A crashing sound on the main floor. I fasten the chain aroundmy neck, hide the topaz locket in my bodice, and step out of the bedroom.Listening carefully, I pinpoint Sim’s location. He’s in a storage room near thekitchen, arguing loudly. The way he talks to himself reminds me of DavidThornhill, moments before he killed Maude Lambson. And Marie-Louise Lennox justprior to her suicide.
As I descend the stairs, another crash comes from the storageroom. The sound is painfully close, and I cover my ears. I wish I had a weapon,though I dread the thought of actually using it on Sim. I lift my face andlisten. Here he comes, walking toward the front of the house, a container ofsome kind in his hand. It sloshes back and forth with each step.
Caught out in the open, just beyond the foyer, I’m unsure whichway to turn. Don’t act scared, Hester. Don’t upset him. It’s so strange, wejust did the dishes together, and everything seemed fine. I can still smell theburned bacon, hear the cricket cheeping outside in the garden. But now Sim’strying to kill me.
He walks my way, the liquid in his bottle splashing against theglass. “Miss Hester—” Sim says. Then he stops and rubs his head. “No! I won’tcall you that. I won’t bow or scrape anymore.”
The front entrance is my only hope. I inch backwards, prayingthe movement is small enough Sim won’t notice.
“Do you know what your father did to me?” he asks while openingthe bottle. Fluid splatters across my shoulder, the side of my face, coating myhair and stinging my eyes and nose. I wipe at it, using my skirt as a towel,and recognize that sharp, oily smell.
Kerosene.
Sim drizzles the remainder of the liquid across the woodenfloor. “He sold my family a worthless mine. Took all our life’s savings.”
He tosses the bottle against the wall, and it shatters. I covermy ears, but I still hear his angry voice. “It killed Pa. Forced Ma to work atthe button factory. But one night she comes home and falls asleep next to thefire. Ever hear the story?”
I have heard it. Everyone knows what happened to the Harrows.How his mother died just months after his father, when a few stray emberspopped from the hearth and set her alight.
“Who do you think revealed your father’s crimes?” Sim asks. “Thepartners were shocked when I gave them the record books. Greed cost him thishouse, all his possessions, his good name, and last of all, his child.”
If only Sim knew how little my father cared, he’d realize thatthis dramatic gesture won’t have the effect he desires. Sim’s beyond reason. Hescrapes a Lucifer tip and the match flares to life. I run back through thefoyer to the front door and twist the knob. Please open. Please.
“No use. Locked it myself.”
Turning, I face my attacker, but my thoughts are clouded withfear. Again, I don’t know what to do.
Sim remains still. He keeps his distance, the Lucifer—and myfate—in his hand. He wants to watch me burn without risking his own skin. Ihear him blow out the match, and toss the stick over his shoulder. Another isstruck. It’s extinguished like the first.
“Couldn’t kill you when I caused the wagon accident in town,”he says, lighting the next, putting it out. “Or when I had my fingers roundyour neck up on the ridge.”
My heart sputters as he plays with me. How soon will he tire ofthis?
“Maybe today’s the day.” Sim draws out the process of ignitingthis one, and it sounds brilliant when it finally catches fire. “Let’s see,shall we?”
He drops the lit match, and I hear the flame snap against thekerosene. Sim laughs wildly, clapping like a child at a Fourth of July parade.The foyer is a vast octagonal space with hallways branching out to othersections of the house, but I’m cut off from any route of escape. I hear thefire oscillating, forming almost a half-circle as it begins to hem me in. It’smoving so fast with all the wood pillars and floors. How long do I have? Itrack the progress of the fire, counting in seconds how quickly it’s eating upthe room. I give myself two or three minutes until the flames arrive at mysection of the foyer. If the smoke doesn’t kill me first, that is. And the roofdoesn’t collapse. Coughing, eyes already streaming from the hot air, I take offmy apron and cover my nose and mouth with it, tying the strings at the back ofmy head.
One and two and three, I remind myself, counting down theseconds until the fire gets here. Four and five and six. The rhythm makes methink of when Cordelia taught me to waltz. I was bloody awful, stepping on herfeet the entire time. Cordelia nearly hurt herself from laughing too hard. Fifteen,sixteen, seventeen.
What do I do? Frozen with panic for a moment, my brain sparksand then returns to full function, pointing out the obvious. The wall behind mehas a tall window. Huzzah, thank you brain. I turn around and pound against theglass. Shatter, will you? I don’t want to die like this. Yet it doesn’tcooperate. Stupid, stupid glass. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.
My lungs feel dry like the smoky air, and I choke and gag.Losing my balance, I stumble over a hard object. O di immortales. Mr.Ming!
Fifty-nine, sixty. One minute gone, two remaining before I goto blazes.
The fire is consuming Mama’s painted wallpaper, popping loudly,and the sound waves beat against my ears. One and two and three, I begincounting time again. I tear at my dress, get the buttons undone enough that Ican slip out of the kerosene-soaked garment. The corset feels wet too, so Iyank the laces loose and it goes as well. Twenty-nine, thirty.
Out of range of the fire, Sim still must be able to see me. “Nicelittle performance.
