“No,” Emily objected. “If we do not accept this challenge, then these people go on unchecked and perhaps more dangerous than ever. If we can discover the name of that poor child, that is the very least we can do. To return the child to memory, even if it is only ours.”

“I wish we did not know any of it,” Anne said. “I wish the bones had remained hidden, for I would like to put away all of our knowledge of this terrible business and go back to our safe and orderly lives, writing, thinking and walking as we always have.”

“Or drinking,” Branwell offered up. “Drinking is a marvellous way to divert oneself.”

“I don’t believe you really mean that, Anne,” Charlotte said, drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders as the chill wind buffeted them, the icy water that oozed out of the mud seeping into her boots. “You are one of the bravest and most remarkable human beings ever created. And yet you do not have to continue on this path if you feel it is taking too great a toll on your gentle nature.”

Anne walked on a few steps, Emily silent at her side, leaning on the drystone wall to look out across the gentle valley. It felt as if the sun had been up only an hour or two before it sought shelter from the winter, and already the sky was pinkened by its demure departure, as the first signs of frost began prickling along the stones and branches of the stark landscape. Charlotte looked on as Anne unlaced her bonnet, tipping her face up towards the gentle snowfall settling on her long lashes.

“If only you weren’t such meddlers,” Branwell said gently, offering Charlotte his arm as they strolled on. “Most people are perfectly content to go through life thinking only of themselves, their families, where the next crust is coming from and whether or not they have done enough to earn a place in heaven. Not so my sisters. You are so concerned with the magnitude of life and all its complexities. It’s as if all existence flows through you, and you feel every moment of it most keenly. I know you consider my opinion worthless, but I fear for you, Charlotte—for all of you. I fear for how much you care for it all; so much caring can only bring harm to you.”

“Are you made of the same stuff, Branwell, dear?” Charlotte asked. “Is not all that you do to yourself an attempt to block out so much caring?”