Prologue
Lightning flashed, turning night intoday for one brilliant second, and then thunder snapped its jaws into the returning darkness. Girls’ voices rose in consternation. One choked back a sob and another stifled a scream.
Heather Hayes looked around the dormitory room of the Bloomfield Academy for Young Ladies of Quality, where every young lady of quality was hunched and shivering in her own bed. The ten-year-old (almosteleven-year-old) Heather liked to consider herself fearless, but even she had limits, and this storm was testing them.
Another bolt of lightning illuminated the room, highlighting pale faces and big, scared eyes. Heather could hear the sizzle in this one. The strange feeling of electric energy buzzed in the air—but thunder crashed so quickly after the lighting that there was no time to count. The storm must be right above them. The building that housed the school was called Wildwood Hall and Heather suddenly recalled that the corner tower was quite lofty…and undoubtedly a target for lightning.
“The lightning was so bright that time! It will start a fire!” a blonde girl named Daisy whispered.
“Or the rain will flood us out,” her dark-haired friend Camellia grumbled. “Ihaterain.”
On the other side of the room, Rosalind asked, “Is something wrong? Should we not stay here?” Since Rose was blind, she had to rely on the others to report possible dangers, though she of course heard the thunder and knew it was far too close for comfort. Her cousin Poppy crawled out of bed and sat on the edge of Rose’s, taking her hand.
Poppy said, “I’m sure we’ll be fine. Wildwood Hall has stood for a few centuries. One more storm won’t destroy it.” But Poppy looked a lot more worried than she sounded, and she caught Heather’s eye.
Heather nodded, understanding the implicit request. She climbed out of her own bed, her feet briefly chilled by the stone floor until she found her slippers.
“Why don’t I just have a peek at the rest of the building?” she said, knowing that the others were too nervous to venture forth or (in Poppy’s case) had to stay in the bedroom to maintain the calm.
Heather reached for her robe, which hung from a hook near the bed. It was rather too thin for the season, but she didn’t much care at this point. If indeed the place was going to burn down, she’d be warm enough then, wouldn’t she?
Meanwhile, Camellia had struggled to light a candle from the embers of the fire, and finally the flame caught. She offered the candle in its pewter holder to Heather.
“Be careful!” Camellia said. “Do you want company?”
“Rot!” Heather said, trying out a term she’d only heard servants use. It made her feel a little bolder. Shedidwant company, but she wouldn’t make her friends suffer. Only one person needed to look. “You all stay here. I’ll be back in a few moments.”
Once in the dark hallways, Heather’s fear surged forth again. Shadows leapt with every flicker of her candle flame, and the storm clawed at the windows like a great beast.
“Just a storm,” she told herself. “Just wind and water. Nothing magic, nothing people haven’t faced before.”
Thunder growled in response, and Heather moved to the side of the hall that had no windows.
No one else seemed to be up. There were other dormitories (the school usually had around twenty girls as students), but they were located in other parts of the building. No adults roamed the halls either. How could anyone sleep in this storm? Or were even the teachers cowering under the covers?
Heather tried to picture it—the regal Mrs. Bloomfield or the fearsome Mrs. Cannon pulling a blanket over her head—but simply couldn’t imagine such a thing.
She reached the main foyer from the upper hallway and felt a breeze on her cheeks. Odd. The candle guttered, and Heather cupped her hand around the flame to protect it. Rounding a corner, she found the double doors to the main study hall blown outward, with the wind rushing through. Had a window broken in the storm?
She got closer, puzzling about a glow coming from the room. The strange glow flickered, but not as lighting flickers. It was almost like… “Fire!” Heather whispered.
She rushed in to confront a blaze centered near the fireplace. The wind must have pushed down the chimney and blown the embers onto the floor.
“Fire!” she screamed out. “Everyone, wake up! There’s a fire in the study hall!” She cast about for a way to extinguish the flames. She ran to a window nearer the fire and opened it. But the rain that pelted her didn’t hit the fire…it angled the wrong way!
She needed waternow. There was a teapot left on a desk. She hefted it and found it was full. She flung the cold tea on the fire, which steamed and sizzled where the liquid struck, but otherwise roared on.
Heather realized that defeating the blaze would not be an easy feat. Still yelling to warn the others, she pulled away the furniture, clearing the area around the fire to deny it fuel. But the smoke was already pluming up, making it difficult to breathe.
Then Heather remembered Mrs. Bloomfield saying that fire was like a living thing—it also breathed. It wanted air, and if smothered, it would eventually suffocate.
She pulled hard at the rug near her feet and with a sudden strength borne of fear she yanked the whole heavy rug free and flung it onto the flames, then hurled herself atop it, forcing it to settle over the fire.
Heat overwhelmed her skin and she cried out as the discomfort grew into pain. Then a strong arm pulled her upwards by the shoulder and voices surrounded her. Grown-up voices, reassuring in their authority.
“Throw the water there, and there! You, toss that sand at the edge.” It was Mrs. Cannon, marshaling her forces like a general.
“Heather, are you all right?” That was Mrs. Bloomfield’s voice, and Heather was folded into the embrace of the headmistress. She sagged against the adult body, relieved to be out of the fray.
