Read Online Worlds of Ink and Shadow by Lena Coakley - Free Book Online

up again and took her knitting into her lap, handing her brother the ball of yarn. “But I must simply face the fact that in all our years of writing and crossing over, I have never been able to create anything better than a melodrama—and, Banny, if crossing over is only an escape, an amusement, I cannot justify it.”
    Branwell didn’t have an answer for this, but she didn’t expect him to. For a while she sat in silence, knitting and purling, while he let out yarn as she needed it. Their aunt would say that a lady shouldn’t work a stocking in a man’s presence, but Charlotte didn’t think Branwell counted.
    â€œI know you love him,” her brother said.
    Her fingers stopped.
    â€œYou pretend it will be easy to cast him aside, but I know you. It will be like losing a limb to leave Zamorna.”
    Something tightened in her chest. “No one can love a made-up person.”
    â€œIt’s obvious from your writing how you feel. I don’t blame you.”
    She let out a hiss of breath. “Now you’ve made me drop a stitch.”
    â€œAdmit it, Charlotte. If you could write Zamorna’s greatest story yet, wouldn’t that be worth the price?”

EMILY
    I ’D LIKE TO SPEAK TO YOU.” CHARLOTTE’S VOICE was stern.
    â€œCertainly,” Emily replied.
    â€œPut on your bonnet, please. We’ll take some exercise.”
    Emily winced. In their small house there were few places to have a private conversation, and so the siblings sometimes used long walks or invented errands as a means to be alone. Charlotte evidently wanted to have a lengthy talk.
    Emily put on her bonnet and lightest cloak and waited for Charlotte in the hallway. The Brontës had finished their midday meal, and Papa had gone out again to visit parishioners. Branwell had disappeared upstairs. Anne and Aunt Branwell were sewing in the dining room.
    â€œIn Penzance one could tell the difference between summerand winter,” Emily heard Aunt Branwell say with a long sigh. She came from the south of England and had been grumbling about the Yorkshire climate for as long as Emily could remember.
    â€œYes, Aunt,” Anne replied. Emily felt a little guilty for abandoning her.
    Charlotte came down the stairs tying her bonnet. Usually the younger girls would be free in the afternoon to follow their own pursuits, but of course Emily had disappeared to the moor that morning and couldn’t very well assert her freedom now. Charlotte ushered her toward the door.
    Whatever Aunt Branwell might say, summer was at its peak in Yorkshire. The fog had finally lifted, and the patch of lawn between the parsonage and the churchyard had turned a lush green from all the wet weather. The flowers Charlotte had planted along the cemetery wall were lifting their heads to the sun.
    Charlotte led Emily through the cemetery gate, striding with businesslike efficiency along the narrow path. Many of the local women had taken advantage of the break in the clouds to lay their laundry over the tombstones to dry. Charlotte shook her head at this and tut-tutted as they passed.
    â€œIf we see anyone we know, don’t stare into the void like a sheep. Try to smile. We’ve got Papa’s reputation to uphold.”
    Emily bared her teeth at her sister’s back. When had Charlotte become this person? It seemed to be Aunt Branwell’s voice coming out of her mouth. Emily missed Charlotte Brontë, friendand confidant. Charlotte Brontë, teacher and chaperone, she didn’t like half so well.
    They rounded Papa’s church and came out onto Haworth’s noisy main street. A horrible stench hit Emily like a blow, making her eyes sting. There were no sewers in Haworth, and many of the houses had muck middens at the back—fenced enclosures where the contents of the privies were kept until they could be removed. The one at the back of the Black Bull Tavern was particularly bad, and the price of