“James!” Matthew shouted, and James blinked and got to his feet, reaching down to clasp Cordelia’s hand. The blue of her dress glimmered as she rose, dotted with a thousand tiny glowing points of fire where sparks had landed.

It was not just her dress: everything was fire. In a daze, they raced for the front door, where Matthew stood; he had taken off his velvet jacket and was using it to beat out the flames consuming the threshold. James turned to lift Cordelia in his arms as if they were in some strange, fiery ballet, carrying her over the last burst of flames as they soared up and consumed the front doors of the manor.

The three of them staggered a good distance from the house into the weeds and scraggly grass of the gardens. At last they stopped, and James raised his head to stare at the manor house. It was burning merrily, sending up gouts of black smoke, turning the sky above it to the color of blood.

“You can put Cordelia down now,” Matthew said, a touch of acid in his tone. He was panting, his hair full of soot, his velvet jacket abandoned.

James set Cordelia carefully on the ground. “Your leg…?” he began.

She tried to push back a lock of her hair and found it full of ash. “It’s all right. It’s quite healed,” she said. “Did you, ah…”

“Burn the house down? Not purposely,” said James. His already black lashes were clogged with soot, his face streaked with black.

“It coincidentally burned down while you were in it?” grumbled Matthew.

“If I could explain—”

“You cannot.” Matthew shook his head, scattering ash. “I am completely out of patience. The bank of patience is exhausted! I am not even being extended any patience on credit! You and I and Cordelia are going home, and once home, I will berate you at enormous length. Prepare yourself.”

James hid a smile. “I shall do exactly that. Meanwhile, the greenhouse. We should not linger here.”

Cordelia and Matthew fervently agreed. The three made their way to the greenhouse, which was empty save for a fallen-down grapevine, some bottles, and the Portal itself, which shone like a mirror, reflecting back the glaring red light of the fire.

James placed his hand on its surface. It shimmered, and Cordelia saw, as if at a distance, the Blackthorn house in Chiswick, and beyond that, the glittering skyline of London.

She stepped through.

The room at the Devil Tavern was cozy, a low fire burning in the grate—Cordelia had thought she might never want to see fire again, but she was pleased to have this one. The Merry Thieves were sprawled all about on the battered furniture: Christopher and Thomas on the old chesterfield sofa, James in an armchair, and Matthew in a seat at the round wooden table.