row of crates.
The crash behind me sent wood flying and flames blazing up to the ceiling.
Guinevere grabbed me the moment she reached me at the end of the crates, and the three of us stumbled toward the side door of the warehouse.
Flames flickered into the air like hundreds of burning fireflies.
The ceiling was creaking and I knew that if we did not get out soon the ceiling would come down upon us.
Sam had pulled off his gag and pressed it against Guinevere’s mouth, but there was nothing against his. He was ingesting too much smoke, but he never stopped.
When we reached the barrels, I made it over, and helped Guinevere over. The one Sam stood on to get himself over rocked and Sam dropped back, striking his head on the hard floor. He looked up at me and blinked several times before his eyes began to roll back in his head.
Throwing down Guinevere’s handkerchief, I grabbed Sam’s waist and pulled him up. My arms tensed painfully as I pulled Sam toward the door, for Sam was a good deal larger than myself.
My head felt light, like the detached feeling that comes with a fever and influenza. Pushing through the aching and the darkness that was on the fringe of my vision, we got Sam to the door that was covered in smoke, but where the fire had not yet reached. I did not know how I was going to get us out, but I would try everything I could.
The fire was crackling as it burned the crates, but I refused to look behind me. At the door, I set Sam down carefully then pulled, pushed, and beat against the door. I tried shouting for help, but all my voice would do was crack. Guinevere’s voice was not any better.
Her knees were too weak to keep her up and she dropped to her knees as if her legs were made of jam. I pounded against the door with my fist, wanting to shout, but no sounds could be heard.
Sam began to shift, and then with a renewed strength he sat up. Dropping down before him, I felt around his head for a wound. He knocked my hands away as he glanced toward the door. I shook my head.
Sam motioned toward Guinevere, and at once I moved to kneel before her. She looked a moment away from a panic, and I was sure that she would be crying if she could form tears.
“I do not want to die,” she whispered.
“Focus upon me, Constance,” I said. “Stay with me.”
This was not the end, surely, but thoughts of our short life together filled my mind. Even though it had not been perfect, it had been the closest thing to perfection that I had ever experienced. Her brown hair was shorter than most women wore, she liked to have her own way far too often, but her purple eyes were exquisite, and her kisses could cause a fire to burn inside me. She was not perfect, but her imperfections made me love her all the more.
Holding my wife in my arms, I knew that if we had to go, this was the only way. Together.
The door jerked, and began to slide open. Sam, who had been trying to get the door open, stumbled as the door opened just enough for the smoke to pour outside. Sam disappeared from my view, and then hands grabbed me and pulled me outside. I tried to say my wife’s name, but nothing came out of my mouth. I looked up into my rescuer’s face and recognized my father.
Dudley helped Guinevere out of the warehouse and together the five of us moved down the alley. I could hear the bells from the fire brigade before I saw the wagon arrive, but sailors were trying to fight the fire that was too far gone.
Sam’s warehouse was destroyed.
CHAPTER 5
GUINEVERE
W e arrived at Bess’s house to chaos. They had heard about the fire and Abe, one of the Charleston Phantoms, was trying to keep Bess from charging out into the night. A daunting task for anyone.
Elizabeth Mason was a woman whose unexpected beauty could overshadow a room. Her brown hair was laying in waves to her shoulders and her brown eyes were full of tears as she hugged her brother. She was tall for a woman, but it was her presence, her elegance despite her
The crash behind me sent wood flying and flames blazing up to the ceiling.
Guinevere grabbed me the moment she reached me at the end of the crates, and the three of us stumbled toward the side door of the warehouse.
Flames flickered into the air like hundreds of burning fireflies.
The ceiling was creaking and I knew that if we did not get out soon the ceiling would come down upon us.
Sam had pulled off his gag and pressed it against Guinevere’s mouth, but there was nothing against his. He was ingesting too much smoke, but he never stopped.
When we reached the barrels, I made it over, and helped Guinevere over. The one Sam stood on to get himself over rocked and Sam dropped back, striking his head on the hard floor. He looked up at me and blinked several times before his eyes began to roll back in his head.
Throwing down Guinevere’s handkerchief, I grabbed Sam’s waist and pulled him up. My arms tensed painfully as I pulled Sam toward the door, for Sam was a good deal larger than myself.
My head felt light, like the detached feeling that comes with a fever and influenza. Pushing through the aching and the darkness that was on the fringe of my vision, we got Sam to the door that was covered in smoke, but where the fire had not yet reached. I did not know how I was going to get us out, but I would try everything I could.
The fire was crackling as it burned the crates, but I refused to look behind me. At the door, I set Sam down carefully then pulled, pushed, and beat against the door. I tried shouting for help, but all my voice would do was crack. Guinevere’s voice was not any better.
Her knees were too weak to keep her up and she dropped to her knees as if her legs were made of jam. I pounded against the door with my fist, wanting to shout, but no sounds could be heard.
Sam began to shift, and then with a renewed strength he sat up. Dropping down before him, I felt around his head for a wound. He knocked my hands away as he glanced toward the door. I shook my head.
Sam motioned toward Guinevere, and at once I moved to kneel before her. She looked a moment away from a panic, and I was sure that she would be crying if she could form tears.
“I do not want to die,” she whispered.
“Focus upon me, Constance,” I said. “Stay with me.”
This was not the end, surely, but thoughts of our short life together filled my mind. Even though it had not been perfect, it had been the closest thing to perfection that I had ever experienced. Her brown hair was shorter than most women wore, she liked to have her own way far too often, but her purple eyes were exquisite, and her kisses could cause a fire to burn inside me. She was not perfect, but her imperfections made me love her all the more.
Holding my wife in my arms, I knew that if we had to go, this was the only way. Together.
The door jerked, and began to slide open. Sam, who had been trying to get the door open, stumbled as the door opened just enough for the smoke to pour outside. Sam disappeared from my view, and then hands grabbed me and pulled me outside. I tried to say my wife’s name, but nothing came out of my mouth. I looked up into my rescuer’s face and recognized my father.
Dudley helped Guinevere out of the warehouse and together the five of us moved down the alley. I could hear the bells from the fire brigade before I saw the wagon arrive, but sailors were trying to fight the fire that was too far gone.
Sam’s warehouse was destroyed.
CHAPTER 5
GUINEVERE
W e arrived at Bess’s house to chaos. They had heard about the fire and Abe, one of the Charleston Phantoms, was trying to keep Bess from charging out into the night. A daunting task for anyone.
Elizabeth Mason was a woman whose unexpected beauty could overshadow a room. Her brown hair was laying in waves to her shoulders and her brown eyes were full of tears as she hugged her brother. She was tall for a woman, but it was her presence, her elegance despite her
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