The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 14


At such a time, in such a spot,

The world seems made of light;

Our blissful hearts remember not

How surely follows night.

—E.J. Brontë





I decided not to ask Branwell about his macabre self-portrait as we hiked together on the moors. Artists were eccentric. No one took them literally. Besides, he’d no doubt been emulating some famous poet and would laugh at me for not knowing as much.

We left for our walk without telling the others, reasoning that we’d be back before they finished their lessons. Like every November day in Haworth, the cold stung my face and burned my cheeks, but I didn’t care. Walking alone with Branwell felt invigorating.

Once out on the moors, Branwell’s mood changed dramatically. He bubbled over with energy, talking non-stop, and dancing around as if he’d been let out on his own for the first time. The land was almost barren because of the cold, but he pointed to every hill and dragged me to every stunted shrub while holding my hand in a firm grip. The moors had never looked more beautiful.

We walked until we came to the waterfall we’d visited the day before. Only this time Branwell convinced me to forgo the bridge and cross by stepping over the rocks.

“Come on.” He held out his hand to help me across.

I hesitated.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked.

I took his hand like a fool, and he yanked me forward, causing my foot to slip into the water. I gasped, more from fright than anything else, as the water was shallow and my boot had protected my foot from getting wet.

Branwell laughed.

“You monster!” I exclaimed and bent to scoop some water with my gloved hands.

He saw what I was doing and dodged out of the way, but I was quicker. A splash of water caught him in the face.

He inhaled sharply, dropped his sketchpad and drawing box, and chased me. I ran across the hills, laughing, and holding up my dress to avoid tripping. It didn’t take long for him to catch me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and tackled me to the ground, tickling me without mercy.

“Stop,” I begged in between my laughter.

“Say you’re sorry!” he demanded.

“Sorry,” I screamed.

“Say you’ll never do it again.” He kept tickling me.

“I’ll never do it again.” I gasped. “I promise.”

He stopped the tickling but remained on top of me, his face pressed close to mine. We were both breathing heavily from the running. I closed my eyes. This time, I wanted him to kiss me.

I wasn’t disappointed. He pressed his lips to mine, hesitating only for a second before kissing me with force. He tasted faintly of alcohol and blood, but I didn’t mind. The world spun. I didn’t care that I was stuck in 1833 or that Branwell was technically well over a hundred years older than me. I only knew that I never wanted this moment to end.

His lips moved to my cheek and then my ear. His hand combed through my pixie cut, and it was at that moment I realized my beanie was gone. I stiffened. He must have sensed a change because he stopped kissing me.

I struggled to get up. “I think I dropped my hat.”

“We can look for it later.” He tried to kiss me again.

I pushed him away. “I want to look for it now.”

“Why? We’ll find it before we go back.”

I hesitated. Branwell looked as though I’d slapped him. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I need it now.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him. “You’re beautiful without it.”

His half-open, blood-stained shirt billowed on the wind. I wondered briefly if he was freezing, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold. His forehead creased in confusion, and his blue eyes fixed on my face.

Part of me wanted to crumple in his arms. Instead, I wrenched my hand out of his grip.

“That’s what you say about every girl.” I jumped to my feet. “Isn’t that what you told me about Miss Nussey?” I scanned the hills for my beanie, desperate to get it back.

“I said she was pretty.”

“Exactly.” I spotted my beanie and ran to grab it.

He chased after me. “It’s not the same.” He caught me by my coat and spun me around. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

I still hadn’t managed to put my beanie on, and I hated him seeing me without it. I hated not knowing if small patches of skull showed through my hair, or if any new hairs had come off with my hat. I jerked my coat back.

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls you bring up here.”

It was a stupid, childish thing to say. I realized that even as the words came tumbling out of my mouth. But I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to care about anyone, and I didn’t want anyone to care about me. I had a disease. And I hated it. I hated myself.

Branwell’s handsome face was a mixture of anger and hurt.

I pulled on my beanie and ran, intent on getting as far away from him as I could.

He let me go.

I ran hard and fast—until my lungs were ready to explode and my legs were no longer willing to carry me. When I finally stopped to catch my breath, I scanned my surroundings. Nothing but green and brown hills for miles. My brain switched to high alert as a new type of anguish crept over me. Where was I?

I spun in every direction, hoping to see Branwell. Anger flared inside me. I couldn’t believe he let me go! He should’ve known I’d be lost.

A mist came out of nowhere. It crept over the moors like a giant specter until I could barely see anything at all. Panic gripped my throat as it closed around me. My mind raced. And then it hit me. This is how I came here. Through the mist. It will take me back. I whirled around, searching wildly for Branwell.

“I’m not ready,” I screamed. “I’m not ready.” Mist blinded me, and I lashed into the air with my fists. “Not yet!”

My fist came down on something solid and arms encircled me. Branwell’s lean body pressed against mine, and I sobbed into his neck.

“Don’t do that again.” He held me close. “Promise you’ll never run from me again.”

“I promise,” I whispered.