The Longest Night: A Drake Chronicles Novella by Alyxandra Harvey Page B

Didn’t he know how fast fires could spread? “There’s
     an injured girl back here. We need to get her out.” She yanked out of his hold, throwing
     him a dark glance over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”
    He followed, grim-faced as the corridor filled steadily with smoke. The flickering
     of the fire in the ballroom seemed to have a curious violet hue. She thought she smelled
     lemon balm and fennel seeds.
    Margaret had managed to push herself up into a half-sitting position. Her cheeks were
     clammy, her eyes red with tears. “I smell smoke,” she said, coughing.
    “It’s all right,” Emma said with more confidence than she felt. “We’ll get you outside
     and with all the smoke someone’s already fetching a doctor, I’m sure.”
    “What’s your name?” Cormac asked.
    “Margaret York.”
    “Gently then, Margaret,” he murmured, bending to scoop her into his arms. She gasped
     when the movement jarred her collarbone. “Sorry, not far now.” His comforting smile
     died when he glanced at Emma. “The door,” he snapped.
    She yanked it open, glaring back at him. If he hadn’t been holding an injured girl,
     she might have thrown a potted orchid at his head. He carried Margaret outside, laying
     her carefully in the grass. He took off his coat and placed it over her for warmth.
    Smoke crept out of the ballroom windows like dark snakes. The lawns were crowded with
     frantic guests. A gentleman in old-fashioned buckled shoes fainted. Footmen raced
     about, opening doors and sweating under their powdered wigs. The light was too bright
     at the windows, the smell of scorched silk wallpaper and paint wafting out. More footmen
     raced from the kitchens with buckets of water.
    “I have to help with the fire,” Cormac said to Margaret. “But you’ll be fine.” He
     turned to Emma. “Can I trust you not to get into any more trouble?” he asked acidly.
     She’d never seen him with a temper. He was usually draped over some girl or another,
     smirking.
    They both watched him go, his white shirt tight over the muscles of his arms and back.
    “He’s divine,” Margaret murmured.
    “He’s a prat,” Emma returned. Margaret just smiled. “I have to make sure my cousins
     are out,” Emma added. “And fetch that doctor for you. Will you be all right here?”
    “As long as I don’t move,” she assured her through gritted teeth.
    Emma went right through the hedge, not bothering to go around it. She found Penelope
     standing on a bench by the fountain looking disgruntled. Mr. Cohen was nowhere to
     be seen. “Have you seen Gretchen?”
    Penelope shook her head. “I was looking for you.”
    “She’s probably still in the library then.” They went around the side of the house.
     Gretchen was always in the library. Not because she loved novels the way Penelope
     did, but because it was the only decent place to hide. She loathed these affairs and
     when she couldn’t avoid them, she snuck away as soon as she could.
    “I hate this ball,” Penelope muttered, sounding more like Gretchen than herself.
    Emma cupped her hands around her eyes, peering through her reflection into the shadowy
     rooms of the Pickford mansion. Penelope climbed into the bushes and did the same.
     The bite of smoke covered the usual smells of Mayfair: horses and roses. “I’ve found
     her.” Emma tapped on the glass.
    On the other side, Gretchen poked her head around a bookcase, frowning. She appeared
     to be holding a pink dog. She pulled open the window. “What on earth are you doing
     out there?”
    “Didn’t you feel the tremors?” Emma asked.
    “A few tremors require you both to stand in the rosebushes?”
    “The house is also on fire,” Emma added. “You might have noticed?”
    “It is?” Gretchen sniffed deeply. A warning bell rang from the front door, alerting
     the watch and the neighbors. If the windpicked up, the fire could spread throughout the city, ravenous and pitiless. Gretchen
     handed the dog