“Says the boy who’s seen none of it!” retorted Mary.

“Says the girl so determined that no one loves her that she’ll make it so!” Colin exclaimed.

She scowled at him. “You don’t understand. If I go to school, they won’t like me like you do. I’ll go back to being alone as I used to be, and I don’t think I can bear that.” Her voice rose. “I like it here too much. I like this”—she swept her arm around—“and both of you.”

Hector interrupted them by barking frantically. Mary frowned. What was he doing?

They all turned. In the distance, from the direction of the house, they could see smoke rising into the sky. “That smoke,” said Colin, his expression turning to alarm. “Is that normal?”

“No,” said Dickon anxiously.

“It’s coming from the house! There must be a fire!” gasped Mary.

“Father!” Colin cried.

“Martha!” said Dickon, in fear.

Mary didn’t hesitate. She sprinted toward the gate. Dickon followed. Colin took a few hobbling steps after them. Mary glanced back and saw the frustration and defeat in his face.

“I can’t!” he shouted. “But you go . . . GO!”

21

The Fire

Mary and Dickon raced toward the house. There were flames at every window and black smoke billowing up into the blue sky. The house was burning to the ground!

As they reached the front door, Martha staggered out, coughing and spluttering. “Mary! Dickon! Stay away. The brigade’s been called. We can’t do anything more.”

“Is everyone out?” demanded Mary.

“Not the master,” said Martha, her eyes filling with tears. “We don’t know where he is. No one’s seen him since the blaze started.”

Mary sprinted toward the door, leaping up the steps.

“Mary!” Dickon shouted.

“I know where he’ll be!” Mary yelled. She raced across the hall and up the stairs. The air was smotheringly hot, smoke billowing down the staircase, making her eyes stream. The house was filled with the crackling of fire and crashes of objects as the hungry flames devoured them. Mary ran up to the second floor and raced to Colin’s room. The door was open, and her uncle was standing inside, looking around helplessly as if he didn’t know what to do.

“I knew you’d be here,” Mary gasped.

Her uncle shook as he coughed. His face was smudged with dirt, his hair in disarray. “Colin, where’s Colin?” he gasped as the fire raged through the house.

“Come on, please, come on,” Mary said, tugging his arm.

“I will not leave without my son!” her uncle said, shaking his head. “I can’t desert him. Not again.”

“Your son isn’t here, sir,” insisted Mary.

Her uncle’s face creased with grief. “He is dead already?”