I heard the shattering of glass as I approached the tavern. It was dark inside, lit only by two hurricane lamps, but I could make out overturned tables, bits of broken chairs, and cutlery strewn about. Whatever fight had broken out here was done and over with, save for one figure behind the bar.
Prudence Latheton scurried back and forth, smashing bottles of liquor with a manic zeal. Her eyes were crazed with a righteous fervor, and her laughter spurted, as deep as a bullfrog’s cry.
I stepped inside. The room reeked of spirits and sour mash. It was a wonder the entire building hadn’t already gone up in flames, as thoroughly doused as it was.
Prudence swung at a cask of ale with a hatchet of her own, and split open the oaken barrel with a cackle. I knocked into a fallen chair, and she froze, her movements sharp and alert.
“What are you doing in here?” I dared to ask, tightening the hold on my wooden handle. It was a risk, engaging her, but she might know where I needed to be.
“The Lord’s work,” she said proudly, striking the cask again.
I took an uneasy step closer. “Have you seen my sisters? Or Samuel?”
She raised one dubious eyebrow. “They found him hiding away like a worm at Bryson’s ranch. Carried him out kicking and screaming all the way to the stocks. I imagine he’s still there. What’s left of him anyway.”
“He’s dead?”
The words fell from me, dropping clumsily free.
Sam dead.
It didn’t seem possible. He was my twin, the other half of myself. Shouldn’t I have felt the moment when he left the world, without me by his side?
She shrugged, unconcerned.
“Prudence, please! What happened?”
“The parson wants to perform a cleansing, or some such nonsense. Says we need to make his soul right before he’s sentenced. Me, I’m grateful he dared to bring the devil here. It let us see everything clearly, let us cleanse ourselves.” She picked up a bottle of wine, examining it through slit eyes, before smashing it against the counter.
Pieces of glass ricocheted out and struck one of the lanterns farther down the bar. It teetered on the edge for a moment before shattering. The wick landed in a puddle of spirits. In a flash, they caught fire. Flames raced along the floorboards, up the bar, heading toward Prudence. She let out a scream as the fire licked at her sodden skirts.
“We have to get out of here!” I cried, grabbing a towel to stamp out the blaze.
“No! No! Not until every bottle of this devil’s brew has been destroyed!” she protested.
“The fire will take care of that. Come with me!” She squirmed and twisted in my grasp, and I lost hold of my hatchet. It clattered to the floor and was kicked under a pile of debris as Prudence fought against me.
“Let me go!” she screeched, running back to the bar. “They must be stopped. They must be—”
A burst of fire blasted out from the counter, cutting off any words Prudence might ever have uttered again. The explosion threw us backward. I landed painfully on an upturned table, cracking my head against its leg.
The room went black.
Consciousness came back to me in little stirrings of awareness. The sharp scent of burning timber. The flicker of the dancing flames. But I was unable to move, too stunned to feel the building heat, too disoriented to save myself from the approaching inferno.
All I could do was watch.
Watch the angry golden red.
Watch the biting orange.
Watch.
Was it so very awful, sitting back and watching? There was a peace to it. An acceptance. It removed me from the situation, letting me examine it with an impassive detachment. I could almost understand its mesmerizing appeal.
It was so easy.
No.
My fingers twitched first, skittering over the motionless form of Prudence Latheton, searching for any sign of life. With a dazed groan, I pulled myself forward. The room swam in and out of focus. The furniture wouldn’t stay still, and there were too many fires before me to make sense of where they were spreading.
How long had I been out?
Slowly my eyesight returned; the twin series of flames merged back together. The room was full of smoke, too murky to see through, and I had to feel about the floor for my hatchet. It couldn’t have fallen far from me. Where was it?
At last, my fingers made out the metal curve of the head, and I strained to bring it closer.
Above me, the rafters groaned, too much weight supported on beams too far ravaged. When one splintered apart, sending fiery detritus down upon me, I bolted from the burning tavern as fast as my unsteady feet could carry me.
Down one street.
Down another.
I stumbled toward the church, pulled along by my unwavering belief that Sam was still alive. That I would find him, find my sisters, and that we all would somehow make it through this.
House after ruined house.
Wagons caught on fire.
Stinking messes of soot and charred flesh.
I hoped they were animals.
I couldn’t bear to think of what else they could have been.
The Gathering House was nearly gone. The Founder Tree was a dark silhouette in front of a corona of flames. Its stumps seemed to reach up into the sky, begging for relief, begging for release.
I understood how it ached.
What would happen when it finally gave up the ghost, collapsing in a final pile of ash and soot? It had been the start of the Falls. Would its demise signal the town’s end as well?
As I turned onto Sycamore Lane, an unexpected sight met my eyes.
There, surrounded by the smoldering husks of other homes, was the parsonage, seemingly untouched. My heart swelled with unrealistic hope. Perhaps my sisters had been taken here. Perhaps they were tucked away within those blessed walls, safe and untouched by the raging storm outside. Perhaps they—
A scream from within ripped apart my foolish thoughts before I could even start to wish them.
It throbbed, its vibrato standing the hairs of my arms on end. There was pain, yes, but something even darker, a primal urging of despair and grit, resolution and forbearance. It trailed off, as ragged as a torn cloth, only to mount again, louder and even more piercing than before.
“Rebecca?” I murmured, recognizing some small scrap of her in that horrible tone. What were they doing to her?
I pushed my way through the front door without knocking. Letitia Briard’s parlor was an oasis after the horrors outside. Lanterns glowed cheerfully, and not a bit of furniture was out of place. There was even a tea tray laid out, cups still steaming, as if their owners had only just stepped away. When a volley of groans rose from the back bedroom, feverish and pounding into my temples, I almost wanted to laugh at the absurd juxtaposition.