The building to Grace’s right blazed brighter as though it were igniting from within. Inside, shelves of books were being licked apart by flames as they raced with greedy delight over rows and rows of neatly organized spines.

The building seemed to pulse, as if it were a breathing beast, set on devouring everything in its path.

Someone called her name and the beast of a building roared, powerful and terrifying.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear her gaze from the horrific scene before her. So many books. Millions. Gone.

Something solid collided with her, knocking her to the ground. She landed hard as a blast of blistering heat rushed at her. Bits of sand and dust stung her cheeks and the backs of her hands.

Dazed and momentarily bewildered, she blinked up to find Mr. Stokes covering her with his body. The heaving building was now rubble, its tumbled bricks glowing red.

“Are you hurt?” Mr. Stokes shouted over the cacophony of war.

Grace shook her head. “We need to find water.”

He looked around sadly. “We need to find survivors.”

He was right, of course. The fire was too great to contain. All around them firemen were emptying their tanks into the blaze to no effect.

Pritchard & Potts was only several shops away from Grace, one of the few that was absent flames, though a chunk appeared to be missing where a blast had caught its right side and demolished the shop beside it.

Fortunately, Paternoster Square wouldn’t have many people in the buildings, with most having gone to the country, intent on returning in the new year. But some had nowhere to go.

Like Mr. Pritchard.

He would be in his flat above Pritchard & Potts without a doubt. Especially when he had so often decried public shelters, complaining about those who littered the floors of the tube stations and bricked-up buildings.

Grace rushed over to the shop and found the door missing, blown off by the bomb that had struck it. Inside, the bookstore was dark, lit only by the glowing flames coming in through the shattered windows. Books had been thrown from their shelves and littered the floor, splayed and broken like fallen birds.

A whistle sounded outside, followed by a crash that made the entire structure tremble. Plaster sprinkled down from the ceiling, and several more books tumbled from their shelves.

“Mr. Pritchard,” she called out.

He did not reply.

This was no time for decorum. She found the door leading to his flat and didn’t bother to knock as she rushed up the stairs. Even as she did so, the building seemed to sway slightly, unsteady on its foundation.

By the flickering orange light from outside, she searched the flat, its state in as much disrepair as the shop below. Her breath caught as she noticed what appeared to be a skinny leg jutting from beneath a tipped curio cabinet.

“Mr. Pritchard,” she said again.