Always Emily by Michaela MacColl Read Free Book Online Page A

Father would keep you from the moors for months.”
    Emily scowled. Branwell was right. If Father knew Emily had disobeyed him, he would keep her inside indefinitely.
    â€œJust a minute.” She went back to her tree. Looking up at the window to her room, it seemed impossibly high although she knew she’d done it before. If only she were not so tired.
    Pushing away her fatigue, she began to climb. In an instant, she was dragging herself over the windowsill into her bedroom. She hurried downstairs to draw back the long iron bolt and lift the latch.
    Branwell was waiting outside the door. He staggered inside. “I’m hungry,” he said. “And thirsty.”
    â€œThere’s a pitcher of fresh water in the larder, and Tabby made you a plate since you missed dinner.”
    â€œAren’t you going to serve me?” he asked querulously.
    â€œWhy would I?”
    â€œBecause I am the son of the house and you’re just a girl.”
    â€œSave that for the unfortunate woman you marry. You’re not my lord and master.” Now she was within the closeness of the house, Emily felt exhaustion creeping into her limbs. “I’m going to bed.”
    â€œYou’ve a cold heart to abandon me after the night I’ve had,” he whined.
    â€œI’m tired,” Emily said. She glanced to the clock on the stair landing, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in the window. “It’s past midnight.”
    â€œGive your brother an arm,” Branwell pleaded. “Help me get to bed.”
    She crinkled her nose. “I think not. You reek of spirits, tobacco, and worse.” Making sure the front door was firmly shut and locked, she turned to go upstairs.
    â€œYou needn’t be so high and mighty,” he accused, deliberately blocking her way.
    Placing a palm flat against his chest, Emily pushed him easily against the wall. “Don’t try to bully me. I trounced you when we were children and I still can.”
    â€œThat you can, dear sister.” It was one of Branwell’s many grievances that of all Rev. Brontë’s children, only Emily had inherited their father’s height. And Tabby thought Emily might grow still taller, if only she would eat more.
    Branwell slid down the wall until he was sitting, miserable, on the cold stone floor. In the darkness, Emily heard him sob. “What kind of man am I?”
    â€œWhatever kind of man you choose to be,” Emily said, not unkindly. “If you like, I’ll try imagining who you should be.”
    â€œI’m not a character in one of your stories,” Branwell said scornfully.
    â€œNo, my heroes behave much worse,” Emily said with a crooked grin. “Good night.” Without a backward glance, she ran up the stairs on silent feet.
    â€œEm, at least give me a candle!” Branwell’s despairing whisper dogged her heels up the stairs.
    Emily didn’t stop. If only she could stay awake a little longer, she longed to write. Her adventures tonight were good enough for her next story. She just had to make sure her father never read it.

I surveyed the weapon inquisitively.
A hideous notion struck me: how powerful
I should be possessing such an instrument!

    T he sound of glass breaking entered Emily’s dream and tugged her back to consciousness. It seemed like only minutes since she had laid her head on her pillow. She heard her father shouting but she couldn’t make out the words. Fully awake now, she held her breath so she could listen. The sky outside her window was completely black; the moon was gone but dawn had not yet arrived.
    Suddenly a pistol shot startled Emily upright. The noise made even the sturdy parsonage shake.
    â€œWhat was that noise?” Her aunt’s frightened voice filled the house. “Patrick! Branwell!”
    Emily scrambled out of bed, nearly falling to the floor in her haste. She rushed into the hallway. Her aunt was waving a