I do not know how many days I stayed on the moors. I found a ruined shepherd's hut and hid inside it. Crawford did not come looking for me. I think he knew I would not survive, and he was content to wait.

But I survived. The moors are merciless, but they are honest. They kill you directly, without vines or broths or slow digestion.

When I was strong enough, I walked down to the village of Haworth. There were people there—real people, with real concerns, who had no idea what was happening at Hartley Grange. I told them what I could, but how do you describe something you cannot see? How do you explain that a plant has learned to watch you back?

They sent for physicians. They sent for clergymen. They sent for nobody who could help.

The blackvine spreads. I can hear it now, even here on the moors, in my dreams. It grows through the earth like thought spreads through a mind, quietly, inevitably, without hurry or apology.

Crawford is still there. I know this because sometimes, in the wind, I hear his voice singing a hymn. Not a prayer. A song of celebration.

And I am the only one who knows that the world is being eaten, one stone at a time, by something that was once a garden.