“Where’s Fergus?” Roger asked, his voice rasping.

ROGER FOUND FERGUS a few moments later, at the back of the printshop, stamping out the last fragments of a small fire that had been built against the back door. The door itself was charred at the bottom, but the only remaining traces of the fire were a large black spot on the ground, a few scattered chunks of graying ember, and a small cloud of ashes and flecks of half-burnt paper that flew around Fergus’s stamping feet like a cloud of black-and-white moths.

“Merde,” Fergus said, noticing Roger.

“Mais oui,” Roger replied, coughing slightly from the drifting smoke. “One of your competitors?” He nodded at the half-burnt door, where someone had painted the words NEXT TIME in dripping whitewash.

Fergus shook his head, teeth clenched. His hair was standing on end and, like Roger, he wore nothing but a nightshirt, though he’d had the presence of mind to put on his boots before running outside. The fire was out, but Roger felt the heat from the smoking door on his bare legs.

“Loyalists,” Fergus said briefly, and coughed hard. Roger felt the tickle of smoke in his own throat and cleared it hard in hopes of quelling it; coughing still hurt.

“Marsali and Bree and the wee’uns are all right,” Roger said. Fergus nodded, cleared his throat, and spat into the ashes.

“I know,” he said, with a slight relaxation of his hard-lined face. “I heard them cursing. Les femmes sauvages.”

Roger hadn’t noticed the cursing, but he didn’t doubt it.

“Have they tried before?” he asked, lifting his chin at the paint-smeared door. Fergus lifted one shoulder in a Gallic shrug.

“Letters. Filth. A bag full of dead rats. Another bag with a live serpent—luckily it was a rattlesnake and not a cottonmouth. Marsali heard it before she picked the bag up.”

“Jesus Christ.” It was something between a curse and a prayer, and Fergus nodded, appreciating both.

“Les enfants savent qu’il ne faut rien toucher près de la porte,” he said matter-of-factly. He took a deep, slow breath and shook his head at the door. “This is—” His lips tightened and he glanced at Roger. “You know—milady and milord told you, I expect. What … happened to our little one. Henri-Christian.” The name came hesitantly, as though it had been a long time since Fergus had spoken it aloud.

“I do,” Roger said, a lump in his throat making the words come out low and choked. He cleared it, hard. “Fucking cowardly wankers!”

“If you care to call them that.” Fergus was white around the mouth. “Cowards, certainly. Canaille!” He kicked the door so hard that it juddered in its frame. Recovering from shock and panic, Roger found his own anger rising.

“Those shits! Setting a fire where your family lives, your kids!” And mine …