Han brought up the rear, but stopped midway across and turned to face the flames. Raising his hands, he drove the inferno back with a blast of flash, putting all of his fury into it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Micah line up beside him and launch his own attack. Side by side, they pushed it back, back. Han’s entire front was roasted, his skin crisp like the cracklings Mam had drug out of the coals.

For a few minutes, the flames hung on a knife’s edge, and Han hoped they were winning. Then the flame reared up like a curling wave, driven toward them by the relentless wind. Up, up, up, blotting out the sky, a stooping dragon ready to crash down on top of them. The crowd on the other side of the river screamed out a warning.

Realizing the danger, Han threw up shields, suddenly aware of his depleted supply of flash.

And then, as if by magic, the flames slid backward, collapsing onto the eastern shore in an explosion of sparks.

The wind had died.

It took a moment for the workers on the Southbridge side of the river to notice. They lifted their heads, looked west, and then east. Swiped sweat from their faces. Waited for the wind to spring up again. It did, after a moment, but from the west this time, a friendly breeze that freshened into a gale as it drove the fire back on itself.

Han turned and looked for Dancer. Still embedded in the garden, he shone, brilliant as a lantern in a dark alley, lighting the entire temple close. Cat stood guard over him like a dedicate at a shrine.

Seeing the flames stall and then retreat, the firefighters along the river cheered and redoubled their efforts.

The light changed as clouds rolled down from the Spirits, driven by Dancer’s winds, heavy and black and pregnant with rain. Their undersides glittered with lightning, thunder boomers announcing their arrival. They stacked up over the city, piling higher and higher.

A large raindrop splattered on the pier next to Han. And then another and another, sizzling as they hit the hot stones. At first they evaporated immediately, but they came thick and fast, coagulating into rivers, reverberating on rooftops, and soaking Han to the skin.

Rain! Sweet Lady of Grace, it was raining.

On the Southbridge side, Raisa was tugging a resisting Amon Byrne around in an impromptu dance, her feet in their silly blue-blood slippers splashing through puddles.

And the others joined in—giddy, grimy, scorched celebrants, like blackened scarecrows in a macabre graveyard dance.

The leading edge of the flames dwindled and died, leaving a soggy wasteland studded with pockets of green-and-orange flame where buildings still burned. The fire brigade stormed back to the Ragmarket side, attacking the hot spots with renewed vigor.