He had lost consciousness, which meant he wasn’t put off by the great hole in his office floor, the fire crawling across the wood, or the creaking of the flame-scorched beams beneath our feet. The rope was stubborn. The knife was dull. The fire crept closer.

It took a lifetime, but I freed the captain from the chair. I slapped his face and cried his name, but he would not wake. I refused to watch Galen Copeland die a second time. I held the blade of the knife in the nearest patch of fire, and when it glowed a hellish orange I pressed it against the sleeping sailor’s forearm. He awoke to the sound of his own flesh burning, a savage scream in his throat.

“Curse me later,” I said. “It is time to leave.”

We started for the stairs. After two steps, I was sobbing through the smoke. After three, the floor buckled.

“Is there a fire escape?” I said.

“Not one I trust.”

“Then we jump.”

“Are you mad?”

I didn’t answer, and I didn’t let go of his hand. I just leapt through the flaming hole in the floor and dragged him with me. Neither of us landed well. Ankles were twisted and knees were bruised. But the air was cleaner here, and the pain in our lungs began to ebb. We were doing fine.

“Miss,” said Copeland. “You’re on fire.”

Before I could process that, or link it to the searing pain in my shoulder and the scent of burning hair, I was swallowed by darkness—darkness that smelled of burnt wool, starch, and cheap soap. Copeland’s hands beat out the flames but did not remove the jacket until we got to the stairwell. We took the stairs as quickly as our battered legs allowed and arrived on the street just as the third floor collapsed into the second. At first I thought the crowd was cheering for us, but they were simply rooting on the fire.

The crisp October air flooded my lungs like rain on a dry field. The fruit vendor reached under his tarp and produced a pair of green apples.

“Nice and tart,” he said. “Get the smoke out of your mouth.”

I didn’t think that would ever be possible. My hair was scorched, my hand was throbbing, the bandage on my face had come loose, and my dress was so burnt, you could hardly see the bloodstains.

“We need some oysters,” said Copeland, striding toward the docks. I threw my bag over my shoulder and followed. He limped badly. Most of his hair had burned away. His eyes were crimson and viscous slime streamed from his nose.

“They took her—they took her on the river,” I said. “My father too. We have to get after them.”

“Your father? Who is your father?”

“Virgil Carr.”

It shook him. He broke his stride, looked in my eyes, and swept me up in his arms.