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Theresa hesitated. “What about Matt and his grandfather?”

Miss Pearce fixed her gaze on the house again. “Pray that by the time this is done Rosewood is still standing. Otherwise, I wonder if this will all have been worth it.”

chapter fifty-one ADELE

October 1907

If, when Macalister returned to the wicker porch chairs to sit on fire watch, he expected Adele to slip off to bed, he didn’t know her very well. Instead, she sat herself right down next to him and set her sights on the darkness. This time his hip flask stayed safely tucked away in his pocket. Neither of them dared yet speak of the moment they had shared earlier in the night.

Occasionally, he would rise to make the rounds of the property, leaving her temporarily alone to listen and watch. Those were the moments when, with the smoke filling her nostrils, she allowed herself to be frightened. She had all but left her home in Pasadena behind. If she lost Rosewood House, where would she be?

When gradually the night began to change from darkest black to indigo, Macalister stood to do another round. He took longer this time, but when he returned he carried strong black coffee in a pair of tin cups.

“Didn’t want your maid to fall down in a faint if she woke up and found you in the kitchen, making coffee,” he said.

She gave a little laugh, knowing it would probably be true, and accepted the cup. “Thank you. Were you able to see anything?”

He shook his head. “We’ll be able to see more as it gets lighter.”

They sat in silence, sipping their coffee as indigo gave way to ocean blue. Adele had lived in California long enough to know that next should come a symphony of pinks, oranges, and eventually the delicate pale blue of the morning sky. Instead, above the trees that shielded Rosewood House from the end of the dirt road, the sky began to lighten to an unnatural burnt orange and red.

“Look at that,” she murmured.

Macalister set his coffee cup down on the porch rail. “Smoke’s bad.”

Before she could reply, the front door swung open, and Hildy stepped out.

“Mrs. Whitley!” Adele saw the way Hildy’s eyes swept from Macalister to her. “I didn’t expect to find you awake so early. Good morning, Mr. Macalister.”

“Hildy—”

“Oh my!” The maid’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes riveted on the bloody sunrise. “A wildfire?”

“Did you not smell the smoke?” Adele asked.

“I thought maybe you tried to light a fire,” said Hildy, clearly too shaken up to think quite how insulting that might sound.

“It’s a wildfire somewhere in the mountains,” said Macalister. “At least, that’s what we think it is.”

“You don’t know?” Hildy demanded.

“It’s hard to tell from here,” he started.

“Is it safe?” asked Hildy.

“Mrs. Whitley and I have been sitting watch for embers,” he said.

The wind picked up a bit, lifting a piece of Adele’s hair that had long ago escaped the knot at the back of her head.

“We must start wetting everything down, Hildy,” said Adele. “It’s the only thing we can do to try to prevent embers from—”

“I’m not staying,” said Hildy, showing a degree of stubbornness that Adele had never before seen in the usually cheerful maid.

“But we need your help,” said Adele.

“My pa told me all about wildfires, and I’m not staying when there’s one road out of here,” said Hildy. “You can just take me back to Pasadena right now.”

Then Hildy turned on her heel and marched back into the house.