“ ‘Are melted into air, into thin air,’ ” Sir Godfrey said, “ ‘and like …’ ” His voice trailed off.

“ ‘And like the baseless fabric,’ ” she prompted, stretching her arm out again, this time in front of her.

“ ‘And like the baseless fabric of this vision,’ ” Sir Godfrey said. “ ‘The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces …’ ”

The tips of her fingers touched something wide and flat. A piece of wood, or plaster. She leaned farther forward, stretching her arm out till it hurt, but it wasn’t enough to do more than touch it.

Of course not, she thought, trying from another angle. This is the correction.

She felt something shift under her hand. It was a snapped-off piece of one of the openwork chair supports, too small to cover the space even if it were solid. But large enough that it might bring the chunk of wood within reach.

She jabbed the end awkwardly into the wood, like a fork, and dragged it toward her till it was close enough to grasp. She let go of the support so she could grab the wood and then thought better of it and laid the support on Sir Godfrey’s chest while she picked it up.

“ ‘And like this unsubstantial pageant faded,’ ” he murmured, “ ‘leave not a wrack behind.’ ”

She shoved the wood up tight against the space the gas was issuing from. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it should stop most of the gas.

I hope, she thought. When she leaned down to jam it more tightly against the space, she could still smell gas. Which meant they must get out of here.

But at least she had bought them a bit of time. She resumed feeling about the space next to the hole, this time for another chair support or something else metal.

A piece of pipe, sticking out of the debris. The gas line? she wondered. She picked the openwork support up off Sir Godfrey’s chest.

He was still reciting Prospero’s speech. “ ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on,’ ” he said, “ ‘and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’ ”

She began banging on the pipe with her free hand as hard as she could. The metal made an unholy racket, loud even over the drone of the planes, which seemed to be coming round again. In between clangs she shouted, “Help!” and “In here!”

“Someone must have heard that,” she said, pausing to rest a moment to make certain she was still pressing down on the compress hard enough. “Don’t you think, Sir Godfrey?”

He didn’t answer.

“Sir Godfrey!” she said urgently.

“Cheer up, my lady. Things …” His voice trailed into silence.

“Sir Godfrey!” she cried, casting desperately around for something, anything, to keep him talking. “You quoted a line about my saving your life. Which play was that?”

“Tell you after the all clear,” he said drowsily.

“No! Now. Which play was it?” She couldn’t reach his shoulder to shake it, didn’t dare move her hand from the compress. “One of Barrie’s?”