“Penwell.” Sybil turned her knees toward me and rested her hands on top of mine.
I couldn’t hold her gaze. My eyes dropped to our fingers and stayed there.
“You are a blessing,” she said. “To your family, your community, to the man you love… And I’m certain Paneus himself looks on you with favor. It sounds like you have a lot in common.”
I’d started unveiling painful truths, and now I wasn’t ready to stop. I couldn’t abide the thought of stealing from this kind woman, from this town. I wanted to believe what she said was true, and it wouldn’t be if we went through with this.
I worked my jaw, trying to think of some way to come clean without dire consequence when the sound of glass breaking interrupted my thoughts. I leaped up, nearly dumping my sketchbook on the floor as I turned toward the sound. It was nearby, so close it was practically in the room with us.
Sybil stood, too, and we looked in unison toward her sleeping quarters. Flames raced along the bottom of the curtain divider, eating up the fabric. It spread impossibly fast, chasing the streams of what must have been oil along the wood floor. Then I saw it: a broken lamp in the midst of the fire, leaking fluid that ran toward us like fingers stretching out, intending to grab hold.
I yelped and stumbled backward into the table while Sybil rushed to the kitchen sink. She snatched the kettle off the stove and thrust it under the faucet while working the pump with her free hand, beginning to fill it while thick, black smoke clouded the air.
“No!” I shouted at her. Water on an oil fire was an explosive combination, and her kettle couldn’t possibly hold enough to battle what was quickly becoming an inferno.
She kept at it, bent over the sink with her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold the kettle. I stuffed my sketchbook back into my satchel and called to her again. I wanted to run, far and fast, but I couldn’t abandon her to the blaze.
The straw bed was consumed, and tongues of fire licked up the papered walls. Getting closer, smoke increasingly black andtarry. I could feel it invading my lungs. The stench of charred, ruined things. My hands twinged, remembering these smells and sights far too well. This wasn’t the barn, and Sybil wasn’t Sayla, but no amount of reasoning could quell the panic that swelled inside me until I burst.
“Sayla, please!” The words ripped up my throat.
It wasn’t the right name, and the Symbiarch didn’t respond to it. Instead, she spun toward the fire, flinging the water and the kettle along with it. The flames hissed and sputtered, then raged back stronger, and I finally broke free of the terror that paralyzed me.
Racing forward, I caught Sybil by the arm. She looked at me with her eyes wide and teary.
“What’s happened?” she asked. “Who would do this?”
I shook my head and pulled, determined to drag her if I had to. I wasn’t a scrawny nine-year-old this time, and the fire hadn’t touched me yet. It wouldn’t. I would get us both out of here.
The Symbiarch stumbled after me, tethered by my bruising grip, as I turned us toward the door. Before I reached it, it burst inward to reveal Kit in the frame. His eyes were wild, and dark curls were plastered to his face. He surveyed the scene before locking his gaze onto mine.
Behind him, the sound of shattering glass barely registered over my relief.
It took all my composure not to release Sybil and throw myself at him. But, on the heels of relief at the idea of help was the fear of him being close to the uncontrolled fire.
“Go, Kit!” I shouted, sounding more angry than scared as I bolted forward with Sybil in tow.
He backpedaled out of the way, and the three of us burst into the main room of the mission, where Kit turned toward the front door but stopped short. I’d expected the fire to be contained to Sybil’s living quarters, but it was here, too. A second lantern layin the entry, pooling oil and fire that spread just as quickly as it had in the bedroom.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Sybil wailed.
My hands throbbed from holding on so tight. I must have been hurting her, too, but my muscles were locked up, tensed to the point of trembling. Kit hadn’t gone far, and he reached out and caught my wrist.
“The infirmary!” he called out and pointed to the open door and, just beyond it, the long windows overlooking the row of beds.
Kit took the lead then, charging toward the infirmary while towing Sybil and me. His fingers cinched down, too, unwilling to chance a slip, and I found small comfort in the pressure. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t hurt and bawling for Father and Mother while I watched my sister burn. This wasn’t the barn. Itwasn’t.
But, as much as I wanted to run, my legs felt weak and wobbly, and every gasp at the smoky air choked me. I made it to the infirmary in a blur of watery eyes and coughs that drove breath out more quickly than I could get it in. But I held onto Sybil, and Kit held onto me.
Until he didn’t.
He broke free, and I called after him, wasting precious air.
I didn’t have time to give chase before I saw his intention. There was a wooden chair positioned at the nearest bedside, and he hefted it up, then turned it toward the window. I flinched aside to shield my eyes and Sybil’s seconds before I heard the glass pop.
“You first, Pen,” Kit said, grabbing my elbow this time. “You'll need to catch her.”
I didn't fully understand, only half thinking and stumbling as Kit urged me onto the bed, standing so I could climb through the short, wide window.
