“We’d made it almost all the way to the first floor when the ceiling above our heads began to groan.”
“Oh, Maria.”
“I knew I didn’t have much time. That if I didn’t do something, I was going to die.”
“So, what did you do?”
Maria runs a finger along one of the ropes that holds the bed’s mattress in place. She is far away. “I let go.”
“Of what?”
“Louisa’s hand.”
“I see,” says Sally. “And she didn’t make it out?”
Maria’s eyes are glassy. “None of them did. There was one last surge, and I was pushed down the remaining stairs. Then I heard a loud crash, and the next thing I knew I was in the arms of a friend of my father’s.”
“Was that the man who brought you to Mrs. Cowley’s?”
Maria nods.
“I’m so sorry, Maria,” Sally whispers.
“I thought I was dead,” she sobs.
“Of course you did. We all did, there for a minute.”
Sally reaches for Maria’s hand and squeezes it. At sixteen, she is considered a woman—old enough to marry and, if she is fortunate, bear children. But, at almost twice her age, Sally finds it preposterous that the world should see this girl as anything other than a child.
JACK
By the time Ritchie arrivesat the tavern, the tables are littered with the detritus of the morning meal.
Placide isn’t eating, but he has had three cups of coffee, and the cup rattles in its saucer when Ritchie slaps two folded newspapers down in front of him. “Do you want to explain this?” he asks.
Placide looks at both papers briefly. “Explain what?”
“Well, let’s see. One paper is theEnquirer, which I publish. You will note, on page three, there is a lengthy article about the fire that does not make reference to how the fire began because—at the point at which I wrote it—the only information I’d been provided was a pack of lies.”
“We didn’t—”
“I’m not finished,” says Ritchie, who is so angry he can barely draw breath. “The other paper is theAmerican Standard, which arrived on my desk this morning via courier. It turns out the editor, Simon Skelton, was at the theater the night it burned.”
“I suppose that’s a lucky accident,” Placide offers.
“Given what he witnessed, he’d probably argue otherwise,” says Ritchie.
Jack can’t figure out why Placide isn’t at least pretending to be more cooperative. A little remorse would go a long way with Ritchie, but Placide doesn’t seem inclined to play the part of a contrite theater manager.
Ritchie places his spectacles at the end of his nose, picks up the paper, and reads aloud. “He was informed that the scenery took fire in the back part of the house, by the raising of a chandelier; that the boy, who was ordered by some of the players to raise it, stated that if he did so, the scenery would take fire, when he was commanded, in a peremptory manner, to hoist it. The boy obeyed, and the fire was instantly communicated to the scenery.”
Jack is dumbfounded. He is the boy! It’s his story Ritchie’s reading! Skelton doesn’t know all the details—Jack’s name, for instance, or the factthat it was Green and not “some of the players” who ordered him to raise the chandelier, but he’s got most of the facts right. Jack looks around the room, trying to see if any of the actors are as startled by this as he is, but their expressions don’t give much away.
“Does someone want to explain to me why I’m chasing down a dead-end story about a slave revolt while Simon bloody Skelton gets the exclusive on a backstage fire that, frankly, sounds a lot more plausible?”
Placide acts offended. “It’s all lies, I tell you.”
Jack wonders if, maybe, it was Green who tipped Skelton off. It’s not impossible, now that he thinks about it. A father, distraught over his daughter’s death, decides to clear his conscience.
