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same route with Emily. Then Charlotte had had all the confidence, enough to share with Emily. Now she was hurtling across the moors toward a humiliating confession of her failure.
    The coach hit a deep rut and Charlotte bounced against the side, bruising her right cheek. It wasn’t enough to be sent home in disgrace; she was going to look like a boxer when she arrived.
    She called out to the driver, “Go slower, please!” But the coach continued at exactly the same rate of speed, as if even the driver knew her wishes were of no account.
    Charlotte had spent every minute of the last two days trying to forget the awful scene in Miss Wooler’s office. But she had to face it sooner or later, preferably before she had to explain it to her family. She cringed to think of telling Emily, although Emily was the only one likely to sympathize. How had Charlotte permitted herself to sink so low that Emily was the one with whom she had the most in common?
    The summons to Miss Wooler’s office had been unexpected. A first-year student had interrupted Charlotte’s spelling lesson. When Charlotte tried to demur, the messenger was adamant: Miss Brontë was required immediately.
    As Charlotte made her way from classroom to office, she worried perhaps there was bad news from home: Could Emily have had a relapse? Perhaps Father was ill? The autumn was so bad for his sore throats and that silk scarf wasn’t warm enough, no matter how many times he wound it about his neck. By the time Charlotte reached the office, she had convinced herself Father was near death and the family on the brink of financial ruin.
    So Charlotte had been relieved when Miss Wooler assured her there was no news from home. “I’ve asked you to come for quite a different reason,” she said in a tone so severe Charlotte was instinctively on guard.
    Miss Wooler opened her desk drawer and pulled out a tiny handmade book, perhaps three inches square, covered with tiny copperplate handwriting. Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat.
    â€œWhere did you get that?” she asked before she could stop herself.
    â€œDid you write this . . . this . . .” Miss Wooler asked with a grimace, unable to give the book a proper name. She picked up a large magnifying glass and held it over the book. “
The Romantic Adventures of the Queen of Angria.”
    Charlotte clasped her hands tightly, a denial on her lips.
    â€œBefore you answer,” Miss Wooler said, “I should tell you this was found in your room.”
    In a futile attempt to keep her self-respect, Charlotte drew herself up. “I assumed my privacy was respected at Roe Head.”
    â€œNot when you are writing—
obscenities
.” Miss Wooler had a hard time saying the word, and when she managed it, she infused the syllables with disdain.
    Charlotte gasped and recoiled. “That’s not true! My Angria stories are fantasies, nothing more.”
    â€œSo there are more?” Miss Wooler pursed her lips. “No wonder you haven’t been able to concentrate, if your attention is consumed by vulgarity!”
    Consumed
. What an apt word, Charlotte thought. Lately she had thought of nothing else but her stories. Even getting up in the morning was difficult because the world of Roe Head was not Angria. Her obsession with her fantasy world frightened her.
    Charlotte slumped in her chair. “What are you going to do?”
    Miss Wooler held up Charlotte’s pages by the corner as if she were afraid of contagion. “This is cause enough to dismiss you,” she said.
    Charlotte gasped; this was worse than she had imagined.
    â€œOr perhaps I should write to your father immediately,” Miss Wooler said slowly.
    Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face. Father must never know. Ever since she had become the oldest child, she had kept her secrets hidden with handwriting too small for her father to decipher.
    â€œI would if