In order to get the energy to finish editing this book Pearl made one more pilgrimage. Not to the Lake District, to the home of Beatrix Potter, or to Stratford upon Avon, to the home of Shakespeare (although these are both lovely), or even Jane Austen's home, she went instead to the place that had been calling since she was a teenager - Haworth, the home of the Brontë sisters (and brother). Charlotte, Emily and Anne worked as governesses, tried to launch a school but there were no students, resisted temptations in the form of professors and handsome farmers, did their best to straighten out and sober up their brother, had to publish their novels under men's names ("Wuthering Heights" was still criticised for being too wild) and didn't survive long. Charlotte and Emily were able to study abroad, until their aunt died. Anne lived in hope of one day seeing Scarborough, really just a few miles away. She finally got to visit for a few days before her death and was buried there. She was still in her twenties. I have crossed famous rivers, but some people see heaven in a grain of sand, find magic in their own back garden, in caring for, in wasting time with their own rose. Who can say whose life is more or less rich? I have followed the great authors' trails around Europe, slept in Marco Polo's house, read Rumi in Malaysia, but it was the sisters and their moors (their own back garden) who captured my heart as a teenager. They did not have great fame, money, love, children, long lives even, but their work always spoke of people who refused to be tamed, or who appeared tame at first, but whose souls were never compromised. Pearl is home. Wherever she is.