She didn’t have to look behind her to know he followed closely. They both knew there were mere minutes between them and the many new fires that could easily flare out of control.

Two streets over, they found the first incendiary, sparkling with white splinters of light as it furiously expelled its magnesium innards. Nearly all doorsteps now had either a bucket of water, sand or even sandbags set out in preparation. Grace grabbed a sandbag, hefting its weight before her face to protect herself, and dropped it atop the glare of light. As the bag burned, it would spill out the sand and douse the sparks before they could do any damage. There was no need to wait to see if it would be effective. Not when there were so many more.

“Miss Bennett,” Mr. Stokes called. Already he had his foot set on the stirrup pump beside the bucket with the hose extended to Grace.

She grabbed it and ran toward the nearest house where several bushes were on fire, pressing the switch on the nozzle to go from jet to spray until the flames were extinguished.

As always, they had to have a care to avoid the magnesium, which would explode upon contact with water. This was only a concern in the beginning of the fire when the incendiary was casting out its brilliant green-white sparks, but one that was exceedingly dire.

On and on they repeated their actions down the length of the street, putting flames out with sandbags and spray, alternating at the stirrup pump lest one of them tire too quickly. Finally, they managed to control all the fires. Panting, they sagged against the wall of a building they’d just extinguished, tired and hot despite the December night, but victorious.

Another barrage of planes buzzed overhead.

Swish.

Grace’s stomach slithered to her toes.

Plop.

The first incendiary struck the pavement several yards from their feet and sputtered to life with a hiss of sparks.

Plop.

A second fell not even a breath later.

It was no longer possible to identify an individual incendiary falling, not when so many clattered around them, like kirby grips being dumped from a tin.

All at once, Grace and Mr. Strokes were fighting a fresh wave of magnesium flames that lit up the street like daylight. They turned the corner of the block as they battled the blaze, and Grace realized they were on Aldersgate Street, near the fire station. Except it too was on fire, its firefighters outside the burning walls with water jetting from a wheeled water tank.

In the distance, toward the mouth of the river, came another familiar drone. Another swish. And the raining of more incendiary bombs upon London.

The firemen battling for control of their own station would be of little help. There was nothing for it, but to fight.

No matter how long that battle may be.