” Mr. Nicholls enquired.