“We’d best get back to the home,” Lazarus said grimly.
“But what is she about?” Temperance cried. The fact that Mother Heart’s-Ease had taken Mary with her when she fled sent chills down her spine.
“I don’t know.” Lazarus looked at the Ghost. “Are you with us?”
The harlequin nodded and with a graceful spin was out the door and running lightly down the street.
“Hurry!” Caire called to the footmen. He took her hand again and they retraced their steps.
Night had fallen fully. Signs swung overhead, creaking eerily in the wind. Now and again, they could see the moon, floating bloated and weak behind drifting clouds. The Ghost of St. Giles ran ahead, his footfalls nearly silent. As they neared the home, Temperance could see an odd orangey-red light flickering over the rooftops, teasing and coy, but becoming bolder as they ran.
And then she smelled the smoke.
“Dear God!” She couldn’t even put into words her fear.
They rounded the corner and saw. The home was on fire. For a dreadful moment, the sound seemed to stop in Temperance’s ears and all she heard was a kind of rushing noise. Oddly she focused on Lady Caire, standing by herself in the middle of Maiden Lane. Lazarus’s mother had one hand to her mouth, and she was gazing up—at the top of the foundling home. That sight was what brought Temperance back suddenly and all at once. People were shouting. Nell was there, shaking her arm, and she could smell the smoke now, a dreadful hint of the chaos within.
“Are they out?” she shouted at Nell. There were children milling about her. “Are all the children out?”
“I don’t know!” Nell replied.
“We need to take count!” Temperance shouted.
Maiden Lane was in chaos. People screamed and ran back and forth, the aristocrats who had come to view the home mingled with the everyday folk of St. Giles. A bucket line had formed. The ragged cobbler who lived in the cellar next door handed a bucket of water to a footman in full livery who handed it to the fishmonger’s wife who handed it to a lord in a snowy white wig and so on. It was a bizarre sight. Temperance turned and looked behind her at the home.
And caught her breath.
Flames were shooting out the upper windows, smoke billowing in a gray-black cloud. At that moment, Winter and St. John staggered from the house.
“Winter!” Temperance called.
He carried a small boy in his arms. “No one else is in the nurseries. I think we got them all. Did you count the children?”
Temperance turned to Nell.
“Six and twenty—all but Mary Whitsun.”
Temperance clutched at Lazarus’s arm. “Where is she? Where could Mother Heart’s-Ease have taken her?”
But when she looked at him, he was staring up at the building. “Christ’s blood.”
She followed his gaze. Atop the roof, a tall, gaunt woman in a tattered man’s scarlet military coat was picking her way across the shingles.
The harlequin flashed by them silently and disappeared into the house next to the foundling home.
“Where is Mary Whitsun?” Temperance fisted one hand at her breast. No, it couldn’t be. No one would be so terrible as to leave a child in that inferno.
But Mother Heart’s-Ease was clearly alone.
Temperance burst into tears. Dear God, Mary Whitsun was in a burning building, dying.
“God’s bloody stones,” Caire muttered, and before she could speak, he was gone.
Gone inside the burning home.
THE LOWER FLOORS were relatively clear, but as Lazarus ran up the wooden stairs, the smoke rapidly built. He threw his cloak over his head, holding part of it against his mouth, but it provided little barrier against the smoke. He choked, fighting his body’s urge to return to clean air. Dear God, he could hardly see, let alone breathe. Everything was gray with smoke. He looked about the floor where the children slept.
“Mary!”
His bellow turned to a hacking cough and was lost in the roar of the fire. She might not even be here. He might be on a fatal fool’s mission. But the sight of Temperance’s despair had been too much for him to bear. If the child was here, he would find her.
The inferno moaned like a live thing, lurking in the floor above—the floor where Temperance and her brother had rooms. He narrowed his stinging eyes against the smoke as he climbed the rickety staircase. If he survived this hell, he’d be damned sure the home was better built next time. Tears streaked his face but evaporated almost at once in the heat.
The upper hall boiled with smoke.
Where would a madwoman hide a child? Lazarus fell to his knees, crawling, the tears blurring his eyes. If the girl was at the far end of the hall, she was gone now, but Temperance’s room was not yet engulfed. He had to at least check.
He reached up to turn the doorknob, shoving the door open with his shoulder. “Mary!”
An answering cry.
He was blind now, so he felt with his hand, finding and clutching at a small foot. She was bound, lying on the floor next to the bed. She crowded against him as if she might burrow her small body into his, and he felt the wiggling fur of the cat she held. He broke apart his stick and used the sword to cut the rope about her legs and hands. Then he tucked her under one arm and dragged her toward the stairs. The flames were blasting in his face, licking down his throat, trying to set him afire from within. His lungs ached. There was a terrible roaring in his ears, and he realized, suddenly and fatefully, that the house was giving way. The cat leapt from the girl’s arms.
Temperance loved this child, even if she’d never admitted it.
He shoved Mary’s little body ahead of him. Dear God, let her at least live. “Run! Run now!”
He might’ve said more, but at that moment, hell opened up and swallowed him whole.
* * *
THE HOME WAS dying, and Caire and Mary Whitsun were still inside.
