“I cannot miss them,” Kendra said quietly. “I never knew them.” She and Ford had been but one year old when their parents died. “But I’ve imagined them all of my life, and I always imagined them in love.”
“Well,” Colin began—then broke off, interrupted by Benchley’s sudden return.
The small man skidded into the kitchen, panting, his freshly washed hair dripping.
“My lord, you must come!” A lantern bobbed in Benchley’s trembling hand; Colin leapt to grab it before it might crash to the floor. “I went outside the walls to dump the water, and—lud, you must see it!”
“See what?” Colin asked, but the words were directed to Benchley’s retreating back.
They followed him at a run, through the darkened castle and outside the turreted walls. A hush seemed to fall over the countryside as the five of them gazed toward London. At the edge of the jet-black night sky, a dazzling red glow hovered at the horizon.
Kendra’s whisper shattered the silence. “What is it?”
“A fire,” Jason stated grimly. “And it looks big.”
“London, on fire?” Kendra’s voice was tense with fear. “It looks closer.”
Jason put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t trouble yourself, Kendra. It won’t reach us here. It’s just that the night is so dark, it seems to light the sky.”
“But it looks enormous. Whitehall Palace could be burning, or St. Paul’s or—our town house! Oh my heavens, what if the town house is on fire?”
By the dim light of the lantern, Jason’s gaze met Colin’s over their sister’s head.
“We must go help,” Colin said for them both.
Jason nodded. “Ford, you’ll come as well. Colin, you’ve extra horses? Carrington will fetch Kendra home in the carriage. Let’s move.”
SIX
COLIN PAUSED to lean and pat his skittish gelding’s black, lathered neck as Jason and Ford rode ahead. “It’s all right, lad,” he murmured, though he knew the words were likely swallowed by the sounds of chaos that engulfed them.
“Colin!” Though they’d barely fought their way into London, Jason’s voice already sounded hoarse from smoke and overuse. “Come along! We’ll lose you, man!”
Usually dark and deserted at night, London’s streets were alive with an appalling incandescence and a crush of displaced humanity. Colin’s skin prickled with heat as he picked his way around people, animals, and debris. Bits of ash drifted down, dotting his clothes and hair. Squinting into the haze, he searched the maelstrom for his brothers.
There they were, their familiar forms near a commanding presence riding tall on a huge black stallion: King Charles with his own brother, James, Duke of York. Colin watched as the king reached into a bag flung over his shoulder and threw a handful of guineas to the workmen, encouraging them in their efforts to create a firebreak. The gold coins shimmered in the light of the flickering blaze, as though hung suspended in the thick, smoky air.
“Criminy,” Colin breathed, catching up to his brothers. “Where to start?”
“Here’s as good a spot as any.” Jason twisted in the saddle, looking for a safe place to leave their horses. His gasp made his brothers turn.
Hands white-knuckled on the reins, Colin could only stare at the terrible splendor of St. Paul’s Cathedral all ablaze.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“I was there last week.” Ford jockeyed his horse closer to Colin, shaking his head in disbelief. “Lady Tabitha and I—we carved our names into the lead on the roof.”
“They’re erased now,” Jason said grimly. “Along with six centuries of other signatures.” The molten metal of St. Paul’s roof ran down in fiery streams, the blaze rising like a torch from the sea of flames made by thousands of structures burning all at once.
Jason shook himself, then reached to touch Colin on the shoulder. “Come, there’s work to do.”
They wheeled to see King Charles dismount and toss his reins to a liveried groom, who led the enormous horse to a makeshift penned area crammed with aristocratic mounts.
“There’s a likely spot.” Jason’s eyes lit with relief. They left their own horses—along with a fair amount of coin to guarantee they’d see them again—and headed down Warwick Lane on foot, jostling through the swarm of firefighters.
A bucket brigade broke apart and reformed to include them, and before he knew what was happening, Colin was accepting pails from Ford and thrusting them at King Charles. From all evidence, the king and his brother had spent the night wading ankle-deep in trenches and splashing through mud and water: their silks and laces were drenched, sooty, and scorched.
“You’ve been here since when, sire?” Colin yelled as the king turned to take a bucket.
“We came downriver yesterday noon.” Charles twisted to pass the bucket, then turned back to Colin. “Would have ventured out Sunday, but the Lord Mayor assured me it was nothing.”
“Nothing? We saw it from Greystone!”
His Majesty gave a derisive snort, then stepped from the line when James thrust a shovel into his hands.
The royal brothers trotted off into the smoke. The fire was giving Charles his first opportunity as king to play the hero in person—and he performed the part superbly, Colin mused in some vague recess of his mind, passing along another bucket.
“Help!” The cry, thin and distressed, came through the shouts of the workers. “Help! My little brother!”
A hand tugged at Colin’s breeches, and he looked down at a grimy young face. “Where’s your brother?” he asked.
“In a burning house!” The boy grasped his hand and, with desperate strength, yanked him out of the queue.
The next bucket landed in the dirt, soaking Colin’s boots and spewing mud into the frightened boy’s face. “Where?” Colin repeated.
“P-Paternoster Row!” The boy was off like a rocket, brown hair flying as he threaded his thin form through the confusion. Colin followed at his heels. Rounding the corner and skidding to a halt, the boy pointed
