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making people feel welcome.
    “There’s another cot in the cellar, isn’t there, Papa?” Emily said. “Shouldn’t we start using that for guests?”
    Everyone fell silent.
    “There is another sleeping cot in the cellar,” Mr. Brontë said hesitantly, “but the room is small; it will be hard to fit another bed in it.”
    “We’ll take out the rocking chair. Besides, it’s only for one night,” she argued.
    This whole subject seemed to touch a nerve with Branwell. He leapt to his feet. “We can’t give a stranger Maria and Elizabeth’s bed.”
    “Why not?” Emily asked. “We should put the less fortunate before ourselves. It was what Maria and Elizabeth would have done.”
    The less fortunate? Is that supposed to be me?
    “You don’t know anything.” Branwell’s face flushed, and I could see he definitely wasn’t teasing anymore. He sank back onto the piano stool.
    “Emily’s right.” Charlotte’s voice sounded strangled.“It is what Maria and Elizabeth would have wanted.”
    For several agonizing seconds, no one spoke.
    I shifted in my seat and longed to disappear.
    Finally Charlotte said, “I’ll take the extra cot. It’s better than trying to share again. Our beds are simply too small, and Emily’s grown at least half a foot since July.”
    Mr. Brontë nodded. “Thank you, Charlotte. I’ll have Tabby retrieve it from the cellar.” His voice trembled as he spoke, and it was clear that he was unsettled by the thought of dragging out his dead daughters’ cot.
    Branwell stormed out of the room.
    I held my breath as he left, embarrassed to have caused so much trouble. Still, I was grateful for how things had worked out. I didn’t want to sleep with Tabby, and I didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in the bed of two dead girls either.
    As soon as Branwell was out of sight, Mr. Brontë steadied his voice. “Now girls, I must get on with my work.”
    But as we rose to leave, a loud clip-clopping sounded in the hallway. A second later, a petite woman holding a tray with a black and gold teapot and a plate of half-eaten meat and potatoes, strode into the room.
    Emily stumbled backward, knocking me over. I fell into my seat.

Chapter 6
    She stepped behind me and whispered crossly,
“Take yourself and your dusters off;
when company are in the house,
servants don’t commence scouring and
cleaning in the room where they are!”
    —E. J. Brontë
    I see Tabitha neglected to clear away your dinner tray too, Patrick.”
    The woman marched toward Mr. Brontë’s desk but stopped in mid-stride. She stood motionless for a second and then turned to face me.
    I cringed, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. A black dress with white lace trimmings covered every inch of her slim body, with the exception of her sharp face and tiny lily-white hands. A dark shawl draped her bony shoulders, and, aside from a curly auburn fringe, her hair was completely hidden under an enormous lace bonnet. My face warmed as she stared at me in silence.
    Mr. Brontë cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, this is Miss Heather Bell. She became lost on the moors and was rescued by Emily.” He paused for a moment and then continued slowly, “I have given permission for her to stay here until we locate her family.”
    The color drained from her face, and she stared at Mr. Brontë as though he’d lost his mind.
    “Are you quite serious, Patrick?” She examined me once more as if to make sure I was real and not some practical joke Mr. Brontë had played on her.
    Then she jerked her head back to face Mr. Brontë. “Patrick, that is a gypsy. You cannot allow it to stay here and mingle with my sister’s children. Think of all the effort you have put into their education!” Her body stiffened. “Think of Branwell. He studies Latin, Greek, art, and poetry. He can translate Homer and recite Milton.”
    Oh, so this is Emily’s aunt.
    “You are right, of course,” Mr. Brontë said. “Branwell is both gifted and talented.