Tibbot scanned the ground and picked up a large stone from the garden. He pulled it back behind his shoulder and pitched it at the side window. But the leaded frame was sturdy, and, although the glass fractured, the window didn’t give. He took the stone and used it to smash again and again at the frame, knocking it out of the wood to fall on the floor of the hall. A blast of hot air and smoke rushed out, stinging my skin and making me stagger back. Tibbot jerked his head away, doubling up to cough out harsh smoke.

Holding my sleeve over my mouth and nose to block out the smoke, I reached inside, turning the lock. Tibbot shoved the door then and it gave way easily – whatever had been up against it was gone, but as it swung back there was another rush of scalding air. The bottles of paraffin had showered the room with droplets of oil that flared here and there; the fire was licking high on the coat stand, and black smoke from the charring fabric billowed through the hall, making it hard to see. Nick lay on the floor and above him stood Charles, his hand and temple both bloody. He shook as his eyes met mine. I had no thoughts then but hatred of him. A second later Tibbot pushed me aside and rushed in; but the surge of air from the open doorway made the flames on the rug billow up, and they forced him back, coughing again. We both turned away from the stinging heat, and, when we looked back, Charles was running out through the rear of the house. The flames blew up again as he burst out the back door.

I took my handkerchief from my sleeve, held it over my face so I could breathe in shallow, panting breaths and flew to Nick, winding past the flames on the rug. He was lying on his side, turned away from me. I dropped to my knees and froze at the sight of his blackened face as Tibbot rolled him on to his back and put his head to Nick’s chest. ‘He’s not breathing,’ he said. There were broken pieces of bannister around us, smeared with blood where Charles’s hand had touched it.

‘Nick,’ I rasped, my voice barely loud enough to be heard. On the rug, needles of glass from the broken paraffin bottles glistened in the firelight. ‘Nick, can you hear me?’ I bent to listen for any sound. There was nothing. I felt like I was holding his hand while he stood on a precipice.

‘Look at me!’ Tibbot ordered him, smacking Nick’s cheek lightly. There was no response. ‘Look at me.’ He slapped again, more forcefully this time. I watched for any sign of life. The colour was gone from his skin. Tibbot felt Nick’s wrist for a pulse, searching for it, seemingly unable to find anything.