Lena Coakley

I wonder. If I had you wear that mask today, Anne, would you find the courage to tell me what is troubling you?" Anne would very much have liked to confide in her father, but where in the world would she begin? He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I will tell you a secret, my dear. All of my children are shy. They have simply learned the art of wearing masks.

If you could choose any mask to wear right now, what would it be?_ Anne lay down her yarn. __ suppose if, as you say, I would grow into this mask, then I would make it of my own face ._._. but a braver, better version of myself._ __nd what would this braver Anne do?_ The answer came quickly, as if it had been there all along. I__ save them, she thought.

You can't see the world from somebody else's point of view and not be changed.

Wait," Charlotte said. "I'd like to say something, if I may, Papa." He nodded, and Charlotte stood. Her siblings were still looking very grave. She hoped they were in the proper frame of mind to hear what she had to say, especially Branwell. "I have been thinking a great deal about ... My stories." She nodded significantly to them, willing them to understand that she was not talking about writing so much as about crossing over. "Papa was very wise when he called my writing a childish habit, and I think he understands that, for me, its a dangerous one as well." The small square of paper that had caused such consternation lay in front of her on the table. Now she took it up and held it out, looking at each if her siblings in turn. "Emily. Anne. Branwell." She ripped the paper in half. Emily gasped. " I am renouncing my invented worlds and all who live there. If any of you are in the grip if a similar childish habit"- she raised an eyebrow at her brother - "I challenge you to do the same.

Listen. You will still only love me. And I will only love you. It__ only that we__l have different names. Sometimes I__l be Augusta, queen of Gondal, and you__l be a dangerous highwayman. Sometimes we__l be Alexander and Zenobia, the young lovers. Sometimes_ sometimes we will just be two lonely children roaming the moors together. But the __e_ of the story will always be you, and the 'she_ of the story will always be me. Forever.

The rage inside Charlotte crested to a peak. "I'm angry because Papa and Aunt Branwell never would have sent you here," she shouted. "Not to a charity school. Not the precious boy." "I know that," Branwell said, his voice ragged. "I've always known that. Don't you think that might be hard to live with?