Temperance watched as a section of the roof suddenly slid and came tumbling down to the cobblestones. For a moment, two figures were silhouetted against the flames: Mother Heart’s-Ease’s cadaverous form and the quick shadow of the Ghost of St. Giles. Then they were both gone. Temperance couldn’t muster the energy to wonder what had happened to them. All her will, all her hopes and prayers, were centered on Lazarus and Mary.
Fire licked up from a broken window, the room beyond entirely golden with flame. The crowd had quieted, as if in awe, as the roar of the fire had grown louder. The bucket line was still struggling heroically, but their efforts had no visible effect on the flames.
There was a sudden shriek, and Temperance watched, detached, as the Ghost of St. Giles dragged Mother Heart’s-Ease from inside the neighboring house. It was a bizarre sight. Mother Heart’s-Ease fought like a maddened wolf, but the Ghost had his hand locked about her upper arm and easily contained her. He shoved her at Mr. St. John, pointing with a gloved finger first at the burning home and then at the screaming woman, as if any of them needed an explanation. St. John’s face hardened, and he called over two loitering footmen to help him hold the murderess.
Then the Ghost of St. Giles simply walked away into the crowd. No one gainsaid him.
Temperance didn’t care.
“I must go in,” she said to no one in particular, and started forward, only to find her arm in Winter’s firm grip.
“Let me go.” She turned her face to his, pleading.
She could see tears in his eyes. “No, sister. You must remain here.”
“But he’ll burn,” she whispered, turning back to the fire. “He’ll burn and I don’t know if I can bear it.”
Winter said no more, even when she collapsed to her knees. She was bereft, here on the muddy cobblestones, watching her love die. He was her love, she knew it now that it was far too late to tell him. Caire was both stronger and more vulnerable than any man she’d ever known before. He saw her flaws, saw her anger and sexual need, and her pretense of being someone better than she really was, and he didn’t care. It was odd; she’d always thought she’d love someone who saw only the best in her when all along it was the man who saw everything—the good and the bad—who she loved.
And now it was too late.
Her throat was raw, and Temperance realized she was screaming, trying to crawl forward, Winter’s hold on her arm preventing her.
And then a small form appeared, walking from the smoke and flames. Mary Whitsun emerged from the burning home like a miracle. She saw Temperance and ran to her. Temperance hugged her close, crying and kissing her face, squeezing her much too tight in her sorrow and joy.
Until Mary Whitsun raised her tear-streaked face. “He’s still inside, Lord Caire. He came for me, but he shoved me down the stairs. He’s still inside.”
Something crunched and then gave way, and the entire front half of the house collapsed in on itself.
Chapter Twenty
King Lockedheart was very pleased with this demonstration. To reward Meg, he offered to give her anything she asked for—anything at all.
Meg smiled. “I thank you, Your Majesty, but all I wish for is a little pony and a pack of provisions, for I long to see what the wide world is like.”
The king frowned at this, for he’d become rather fond of Meg. But no matter how he argued, Meg was quite firm: She would leave on the morrow to go exploring. This put the king into a foul mood, and he was terribly curt with her for the rest of the wonderful meal. Meg for her part was cheerful, ignoring the king’s more sarcastic comments.
And at the end of the evening, she left the king sitting all alone in his dining room….
—from King Lockedheart
The rain was gentle at first. It drifted down, as soft as a mother’s kiss on a sleeping child. Temperance didn’t notice the drops falling from above until the fire began to hiss. And then, all at once, the clouds above opened up, pouring rain down like a waterfall, the drops so hard that they ricocheted off the cobblestones, splashing back up as they hit. The fire fought back, hissing and spitting its defiance, great waves of steam rising up. But the rain was stronger, more relentless, and the flames began to fall back.
And in the midst of all this, a figure in a black, swirling cloak emerged from the clouds of steam, limping but walking steadily.
Temperance rose to her feet, a cry strangled in her throat. His silver hair was tarnished by the smoke, but it was him. It was Caire. She pulled away from Winter and ran, slipping on the wet cobblestones, blinded by the rain and her own tears, rushing toward her heart. As she neared, a black singed cat struggled from under his cloak and streaked straight to Mary Whitsun.
Caire coughed. “I loathe cats.”
Temperance sobbed once.
He caught her hard, pulling her under his cloak, kissing her with a smoke-filled mouth, there in the rain in front of everyone.
“I love you,” she sobbed, rubbing her hands over his face, his hair, his chest, making sure he was solid and real. “I love you, and I thought you were dead. I couldn’t bear it. I thought I would die too.”
“I’d walk through fire for you,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. “I have walked through fire for you.”
She choked on a laugh, and he kissed her again, his mouth hard, tasting of smoke and fire, and she’d never tasted anything so wonderful before, because he was alive.
He was alive.
He broke their kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you, Temperance Dews, more than life itself.”
He would’ve said more, but she kissed him again, softly this time, trying to convey everything she felt with just her lips.
“Ahem.” Someone cleared their throat nearby.
Lazarus pulled back from the kiss enough to mutter, “Yes, Mother?”
Temperance blinked and turned her head. Lady Caire stood beside them, her elegant white coiffure ineffectively shielded by a coat held over her head by her shivering companion. She looked wet and cold and hurt.
