And then an illusion formed—a mirage brought forth from the deepest depths of her heart—a silhouette against the billowing smoke pouring from the doorway.
Two men dragged each other, stumbling from the ashy depths of hell.
Papa!
She raced toward them and crashed into the men mere feet from the doorway. They staggered back a bit before each caught her with one arm.
After too brief a moment, Benedict moved to pull away. Eliza’s fist tightened on his shirt, refusing to allow him his freedom.
“Eliza,” he coughed. “Sit with your father for a moment. I need to?—”
“No!” she cried, pulling back from her father but not releasing her hold on his shoulder.
“No?”
“No, you cannot go back in! Please!” Her throat burned with the effort to force the words through—but they were too important to keep trapped.
He shushed her, running a hand along the filthy nest of her hair. “I need to make sure they have everything they need, little violet. Stay with your father.” He backed away before turning toward the man directing the sand procured from somewhere.
“Benedict!” Papa called after him. When Benedict looked back, her father shocked both Benedict and Eliza. “Thank you, son.”
Benedict froze, eyes wide and soft. Then he nodded, swallowing as his lips pressed together. He spun to his task with a resolute air.
Her father pulled her farther away from the flames. He grabbed her filthy face between his equally filthy hands. “You are well? You are unharmed? Draycott, he didn’t?—”
“I’m well. He never— I’m unharmed. Are you?”
“I am now, petal, I am now,” he said, tugging her into his chest to hold her tight.
“I am so sorry, Papa. I should have said it sooner. I?—”
He hushed her. “I know. You need to let your throat rest—you’re hoarse. I should go see if I can be of help.”
“But—”
“I love you, too, Petal,” he said with a crooked smile. The clean bottom half of his face served as a stark contrast to the filthy top half. “Stay here.” With those words, Papa strode off to join her—Benedict—in assisting with the brigade.
The woman who had held and attempted to comfort her earlier approached and offered a cup of water. “There now, everyone is well. Try to wash your mouth out.”
Eliza nodded gratefully, then swished the water before spitting. She was horrified to see that the water that left her mouth was a revoltingly darker shade than the clear liquid that went in. She repeated the process several times until she was satisfied.
“Thank you,” she wheezed.
“Rest your voice, sweet girl,” the woman murmured as she produced a damp cloth and wiped Eliza’s face gently. “I’m Mrs. Weston, but you can call me Effie. My, you are as pretty as a flower, aren’t you? No wonder you’ve got Bennie all tied up.”
“I—” Eliza’s voice refused to cooperate, even that singular syllable was a raw agony.
“You don’t need to say nothing. He nearly drove himself mad trying to get to you. I hope you’ll let him make it right—if you wish it.”
A clattering of bells rose over the crackling fire and rhythmic thump of buckets. Men accompanied by a team of horses pulling a pump engine rushed into view.
Benedict spoke to the captain while Effie stepped away. She took charge, directing the other men to feed a long hose into the pond.
The captain called out to the remaining man, “There’s still one inside!” The man dunked a woolen blanket in the pond before racing up to the captain’s side.
Benedict and the men approached the window Eliza had escaped from only minutes before. The three peered in. Benedict pointed to the general area where she had last seen Blackwood. Her heart stopped when they handed Benedict a length of rope. It only started again when it became clear he was acting as a tether and not returning inside the inferno.
First one man, then the other climbed through the window. Eliza’s breath caught as she watched for long minutes. At last, one man climbed out, then the one inside handed him—Oh God.
