The Barraclough establishment was a tall, narrow building at the top of the hill, with a small shop front where in the morning Zerubabbel would lay out his less expensive wares. With the shop front firmly shut, Emily and Anne made their way down the narrow alley that led to the back, Keeper leading the way, perhaps in the hope that they were to visit one of the five butchers who flourished in Haworth, though on this occasion he was to be disappointed. Even so, Emily was certain that Keeper had made a nasal note of the establishments where he was most likely to acquire precious treasures of bones and old hide. Keeper was not the brightest dog that Emily had ever encountered, but when it came to getting fed, he was extraordinarily resourceful and devoted. With that in mind, she tied him to the gatepost in the alley that ran along the back of the butchers, patting his broad head as he looked plaintively up at her.

“I promise we won’t be long, O fierce one,” Emily said. “Keep an eye out for lions and ghostly ladies who don’t leave footprints.”

Anne knocked at the door.

“We’re closed!” came a brusque shout from within. Widow Barraclough, though elderly, was not a woman to be trifled with; indeed, she was known in the village for her sharp tongue and fierce temper, which could reduce many a good man to a puddle, should they happen to stray into her path at the wrong moment. Perhaps that was why Zerubabbel was not one for opening his mouth all that much—perhaps his mother had taught him it was safer not to.

“Knock again,” Emily urged Anne.

“You knock again,” Anne said unhappily. “I’ll stand behind you this time.”

“But she is much more likely to be nice to you,” Emily told her, pushing her forward a few steps. “You are by far the nicest of us—everyone says so.”

Anne sighed. “Shall that be my epitaph, ‘the nicest of the Brontës’?”

Nevertheless she knocked again, a little firmer this time.

“Good afternoon?” Anne called. “Mrs. Barraclough? It is Anne Brontë from the parsonage.” Anne paused. “And my sister Emily.”

“And do you suppose that because you are Anne from the parsonage that we are any less closed for you?” Widow Barraclough said, opening the door and looking at each of them in turn, her lips pursed most sourly.

Anne looked at Emily for help and Emily helpfully remained silent.

“We have not come to try to make purchases from you,” Anne said. “We simply wanted a moment to talk with your housekeeper, Agnes Fielding.”

“Talk with my housekeeper?” Widow Barraclough snapped. “And how is that going to get my house cleaned and my dinner made if Agnes is talking to you? You will wait until she has her half day off, which is two weeks tomorrow.”