They pulled up in front of the temple. By now, everyone knew there was a fire. Dancers and families milled around, corralled by the dedicates. It seemed like all of Ragmarket and Southbridge was jammed into the temple close.

“I have to get back to Ragmarket,” one woman was wailing. “Everything I own is ’cross the river. Maybe I can save something.”

“My wife is back to home,” an old man pleaded. “She an’t well. I got to go see to her.”

“Don’t let anyone go until we see what’s what,” Raisa snapped. “Come on, Cat, Hallie, you know the city as well as anyone. Jemson, how do we get up to the bell tower?”

They plunged into the cool dark of the temple. Jemson directed them to a staircase. They raced up the steps, Raisa hitching her dress up to her thighs to free her legs, Jemson’s robes flapping two flights above her.

The stairs grew narrower and steeper as they climbed, around and around. Until finally they stepped out of the stairwell into the belfry, and the hot wind teased at their clothes. Raisa leaned through the window and looked out over the city to the southwest. Cat and Hallie came up on either side of her.

Here, the air was clearer than below, but the sight that greeted them was frightening. A gash of angry purple-and-orange fire bordered Ragmarket to the south and west, between the castle close and the market. It roared downhill, toward the river, driven by a strong east wind.

“The market’s already gone,” Cat said, knotting and reknotting the scarf around her neck.

Hallie drew in a breath. “My girl’s down there,” she whispered. “She stays in Ragmarket with my mam.” Hallie’s daughter, Asha, was only three.

“How would a fire like that start?” Jemson whispered, looking over their heads. “It circles the whole neighborhood. People are going to be trapped between the fire and the river.”

Memory shivered over Raisa. The flames reminded her of the strange fire on Hanalea—garish and relentless.

“Come on,” she said, turning back toward the stairs. “Let’s get down to ground level. We have to stop the fire at the river, if not before. And it won’t be easy, not with this wind.”

They clattered down the stairs, throwing themselves around corners in a mad dash to the bottom. When they reached the temple close, Raisa saw a familiar tall figure centering a cluster of bluejackets, shouting out commands, rendering order out of chaos.

It was Amon Byrne—and Talia and Pearlie and Mick, among others.

“Amon!” Raisa shouted. He turned, and she saw that one sleeve of his uniform was charred. He had soot smudged on his face. “Thank the Maker! Where did you come from? How did you get here?”

“I was up at the castle close. I knew you were down here, at the recital, and so I—”