He ran down to the corner, but he couldn’t see it from there either. The only thing visible was thick, roiling smoke, reflecting the light from the fires in a pinkish orange, and above it thick clouds. And flames. There were fires everywhere. The lack of water to fight them with was supposed to have been the problem, but no amount of water could have made a dent in this many blazes.

Another batch of incendiaries rattled down, making him dive into a doorway for cover. “Heddson and Poldrey, Booksellers, has moved to 22 Paternoster Row,” a notice posted on the door said, and there was an arrow pointing up to the next street. Paternoster Row ran right alongside the cathedral.

But the entrance to it was blocked by a blaze which filled the whole street. He backtracked and went up the next lane over, but it didn’t go through. He tried the next.

And there was the blaze which had blocked his way to what had to be Paternoster Row. He had to be really close to St. Paul’s, though he still couldn’t see it. The dome was supposed to have floated like a beacon above the smoke and flames that night, so where the hell was it? All he could see was smoke. And more flames. The entire far side of the street was on fire, red flames leaping from the windows of the warehouses and book depositories that lined it, but he couldn’t afford to backtrack again. He had to get to St. Paul’s.

He ducked his head against the intense heat and started along the street.

A man with an axe grabbed him by the sleeve. “Where do you think you’re going?” he shouted over the roar of the fire.

“St. Paul’s!”

“You can’t get through that way!” the man shouted. “Help me break this door down!”

Mike shook his head. “I’m not a fireman!” he shouted back.

“Neither am I!” the man bellowed, hacking at the door. “I’m a reporter. I’m supposed to be covering this fire, not fighting it, but there’s no one else here!”

I don’t have time for this, Mike thought.

“I’ll go get the fire brigade!” he said, to get away from the reporter.

“No use! That’s the fire station,” the reporter shouted, pointing with the axe at a flaming building down the street and chopping ineffectually at the door again. “I just saw an incendiary land on the roof!”

And if it burned through to the floor below, the building and this whole end of the street would go up, and he’d never get through. Mike grabbed the axe from the reporter and began hacking at the door, splintering the heavy wood while the reporter ran to get one of the sandbags piled up against the corner lamppost.

“Why in God’s name they’ve locked every one of these buildings when they knew there were bound to be raids, I don’t know,” the reporter said, coming back with the sandbag. “And what good did they think putting a bucket of water and a stirrup pump outside the door would do?”