‘Edward!’ she tries one last time, her fists thumping at the door. ‘Edward!’

‘Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,’

She sobs as Richard scoops her up, tries to carry her out, but the smoke is thick, she is heavy in her woollen clothes and the fire is unbearably hot. He staggers slowly with her in his arms, coughing and choking along the hallway, carefully trying to avoid the flames that flicker and taunt them from all directions. He gathers every ounce of energy he has, each footstep a battle with his own self. He roars as he tries to move forward, pushing himself on but it is so very, very hard . . .

‘For thine is the kingdom, the power,

and the glory,

for ever and ever.

Amen.’

The fire sighs with relief as it explores Edward’s dissecting room, fingers of flames licking their way towards his specimen jars full of flammable liquid. Aaah, the fire whispers, aaah . . .

The explosion feeds the fire, transforming it into a raging furnace.

Charlie has dutifully obeyed his instructions. A cab is waiting at the end of St Mary Axe and he runs back to tell Jos just as the explosion blows out the windows in the servants’ hall at the front of the house.

Jos panics. His beloved Mary, my God! He cannot lose her too, cannot even contemplate the possibility of doing so. He runs to the house, bellowing, shouting Richard’s name too, but the flames are already travelling up from the basement’s polished wooden stairs to the ground floor, licking at the new wallpaper, feeding on the rich wool carpets that were so recently put in.

Charlie meanwhile is shouting, ‘Fire!’ as loudly as he can, running towards Leadenhall to raise the alarm, Sarah, who he dispatches to do the same, pelting off in the opposite direction.

By the time the first Merryweather fire engine arrives, horses’ hooves clattering along the street, the fire, an everhungry beast, has already moved up to the first floor. Annie’s sketches, her paints, her paper – all are consumed in the blaze along with everything that remained in the basement: the skeleton of the Angel of the Thames, all of Edward’s jars, bones, specimens and medical notes, the mattresses in the cells, the blankets his angels once wrapped themselves in – all are now turned to smouldering ash.

It is only twenty feet or so but to Mary it feels like miles. As Etta holds the dog back by its collar, Mary runs towards the basement door, bile rising in her throat as fear almost overwhelms her.

Richard.

Please.

Please let him be safe.

I cannot—

Please.