No. Not the village.
His blood turned to ice as he realized where the smoke was coming from.The orphanage.
He spurred his horse forward, racing across the countryside with reckless speed.Let her be safe. Let them all be safe.
The scene that greeted him was chaos. Flames were already consuming the eastern wing of the building, orange tongues licking hungrily at the wooden structure. Villagers stood in scattered groups, some weeping, others staring in shock at the destruction.
But no one was doing anything.
“You there!” Hugo leaped from his horse, his voice cutting through the commotion like a blade. “Form a line to the well, now!”
The authority in his tone snapped people out of their paralysis. Within moments, he had them organized—men passing buckets, women tending to the children who’d been evacuated, older boys running back and forth with whatever containers they could find.
But even as he coordinated the firefighting efforts, his eyes searched frantically for one particular figure.
Where is she?
Then he saw her—a flash of dark blue fabric near the building’s entrance. Miss Sybil was standing with a group of children, her arms spread wide as though shielding them, her lips moving rapidly as she counted.
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…” Her voice carried across the chaos, clear and methodical despite the panic around her. “Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven.”
She stopped, her face going white.
“Where are Emma and Little Tom?” she called out, her voice sharp with fear.
“They were in the nursery when it started,” one of the older girls sobbed. “We couldn’t get to them—the smoke was too thick!”
Hugo saw the exact moment Miss Sybil made her decision. Her jaw set with grim determination, and she took a step toward the burning building.
“Sybil, no!” Beverly Carver grabbed her arm. “It’s suicide!”
“They’re just babies,” Miss Sybil said quietly, shaking off the other woman’s grip. “I won’t leave them.”
She’s going to get herself killed.
Hugo started toward her, but she was already moving, disappearing into the smoke-filled entrance before anyone could stop her.
“Good heavens,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeves.
The crowd behind him erupted in shouts of alarm and protest, but he ignored them. He started toward the entrance after her, but a burning beam crashed down, blocking his path and sending him staggering backward from the heat.
Dash it all.
“Where did she go?” he shouted to Beverly over the roar of flames.
“The nursery!” Beverly pointed frantically toward the eastern corner of the building. “Upper floor, second window from the end!”
Hugo was already moving, scaling the ivy-covered wall with grim determination. He reached the window just as it opened from within, smoke billowing out around Sybil’s slight figure.
He positioned himself beneath the nursery window, calculating angles and distances. The building groaned ominously as the fire spread, timbers beginning to crack under the intense heat.
Come on, woman. Whatever you’re doing in there, do it quickly.
Then came the sound he’d been dreading—a thunderous crash as part of the roof collapsed, sending sparks and debris cascading down. Screams erupted from the crowd behind him.
But there—in the nursery window—a figure appeared through the smoke.
Miss Sybil stood silhouetted against the orange glow, a small child in each arm. Her hair had come loose from its pins, her dress was torn and blackened, but she was alive.
