Their presence was enough. A burly man pulled me off William’s assailant while another grabbed the man, the other still groaning on the ground.
I wrestled free from the unfamiliar grasp and collapsed next to a barely conscious William while men, women, and children filled the alley and passed bucket after bucket, tossing water on the flames.
Desperately, frantically, I dragged his body away from the flames. One of the men paused to help me pull him farther to safety.
I fell against the wall, William’s head cradled in my lap and his hand clasped tightly in mine. I watched in horror as the flames grew higher, hungrier. Tears clouded everything, and as I blinked them away, my eyes landed on the still form of my bird.
And I choked on a sob.
Forty
OUTSIDE OF HART AND SOLICITORS, LONDON - JUNE 28, 1816
CELINE
For years after Gabriel died,I had nightmares of that morning. Almost daily, I woke on a tear-filled gasp convinced my hands were still dripping in his blood.
This was nothing like that yet somehow… exactly like that. The acrid smoke burned my lungs. My throat revolted with every breath, a combination of bruising, soot, and the agonizing knot that called it home.
I didn’t know how long I sat on the pavement with William’s head in my lap, brushing bloody curls away from his face and counting each and every precious breath.
“Celine?” A worried voice came from above me. I was unwilling to look away from William’s face to confirm, but it sounded like Kit.
He knelt before me—it was Kit, wearing a look of horror. “Is he…”
“He’s still breathing,” my voice was hoarse and unrecognizable. “Can you go fetch a doctor?”
“Right, yes.” Awkwardly, he clambered up and raced off without another word.
Dimly, I recognized that the heat from the flames was lessening, that the smoke was dissipating somewhat. The shouts from the bucket line dulled.
Another person collapsed beside me. Orange hair, the color of the now subdued fire—Mrs. Ainsley. Wordlessly she pressed a cloth to the wound on William’s head, holding pressure. My stomach dropped with the understanding that I should have been doing that.
“What can I do?” someone asked from above me. The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it without looking away, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t.
“The bird,” I croaked.
“What?”
“The bird,” I tried again, nodding toward where he lay. “Is he… is he alive?”
“Uh… it’s trying to get up, but it looks like it’s got a damaged wing. What happened to it?”
“He saved me,” I whispered through tears. “Can you bring him over?”
“I— Should I touch— I don’t know…”
“Augie,” Mrs. Ainsley snapped, confirming his identity. “Pick up the damn bird.”
“Yes. Sorry.” Large hands appeared before my face, clasping a struggling, ruffled, but very much alive bird. He hopped out of the hand with an irritated flap of his unaffected wing and flopped on the ground beside me. Using his beak for leverage, he pulled himself onto my knee, where he nudged my arm with his head.
“Thank you,” I breathed.
Chirp-chirp.
We sat in vigil, the four of us, for some time before Kit returned with a doctor who joined us on the lamplit walkway with his bag.
“What happened?”
