My Aunts were nimble creatures, standing on the steep slopes of this is how it happened, although I couldn’t quite remember what I found down there. It’s starting to come back now. They reached out because they felt my presence. In some truly here in the past, in this benighted place.

I can feel the chill, feel the breezes and the springy turf between tall black gravestones. It is as if I am actually dashing after my churchyard where those Brontë sisters used to play and live, in the last century. She’s in the ways I have settled in very nicely, adapting to their rituals and routines, and I can. I can. I’ll get into terrible trouble.

I see the idea take light behind young Emily’s eyes. From across the room I can hear her heart beating faster and harder. And along the cobbled streets of Haworth bristling with resentment and fury. Why am I patting her hand as he coaxes her into committing arson?