Free The Mist on Bronte Moor by Aviva Orr

pulled away from him. I sank to the ground at the foot of the boulder, picked up a stone, and juggled it from one hand to another as a ploy to avoid looking at him.
    Branwell scooted off the rock and crouched directly in front of me, so I couldn’t avoid him.
    “Did you see something that upset you?” he asked.
    “What do you mean?”
    “When Tabby gave you the laudanum, did you hallucinate? Is that why you’re so afraid of it?”
    I stiffened, remembering the Frankenstein nightmare. “No,” I said, turning my attention to the stone again.
    Branwell didn’t move. I felt his eyes on me, and I was desperate to push him away. He was the last person I’d tell about that dream.
    “Was it a vision?” he pressed. “Tabby must have erred and given you too much laudanum, probably because you were thrashing about so wildly.”
    I jumped up, causing Branwell to fall backward. “It was only a stupid dream. Forget it, all right?” I leaned against the boulder and folded my arms.
    Branwell sprang to his feet and leaned next to me. We stood side by side in silence, but I was keenly aware of his body next to mine.
    After a minute, he stepped in front of me. “I’ll tell you what,” he held up the laudanum, “I’ll throw this whole bottle away if it upsets you that much.”
    I rolled my eyes.
    “I will. I swear it.” He tossed the bottle over his shoulder.
    I laughed.
    He leaned forward. “I can write poems without laudanum. Do you want to hear?”
    This time, I closed my eyes willingly.
    “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May . . .”
    My eyes popped open. “You didn’t write that!”
    He cocked his head. “How do you know?”
    “Because I’ve read it before. Shakespeare wrote it.”
    “You’ve studied Shakespeare?”
    “Of course,” I said. “I’ve read Romeo and Juliet . And I’ve seen the fil—” I stopped myself. “And I’ve read that sonnet as well as loads of others,” I said.
    That wasn’t entirely true. But Mrs. Holiday, my English teacher, had read a few sonnets to the class, and it so happened the one Branwell had recited was her favorite. She kept a copy of it in a frame on her desk.
    I opened my mouth, ready to embellish on the truth even more. But Branwell stared at me with such intensity that my voice jammed in my throat.
    “So, you really are who you say you are—a girl from London with an education and a family?”
    I nodded, my eyes locked on his.
    He continued to study me as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t piece together. A thousand butterflies spread their wings and took flight in my stomach. I looked away.
    “Why do you hide under that hat?” he asked.
    My insides froze, but I faced him and forced a smile. “It keeps me warm.”
    “A bonnet would suit you better.”
    “But it wouldn’t be as warm,” I said.
    He reached up and touched the delicate strands on my forehead that peeked out from under my beanie. “What happened to your hair? Did someone cut it as a punishment?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous!” I pushed his hand away. “Who would do something like that?”
    “School masters for one. Charlotte told me about it. When she was away at Cowen Bridge with my sisters,” he paused, “a girl was punished for vanity. Her hair was cut in front of the others to teach her humility.”
    That sounded familiar, actually. I think I’d seen something like that on the telly once.
    He waited for me to respond. I remained silent and shifted my gaze to the moors. I didn’t want to talk about my hair—not now or ever.
    After a minute, he cupped his hand under my chin and turned my face toward him.
    “Will you allow me to paint you?” he asked.
    I pulled my chin out of his grip. “What?”
    “We can start tomorrow.” His eyes hadn’t left my face. “It’ll give you further excuse to miss your sewing lessons.”
    My body relaxed. “Well, if I can miss sewing . . .”
    “I