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No. No, no, no.

Not the baker's. Of all the bloody buildings in London, it has to be the one I've spent decades trying to find. I've travelled halfway around the world, eaten more disappointing pastries than I care to remember, and now, when I've finally found a mutton pasty worth every one of its three molars, the whole damned bakery is burning to the ground.

“Oh, for pox's sake!”

I scramble away from the window and make straight for the chair, snatching up a pair of breeches and a loose linen shirt. There's no chance I'm wrestling myself back into that gown, and I'm still tugging the shirt over my head as I turn towards Iscairn.

“Get your boots on!”

Because I'll be damned if I'm letting the best baker in London go up in flames without at least trying to do something about it.

“Ophelia,” Iscairn says, pulling on his shirt, “I believe there are people in danger.”

“And there are perfectly good pasties in danger, too!” I snap, struggling to fasten my breeches. “Not to mention the poor sod who makes them.”

A chuckle rumbles from his chest, though the sound is soon drowned out by more shouting from the street. I glance towards the window, where flames are rising above the rooftops near Pudding Lane, sending little showers of sparks into the night.

That really is quite a fire.

The street is filling with people, some rushing towards the blaze with buckets while others are making desperate attempts to carry their belongings away from it.

The houses are packed so close together that there's hardly room to squeeze a cart between them, never mind get a fire of that size under control. Last year, half those doors bore black crosses, and I remember the souls we tended when the pestilence was at its worst. Some of those families have barely had time to put their lives back together, and now there's a big great fire only streets away from them.

Half the neighbourhood could be gone by morning.

Iscairn comes to stand beside me, his shirt still hanging loose at the throat, and we watch the sparks scatter across the rooftops. His amusement has vanished, and when he turns towards me, the look on his face tells me he's thinking much the same thing.

There's going to be an awful lot of work for us tonight.

“We'd better take the satchels,” I murmur, stepping away from the window. “And whatever clean linen we've got. Christ knows how many burns we'll be tending before morning.”

Downstairs, Iscairn gathers our instruments while I pack the salves and bandages into my bag. The shouting outside grows louder, and the smell of burning timber has already reached the shop. By the time we're ready, he's tied back his hair with its black ribbon and is waiting beside the door, his satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Well,” I mutter, settling my satchel against my hip, “so much for a quiet evening.”

Iscairn opens the door, and the noise from the street rushes in. People scramble past us, some hurrying toward Pudding Lane with leather buckets while others struggle past in their nightclothes, clutching whatever belongings they've managed to gather.

I step out beside him, and together we make our way towards the shouting.

At least this time nobody's threatening to burn u

EPILOGUE

DOCTOR ISCAIRN, GLOUCESTER, 1802

The train slows with a series of jolts before coming to a halt, and by the time I step down onto the platform, great clouds of steam are drifting past the carriage windows. Ophelia appears in the doorway a moment later, gathering the skirts of her travelling gown as she takes my offered hand, and I help her down while the porters hurry past us, calling to one another above the hiss of the locomotive.

We have travelled by railway since the first passenger lines opened, though I still find it remarkable that a journey which once demanded several days on horseback can now be accomplished in a matter of hours. Ophelia is rather less impressed by the achievement, particularly when obliged to share a compartment with strangers, and ordinarily would have spent much of the journey complaining about the uncomfortable seats or the gentleman who insisted upon coughing into his newspaper.

Today, however, she has been unusually quiet.

She has brought me seventy miles across the country without offering the slightest explanation, and whenever I have attempted to discover where we are going, she has merely smiled and assured me that I shall find out soon enough.

I am no wiser when we leave the station, where a carriage is waiting to take us onwards. The driver greets Ophelia as though he has been expecting her, and I help her inside before settling opposite her as we set off through the town. She busies herself with arranging her skirts, apparently determined to ignore my questioning looks, and I eventually resign myself to watching the unfamiliar streets pass beyond the window.

It is only when the carriage turns into a quieter road that the Abbey bells reach me, their tolling carrying above the rattle of the wheels. I turn towards the sound, and there, rising beyond the rooftops, stands a great Norman tower I would recognise anywhere.

Tewkesbury Abbey.