The moment they touched, she burst into flames. Her body, hair, and clothes dissolved in a hot, suffocating mass of light and smoke. Sano cried out, awakening with a start in his bedchamber. But the acrid odor remained; the crackling sound grew louder. The suffocating sensation didn’t abate. Dense smoke and an eerie orange light filled the room. Coughs wracked Sano’s chest; his eyes stung. This was no dream. The ringing bell was the fire alarm. The house was burning. Aoi’s spirit had warned him.

Stumbling to his feet, Sano lurched across the room, coughing and gasping. He banged into walls and furniture before his groping hands found a door and opened it. A wave of heat struck him as he saw he’d mistaken an interior door for the one leading to the outer corridor and garden. Along the passage and in the room opposite his bedchamber, flames licked at walls and withered paper partitions. Billowing smoke forced corrosive fumes into Sano’s lungs; his throat burned. Holding his sleeve over his nose and mouth, he ran back into the bedchamber, where the floor mats, painted mural, and paper windows blazed.

Suddenly the room’s exterior wall crashed inward, and Sano saw flames leaping in the outer corridor. The crackling noise heightened to a roar, punctuated by thuds and crashes. He dared not negotiate the corridors, where the fire could trap him or falling timbers crush him to death. Shielding his head with his arms, he rushed through the inferno in the outer corridor. Intense heat seared his skin; the burning tatami charred his stockinged feet. His hem caught fire in a woosh of flame. The smoke blinded him. Then he burst through the ruined wall and into the blessedly cool, fresh night air. He fell into the garden and rolled to extinguish the flames that engulfed him.

“Fire!” he yelled, his voice hoarse from the smoke. A coughing fit overwhelmed him. Sitting up, he retched and spat. The mansion’s roof blazed. Sparks flew upward like brilliant orange birds; sails of black smoke fanned the sky. “Help, fire!”

From outside the garden wall came shouts, running footsteps, and the insistent clang of the firebell. The Nagasaki fire brigade, clad in leather cloaks and visored helmets, burst through the gate. They conveyed buckets down a line from a well in the street, brought ladders, climbed to the roof, and splashed water on the burning thatch. With long picks, they pulled down the ruined mansion to keep the fire from spreading. The commander approached Sano.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said. “Better get out in the street, where it’s safe. Here, I’ll help you.”

“The servants,” Sano gasped, pointing toward the mansion’s back wing, which was now consumed by flames. “We have to save them!”

He would have sped to the rescue, but the commander held him back. “It’s too late. There’s nothing anyone can do.”