“Halfway up George Street.” I snatched one of the larger boxes and carried it back down the hall, out the door, down the steps to the station wagon outside. The crowd was growing, looking in dismay at the advance of the fire, which had begun to lick around the side of the Charlotte Hotel, next to Christ Church Cathedral, standing opposite the Red Cross. I tossed the box in the back of the station wagon and paused for an instant, staring up the rest of George Street to Government House on its hill, the end of the line. The breeze seemed to be picking up, thick with smoke, unless that was the draft of the fire itself. Someone came up to me with another box, and I recognized Miss Drewes, wearing a pair of striped pajamas.

“Where are we taking all this?” I asked.

“To the ballroom. Come along, quick.”

Back we went, into the building, while the fire crept closer and the shouts of the fire brigade rang through the smoke. When we emerged, the duke and his men had set up the fire hose and begun to soak the brick walls of the Red Cross with it. I recognized Oakes among them, his rough face smudged with soot, and I remembered the building belonged to him, that he had loaned it to the Red Cross for the duration of the war. Back and forth, stacks of blankets, boxes of packages bound for London. Where was Thorpe? Back and forth, until my arms ached, and I could hardly breathe because the smoke scorched my throat and my lungs at every pulse. Across the street, the Charlotte Hotel was now fully engulfed, flames shooting from the roof, cinders flying. The station wagon was full, and another car brought down from Government House. I heard a groan, looked to the roof, and saw a curl of smoke rising from the right-hand side. I dashed back up the steps.

“Everyone out!” I shouted. “Everyone out! There’s smoke on the roof!”

Out came the duchess from the back, carrying a small crate, followed by Miss Drewes with another crate.

“Anyone else back there?”

“It’s all clear,” said the duchess, in her calm voice. “And this is the last of the supplies. Miss Drewes, will you drive the Morris? I’ll take the station wagon.”

At the door, a frantic Duke of Windsor met us. He snatched the crate from his wife’s arms and cried, Thank God.

“David. Good gracious.” The duchess squinted at the scene outside. “Is that Marshall on top of the cathedral?”

We turned and followed her gaze, up and up to the peaked roof of the cathedral, where a large man stood near the spire, silhouetted in orange.

“Yes,” said the duke. “God bless him. He’s testing the structure. If the wind doesn’t hold, we’ve got to dynamite the place, I’m afraid.”

“Dynamite!”