The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 26


The old house now standing was built by Robert Heaton

For his son Michael, Anno Domini 1634.

The old Porch and Peat House was built by his Grandson

Robert Heaton A. D. 1680.

The present building was rebuilt by his descendant

R.H. 1801.

I lay sprawled on my stomach with the taste of dirt in my mouth and a bruised feeling all over my body, as if someone had shoved me violently to the ground. Overgrown shrubs and soil swam before my eyes. I blinked. Where am I?



Then I remembered the wolf and sprang to my feet. The sun shone weakly behind a mass of gray clouds. Still, its brightness startled me. It had been dark. Where had the night gone? And where was the mist? An enormous pond lay before me, and several houses sat spread out in the distant hills. Harthorn and his wolf had disappeared. I frowned and scanned my surroundings, searching for something—anything that would tell me what had happened to Clara, Harthorn, and the wolf.

But there was nothing.

I placed my hands on my pounding temples and squeezed my eyes shut. Think. Think! I saw Clara run toward a house. That’s the last thing I remember.

I spun around. A large stone farmhouse stood directly in front of me. “That’s it,” I whispered, adrenaline pumping through my veins. “That’s the house.”

I leapt forward but came to an abrupt stop at the sight of a paved road winding up past the house. Cement? That’s strange.

Gingerly, I stepped onto the road and walked toward the house. There was something familiar about its long, flat shape, and the stretch of white railings that ran along its walls.

I stopped at the entrance—a lengthy stone pathway, wedged between moss-covered stone walls, leading to a white front door. I stared at the white door before stepping onto the pathway.

As I did, something crunched beneath my foot. A purple and silver Turkish delight wrapper stuck out from under my boot. The same wrapper I’d dropped the morning I’d disappeared into the mist. I froze. My fears had been confirmed. I was no longer in the nineteenth century.

I took several steps backward. No. It can’t be true. I spun around and ran back to the tarmac road, searching wildly for the mist. I’d go back into it. I’d find Branwell.

But the landscape was clear. I slumped to the ground and sat for a long time trying to process everything that had happened. The wolf had pounced on me. I could still feel its weight on my back, so coming home had probably saved my life.

But what about Clara? She’d run into my aunt’s house. How could that be?

I stared at the house. There was no doubt it was really old, but that was nothing unusual. England was full of old buildings. Then I remembered the picture of the parsonage in the library. So there was some connection between this house and the Brontës.

I jumped to my feet and raced down the stone pathway, eager to get inside. Still, I paused at the front door, knowing that once I pushed it open, I’d be back where I started. I took a deep breath and was about to turn the handle when I noticed writing carved into a stone tablet above the door. I squinted, trying to read the words. It was almost impossible to see from where I stood. I rubbed my eyes and tried again, “Heaton.” I blinked. “1801.”

“Heaton.” I mouthed the name. “Hugh Heaton.” This house had belonged to the Heatons, that’s why Clara had run toward it.

I pushed open the door. A long corridor stretched out before me. I’d seen the tarmac road and the Turkish Delight wrapper, but still I hoped—I had to make sure.

I dashed down the L-shaped corridor, raced up the stairs, swerved left, and pushed open the heavy oak door of my room. As soon as I stepped inside, a wave of nausea hit me. My bags lay strewn on the floor. There was no denying it now, I was definitely back.

I gazed at my belongings. Had I dreamed everything? Confused, I sank to the floor. As I sat, Emily’s dress billowed around me. And a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and sorrow swept over me. Part of me wanted to lie down and sob, but the other part was desperate to find out what had a happened to Clara and most of all Branwell, Emily, Charlotte, and Anne.

I pulled off Emily’s mud-caked dress. Obviously, I couldn’t let anyone in the twenty-first century see me wearing it. Besides, I wanted to keep the dress all to myself. It was the only thing I had left—the only proof that the last two weeks hadn’t been a dream.

Wait. I touched my forehead and felt the jagged scar. I had that, too. A fortnight. Had that much time really passed? I scanned the room. None of my stuff had been moved. Surely the police would have gone through it if they thought I was missing—or maybe they wanted to preserve the crime scene?

I spotted my mobile phone on the table next to my bed and grabbed it: 11:45 am, Sunday, November 7.. The day after I’d arrived at my aunt’s house.

I stared at the date, feeling dazed. Suddenly, the phone buzzed in my hand. You have one unread message. I pressed my inbox: I know you must be exhausted from your trip. Give us a ring when you wake up. Miss you. Love Mum.



I blinked. All my fears had been unfounded. No time had passed. My parents were oblivious.

As soon as this thought hit me, I longed to go back. I ached for more time. Especially now that I knew Mum and Dad would never know the difference. I could go back worry free. I could spend months, even years with Branwell. Just thinking his name brought a lump to my throat. I forced it down and rummaged through my suitcase, selecting a pair of jeans, a jumper, and my Uggs to wear. I needed a shower, but it would have to wait. As I pulled on my clothes, a knock sounded at my door.

“Come in,” I said.

Maggie pushed open the door and poked her head into my room. “I see you’re finally up and dressed. You must be hungry. Shall I tell cook to prepare you some tea and eggs?”

I gaped at her. I was so used to seeing Tabby in her floppy bonnet and apron that Maggie actually looked weird in her stylish trousers and heeled boots. She’d take some getting used to.

“Um, thanks, that sounds nice.”

She nodded and closed the door again. I sat motionless and stared at Emily’s dress, afraid that it might dissolve and disappear before my eyes. After a while, I pulled open the door to my bedroom and headed down the corridor to the library.