candle wildly. Her pale face, looking oddly naked without its false fringe of hair, wore a terrified expression. âThank goodness you are safe, Emily. Where is your father? Whereâs your brother?â
Placing her arm around her auntâs shoulders, Emily said, âIâm sure everyone is fine.â But Emilyâs heart tightened with fear. âFather! Where are you?â
âEmily!â Her father called from downstairs. âAre you all right?â
âStay here, Aunt B.,â Emily said. Without waiting for her auntâs response, she charged down the stairs. The house was dark, but she could make out her fatherâs tall figure in the doorway to his study.
âFather!â Emily cried. âDid you fire that shot?â
âYes,â he said, and his breathing was ragged as though he had been running. He moved into his office and found the lamp on his desk. Emily could see his hand tremble as he lit the wick. âI was asleep when I heard the sound of breaking glass in my office,â he went on. âSo I came downstairs to investigate.â
âYou shouldnât have come down alone,â Emily said. âYou might have been killed.â
âI saw a figure reaching in to unlatch the window.â Her father pointed to the shattered windowpane. âI warned him I was armed . . . then I fired!â Rev. Brontë sank into his chair andput his head in his hands. âI donât know if I hit him or not, but he didnât get into the house.â
The horror on Emilyâs face was reflected on his. Her fatherâs eyesight was impaired by milky white cataracts that grew thicker every year. What if he had killed a man? They could lose everything. She ran out into the hall and threw open the front door.
âEmily! Donât go outside!â her father called.
Emily paused to ensure the garden was deserted. Then she hurried to the flowerbed in front of her fatherâs study. She squinted at the ground covered with green moss, afraid of what she might see.
Nothing. No one was there, dead or even wounded. Emily put her hand to the sill and let herself breathe. âFather,â she called into the study through the broken window. âYou missed! Thereâs nothing here,â she said, her voice full of relief. The moss did not take any footprints, so there was nothing to be learned from the ground.
âThank God,â he said.
She went back inside and took her fatherâs lamp off the desk to better examine the windowsill. She touched her finger to some spatters on the wood. They were fresh and bloody. She started to tell her father, then thought better of it. It was most likely the burglar had cut his hand when he broke the glass, but perhaps her father had only slightly missed.
She held up the lamp to the wall near the window. A bullet hole in the window sash bore witness to the reverendâs lack of marksmanship.
She turned to her father. âDid you see who it was?â
He shook his head. âIt was too dark.â Recovering his composure, Rev. Brontë said, âI always told your aunt it was a sensible precaution to have a pistol in the house.â Emily ducked her head to hide her smile at his smug tone.
Emilyâs hand went to her lips. âAunt B.! I left her upstairs.â
âBranwell is taking care of her, no doubt,â her father said.
Emily had plenty of doubt that Branwell could take care of himself, least of all anyone else. âIâll go see,â she offered. She ran upstairs and found Aunt B. in Branwellâs room, staring at Emilyâs unconscious brother sprawled half on and half off his bed, wearing only his trousers. His snoring was loud enough to drown out almost anything except a pistol shot.
âIs your father all right?â Aunt B. asked, her quavering voice full of anxiety.
Emily nodded.
âThank goodness.â Her voice lost the worry and became