Chapter Seventeen

Snow was falling, but it was tainted by ash and cinder clouds that were drifting through the air. The burning remnants of the home were surrounded by the smell of burned wood. There were still smoke plumes coming from the destroyed walls and fallen beams here and there, rising like ghosts. In the ruins, a rocking horse with brightly colored paint that had blistered and peeled lay on its side. The grand pianoforte was buried beneath the second story stairs while Portia gazed in dumb horror as it collapsed in a hail of sparks.

In front of the home, a little patch of burnt grass was covered in overturned buckets. Evidence that the fire crew had either come too late or given up too soon was a cart with an abandoned hand pump slumped near the street corner, its leather hose twisted up like a defeated snake.

On the other side of the street, a group of weeping servants and Adrian's neighbors gathered, some of them still wearing nightgowns and dressing gowns. Portia could feel the pain of the