A woman in a bloody nun’s habit darts past them, and they watch as she hurls herself at Monsieur d’Orbesson. “She’s not at the house! You said she’d be at the house!”
Cecily sees Jack stand up a little straighter.
The man looks confused, and when he doesn’t say anything, the woman shoves him—hard—in the chest. “She’s not anywhere!”
Cecily can’t make out the man’s response from where they stand, but the woman’s voice, which is loud as a bell, rings in their ears. “You bloody idiot! She’s in there!”
“Who’s she talking about?” Cecily asks Jack.
The boy says only, “Nancy.”
The woman continues shouting, until finally Jack turns back to Cecily. “Nancy’s their daughter.”
Cecily clicks her tongue in sympathy.
“That woman’s Frances Green. And the fellow she’s screaming at is her husband, John. He’s one of the managers of the theater company.”
Now John Green’s voice booms. “Woman, I told her to stay home!”
“Was she there, do you think? In the theater?” Cecily asks Jack, but he seems incapable of answering the question.
“I saw her, John,” says one of the actors, a big burly fellow with thick eyebrows, who has just arrived in the circle. “At the beginning of the night. She was on her way upstairs, with a bunch of girls.”
Frances Green stands perfectly still, as if her feet have sprouted roots. Not once does she look at her husband, or he at her.
“And none of you have seen her since?” John Green asks, turning to what remains of the theater company. “Not on the way out? Not out here?”
No one says anything, but their silence tells the Greens everything they need to know.
Cecily expects Frances Green to weep or swoon, but she doesn’t do any such thing. She just stands there, staring at her feet. When she finally moves her eyes to her husband’s face, her expression is such a mixture of remorse and disgust that Cecily sucks in her own breath just witnessing it.
Frances Green turns and stumbles toward the front of the theater, and John Green chases after her. When they are both gone, all the actors begin to talk at once, and Jack lets out a pitiful sob.
He is a twig of a thing, all elbows and knees, with shoulder blades that protrude from his back like wings. Once he starts to bawl, those shoulders of his shake so hard, Cecily is tempted to wrap her arms around him. But, of course, she doesn’t dare.
“Is this real?” he whispers.
“What?”
“The fire, Nancy, you here talking to me.”
Cecily looks at the theater, then back at the boy. “You think it might be a dream?”
“A nightmare.”
As if on cue, a portion of the roof closest to the stage caves into the building with a deafening crack. The sound is so loud, Cecily flings herself backward and covers her head with her hands. When she lifts her head again, she finds that the actors have scattered and the boy is gone.
SALLY
Ladies,” says Sally to thewomen at one of the open windows. “You don’t have much time.” The faces of several of them are tear-streaked, and one woman is missing a large chunk of her hair. Their dresses are in shreds.
Margaret recognizes one of the women. “Helena, where’s your husband? And your sons?”
“I don’t know,” says the woman, who rocks back and forth on her heels.
“You can do this,” says Margaret, extending her hand to the old woman. “Here, I’ll help you up.”
“Help my daughter first,” says another woman, who holds a small girl of maybe four or five years to her chest. The roof above their heads groans.
