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prudent.”
    “We can be practical and prudent,” interjected Anne, “without giving up writing.”
    “We?” I looked at her. “Have you been writing, Anne?”
    Anne and Emily exchanged a glance. After some hesitation, Anne said, “Not really—at least nothing of consequence.”
    My curiosity was piqued; evidently, Anne had been writing, but was no more willing to talk about it than I. As to the subject matter of her work, I could venture a guess. In childhood, Emily and Anne had created an imaginary world of their own, which they called Gondal—a dark, dramatic, passionate Northern world ruled by females—and they had recorded the adventures of their beloved characters in verse and prose. Although it had been years since my sisters had shared the fruits of their labours with us, I knew they still drew great enjoyment from play-acting scenes about Gondal in private, whispered conversations to that day.
    “I suppose writing is in our blood,” said I, “and I will always love it; but I feel that I must find something more useful and worthwhile to do with my time. One day, we all may have to support ourselves, and writing does not bring in an income.”
    “But it can ,” said Branwell, with a sudden, mysterious smile, as he removed his cap and tilted his head back, allowing the hot sun to shine fully upon his face.
    “What is that smile?” asked Emily. “Have you sold something, Branwell?”
    “I have. I just had four sonnets published in the Yorkshire Gazette. ”
    “Four sonnets!” I exclaimed, surprised and thrilled. “When was this?”
    “Last month. They printed Blackcomb and The Shepherd’s Chief Mourner , which I wrote years ago, and a new pair as well, called The Emigrant. ” Branwell immediately launched into a passionate recitation, delivering his new verses to the fields and sky. As I listened to his clear, strong voice, I could not help but feel a rush of pleasure and affection. Branwell’s animated delivery style was a gift he had possessed since childhood; he could make even the most ordinary poem sound like a masterpiece. At the conclusion of the performance, my sisters and I applauded; Branwell thanked us with a bow.
    We had reached the bottom of Haworth’s one steep, narrow, winding street now. We plunged uphill with renewed vigour, our feet attacking the flagstones as we passed the closely-packed, slate-roofed, grey stone houses and shops on either side, deftly circumventing two horses and carts taking up the better part of the road. We soon reached the Haworth graveyard, on the hill before the church. It was wash day: a bevy of wives and washerwomen were gathered in the churchyard, chattering happily as they spread their wet sheets and laundry over the tombstones to dry. Since the majority of the tombstones were great stone slabs lying horizontally atop low pedestals like a table, they made a most convenient drying space.
    “It is highly disrespectful,” intoned a deep Irish voice, as we turned left into Church Lane. I saw Mr. Nicholls exiting the sexton’s house with Mr. Grant, the curate of Oxenhope, a young man well-known to us, as he had assisted papa in the parish on many occasions over the preceding year. “A churchyard is a sacred place,” Mr. Nicholls went on. “To see the headstones covered over in damp sheets, shirts, and chemises is a travesty.”
    “I don’t disagree with you,” replied Mr. Grant, a thin man with a red complexion and a high-pitched, nasal voice, “but a custom is a custom, and you don’t want to go up against all the women of Haworth, I assure you.”
    Catching sight of us, the youthful Levites broke off their conversation. Mr. Nicholls and I had not spoken in the three weeks since I delivered his welcome basket, and he stiffened at the sight of me. Both men turned down the lane in our direction. Mr. Nicholls glanced curiously at Anne and Branwell, as the curates simultaneously tipped their clerical hats, and said,