The Headmistress of Rosemere by Sarah E Ladd Page B

thrown on the fire. Over and over they repeated the action. But their efforts were of little consequence. It seemed the more they tried to tame the fire, the angrier the blaze grew, rising higher and burning brighter.
    She was about to dive back into the trees when a hand caught the crook of her arm. She whirled around. George stood close, perspiration gleaming on his wrinkled brow, soot darkening his white beard.
    He coughed. “It’s too far gone, Miss.”
    Her instinct screamed to ignore him. She turned to go back to the river, but his arm stopped her again, his grip tighter this time. “Miss Creighton. You must stop. Someone will get hurt.”
    Patience tried to breathe, but the smoke was so intense, each breath burned tighter than the last. The teachers and staff were standing in a group behind them. She watched as the giant orangeand amber tentacles devoured the structure. The far side of the building had already collapsed in a charred and fiery heap.
    She pressed her eyes shut. She could not watch the burning. Her thoughts turned to her father. He’d taken such pride in the school grounds. Would he have been able to prevent this? Would he have handled it differently?
    Defeat was apparent. She looked back at Rosemere, grateful for the broad distance between the two buildings. For the time being, there was little danger of the fire spreading. The fire cast odd, long shapes on the school, and she looked to the second floor. There she could see the silhouette of someone watching from a window. Her mother.
    She turned back to the stable and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. A sob nearly choked her.
    It might only be the stable, but it symbolized so much more to her. The school—her home—was dying . . . she was losing her father all over again. And regardless of her efforts, she was powerless to save it. She looked back at her mother’s form. Powerless to save so many things.
    Behind her, the girls had gathered in the courtyard. She knew them so well. She scanned their faces, then frowned.
    Something was wrong.
    She began to count.
    She counted again.
    Suddenly, with a jolt as jarring as first seeing the fire, panic bubbled up as sharply as if the blaze had scorched her skin.
    Patience cried, “Where is Emma?”

8
     
    R iley’s departure had been as sudden as his arrival. But the visit had been the distraction William needed. Ready to give way to slumber, William stood and stretched the kinks from his still-sore muscles.
    The sound of a horse’s hooves echoed on the drive.
    “Mr. Sterling!” The sudden shout of his name by a youthful voice rose above the thunder of pounding hooves.
    Interest piqued, William hurried from the library, the heels of his top boots clicking on the vestibule’s stone floor. Not waiting for Cecil, he unlatched the wooden front door and swung it open on iron hinges. The faint scent of smoke and burning wood struck him as odd. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickled.
    “Mr. Sterling!” The boy slid from the horse’s bare back and ran toward him, eyes wide. It was the boy from Rosemere. He wore no coat, no shoes. Black smeared his cheeks. His breath came in ragged huffs.
    William grabbed the horse’s bridle to steady the anxious animal. “What is it?”
    The boy thrust his arm in the direction of Rosemere. “Stable is burning, sir. George sent me to fetch the water wagon.”
    It was at that moment the pungent odor of burning wood smacked him. William drew a sharp breath as every muscle in his back tensed. “Burning?”
    “It’s almost to the ground, sir.”
    “What about the house?”
    “Not yet, but George said to get the water wagon right quick.”
    William sprang into action, the memory of the girls he had seen on the lawn earlier flooding his thoughts. Lewis, alerted by the commotion and the smoke, ran from his quarters inside the stables, pushing an arm through a woolen coat and jamming a hat on his head.
    With sudden energy and purpose, William