Always Emily by Michaela MacColl Read Free Book Online Page B

candle wildly. Her pale face, looking oddly naked without its false fringe of hair, wore a terrified expression. “Thank goodness you are safe, Emily. Where is your father? Where’s your brother?”
    Placing her arm around her aunt’s shoulders, Emily said, “I’m sure everyone is fine.” But Emily’s heart tightened with fear. “Father! Where are you?”
    â€œEmily!” Her father called from downstairs. “Are you all right?”
    â€œStay here, Aunt B.,” Emily said. Without waiting for her aunt’s response, she charged down the stairs. The house was dark, but she could make out her father’s tall figure in the doorway to his study.
    â€œFather!” Emily cried. “Did you fire that shot?”
    â€œYes,” 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. “I was asleep when I heard the sound of breaking glass in my office,” he went on. “So I came downstairs to investigate.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have come down alone,” Emily said. “You might have been killed.”
    â€œI saw a figure reaching in to unlatch the window.” Her father pointed to the shattered windowpane. “I warned him I was armed . . . then I fired!” Rev. Brontë sank into his chair andput his head in his hands. “I don’t know if I hit him or not, but he didn’t get into the house.”
    The horror on Emily’s face was reflected on his. Her father’s 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.
    â€œEmily! Don’t go outside!” her father called.
    Emily paused to ensure the garden was deserted. Then she hurried to the flowerbed in front of her father’s 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. “Father,” she called into the study through the broken window. “You missed! There’s nothing here,” she said, her voice full of relief. The moss did not take any footprints, so there was nothing to be learned from the ground.
    â€œThank God,” he said.
    She went back inside and took her father’s 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 reverend’s lack of marksmanship.
    She turned to her father. “Did you see who it was?”
    He shook his head. “It was too dark.” Recovering his composure, Rev. Brontë said, “I always told your aunt it was a sensible precaution to have a pistol in the house.” Emily ducked her head to hide her smile at his smug tone.
    Emily’s hand went to her lips. “Aunt B.! I left her upstairs.”
    â€œBranwell is taking care of her, no doubt,” her father said.
    Emily had plenty of doubt that Branwell could take care of himself, least of all anyone else. “I’ll go see,” she offered. She ran upstairs and found Aunt B. in Branwell’s room, staring at Emily’s 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.
    â€œIs your father all right?” Aunt B. asked, her quavering voice full of anxiety.
    Emily nodded.
    â€œThank goodness.” Her voice lost the worry and became