The most famous fire in history burned for four long days, eating the city of London. Thirteen thousand houses. Eighty-seven parish churches. Fifty-two guildhalls. Four-fifths of the greatest wooden city in the world reduced to nothing but a smoldering ruin. Despite all this damage, hardly anybody died. Some say as few as six. Of course, that doesn’t include the dozens who died of hunger and exposure in the refugee camps afterward. Nor does it account for the ones who took the blame. The foreigners and the papists, who were lynched or beaten to death by mobs. And poor Robert Hubert, sentenced to death and hanged after his confession. Only afterward was it discovered the simpleminded Frenchman didn’t even arrive in the city until two days after the conflagration began.

That is what they do though, isn’t it? You know that full well. How they search for explanations for their suffering and loss. Who wants to believe the world is a capricious, dangerous place? Far better to find a scapegoat, some poor sod who was in the wrong place at the wrong time who can take the blame. Then they can rest, safe in the knowledge the world is a warm, well-ordered place with clearly defined rules.

You know it isn’t. You know the world is a bastard place, full of evil men.

If a scapegoat can’t be found, they blame God.

But the truth is it was just an accident. A terrible coincidence. Nothing to blame for the loss of half a city but bad luck, poor construction, and an unusually strong wind. London was simply a powder keg, waiting for a spark. You might as well blame the Middle Ages. You might as well blame Time.

But sometimes someone is to blame. Arson—the criminal act of intentionally setting fire to one’s own or another’s property for improper reason. You soak the bus shelter in petrol and feel the fumes burning your nose, making you light-headed. You pause for a moment and listen to the thick liquid dripping from the wooden roof and pooling on the concrete floor. You remove the gloves carefully, making sure not to get any of the petrol on your hands.

You shake a little as you light the match, watch it spark, flare, and then sputter and settle. See the way it is already reaching out, eager to consume the sacrifice you’ve prepared for it. You flick your wrist and the burning match soars through the night air, up, up, in a graceful arc, pausing for a moment, hanging in the night sky like a perfect glittering jewel. And then it’s falling again, gaining speed until . . . whoomph! It hits the surface of the puddle and bursts into furious life, fire skittering out across the oily pavement to the walls of the wooden shelter.