London

Partway up Pudding Lane stood a large house owned by a merchant supplier called Thomas Farriner. He rose during the night to empty his bladder, then, driven by some presentiment, walked through the house, checking each of his ovens and hearths in turn.

All were safe, either covered with ceramic curfews or with their coals smothered under a thick layer of ash. He paused for the longest time before the baking oven, staring at it, unable to shake off his foreboding.

The baking oven stared back at him, cool and innocent.

Farriner chewed his lower lip, checked for the fourth time that the door to the oven was tightly closed, then walked yet one more time about his house, this time checking not only the hearths and ovens, but that all windows were tightly shuttered against draughts.

All was well.

Finally, Farriner went back to bed, lying down beside his wife, and closing his eyes.

He was unable to sleep.

Yet, even so, Farriner did not hear the soft footfall of the goddess within his house, and did not hear her open the baking oven’s door, and whisper into it words of power and darkcraft.

The merchant stirred only a half hour later, when the flames had already taken hold, and he heard their vicious crackle sweeping up the stairs.

He leapt to his feet, and raced to the head of the stairs.

The entire lower half of the house was encased in flames. As he stood, staring, too shocked and appalled for the moment to move, he heard the dull thud of an explosion in his cellar as tubs of tar and of fine brandy exploded.

“Get your wife,” said a soft voice in his ear, “and your children and maidservants, and escape as quickly as you may through the attic window into your neighbour’s house. There, hasten to raise the alarum, and tell your neighbours to gather their goods, and flee.”

Farriner stared at the lovely woman standing at his elbow. He thought she might be an angel, or perhaps—far more likely—a temptress risen with the flames from hell.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why have you done this?”

“To level the dancing floor,” she replied, “and to rebuild it to my needs. Now, go! Go, for the Death Crone creeps up your stairwell in those flames.”

With that, Farriner fled, screaming to his wife and children and servants.

In later weeks, when Parliament convened an inquiry into the fire, Farriner only told them that he had risen during the night to check the ovens and hearths.

He did not mention the woman, or what she had said to him, for he well understood that, in the hysteria and the search for a scapegoat following the Great Destruction, there were some things better left unsaid.

Over the next twenty-four hours Noah and Weyland moved slowly through the city. Noah was exhausted, and Weyland stayed close by her side. He did all he could to support her, but he could not help her, for Noah used all three aspects of her power to control the flames which now ravaged through the eastern portion of London: her darkcraft to fuel the flames, and to speed the unnatural easterly wind that fanned them; her powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth to dictate what path the flames must take; and her powers as Eaving, goddess of the waters, to slow the flames enough that citizens had time to escape from their homes, not merely with their lives, but with all their belongings as well.

London was tinder-dry. Its buildings were largely constructed of timber and lathe plaster, and its cellars—particularly along the waterfront—were packed with casks of flammable materials: pitch, spirits, canvas, hemp and rope. By rights the city should have exploded.

That it didn’t, and that over the three days that the fire crept slowly westwards only six people lost their lives, was due almost solely to Noah’s efforts in keeping it constrained, and secondly to Gog and Magog’s unceasing efforts to whisper into people’s minds, to encourage them to leave, and to herd them ever forward into safer fields.

The Great Fire was constrained, but not containable.

As Noah and Gog and Magog fought to save lives, the thousands of water sprites who had crept into the city at the start of the fire worked tirelessly (and with the utmost joy, for this was mischief such as they adored) to make sure no one could put the fire out.

London had burned on many occasions, and thus the city was well prepared for that moment when first the alarum was screamed into the night.

The Lord Mayor arrived on the scene and, while he privately commented to a friend that he thought a woman might piss the fire out, he nonetheless made sure the fire watches were roused and the fire engines summoned. Both watches and engines duly arrived, bucket brigades hastily set up, and fire engines—marvellous contraptions of hand-held pumps and reservoirs—carried with much huffing and puffing up stairs to attack the fire from above.

But, unseen by all those who thronged the streets—either fleeing or crowding about to gawp—water sprites wriggled everywhere. Their tiny, deft, sharp fingers sprang leaks in the leather buckets and pushed wads of sodden tobacco into the machinations of the fire engines so that they stopped. Others wormed their way into the city’s reservoirs and turned the cocks, so that all supplies of emergency water to the city were halted.

When, in desperation, the fire watches started to pull down buildings in order to create firebreaks, the water sprites took great lungfuls of air, and blew fireballs into the sky so that fire rained down behind the firebreaks.

The fire spread, slowly, inexorably, west and north-westwards, consuming almost the entire part of the old city, and setting the dead in the city churchyards to flaming like candles. Gradually, the fire moved in a pincer movement towards the cathedral of St Paul’s.

On the third day, Tuesday, as the crackling flames drew near to the cathedral, Catling roused, and hissed.

Then she picked up her length of red wool, and twisted it through her fingers.

Since the start of the fire, St Dunstan’s-in-the-East had been guarded by the scholars of Westminster School, led by their dean, John Dolben. Tense and wary, they were nonetheless relieved as the fire spread ever westwards, away from the ancient church.

On Tuesday morning, flames crept eastwards, against the prevailing wind, directly for Idol Lane. It was as if some malevolent hand directed them, for surely no natural fire could move thus.

Nothing that the watch at St Dunstan’s could do managed to stay the flames. They were so concentrated in one snapping, frenzied river of fury which was so inexplicably purposeful that Dolben finally ordered the scholars to stand back. It was better to watch the ancient church burn than to lose lives.

They gathered in the churchyard, sombre youths and men, their faces drained and smudged with soot, as that strange river of fire roared into Idol Lane.

“God have mercy on all of us,” muttered Dolben, “for I fear the Devil himself directs that fire.”

The fire had flowed to a point just north of the church. Then, as all watched, it suddenly, violently, inexplicably, exploded eastwards.

Directly into Weyland Orr’s house.

The house detonated with such a frightful roar that the blast threw Dolben and his scholars off their feet—at least five of the scholars fractured limbs or skulls as they impacted on headstones. By the time Dolben gained his feet, shaking his head clear of the effects of the blast, Orr’s house had vanished inside a tower of flame.

The next instant, the top of the house erupted as if it were a volcano. Flames and molten stone burst over the entire area, and Dolben threw himself once more to the ground, sure that this time he would be killed.

And yet once again not only he, but all his charges, survived.

Unbelievingly, Dolben raised his face out of the hot earth.

Before him Orr’s house had vanished, as had the bone house attached to it.

And there was a small lick of flame peeking almost apologetically out of the timber struts of the church spire.

“To work!” screamed Dolben as he stumbled in his haste to rise to his feet. “To work!”

Eight hours later, the spire had collapsed into crumbled ruins and some of the outer buildings had been destroyed, but the main body of St Dunstan’s-in-the-East had been saved.

Whatever malevolence had sent that hell-driven river of flame into Idol Lane had apparently found something else to play with.

Ariadne stood atop the White Tower, as she had for three days and nights, wrapped in concealing magic, watching as the fire spread eastwards. She was clothed in her ancient Minoan finery, her red skirts and black hair whipping about her in the wind. The flames cast rosy shadows on her white skin, and reflected the bright fear in her eyes. “Ye gods, Noah,” she whispered, “be wary!”

Weyland felt it first. A tug. Tiny, yet insistent.

They were standing on one side of Ludgate Hill, just below St Paul’s, watching the fire march relentlessly forward. Noah was concentrating, her body shaking with the effort, trying to hold back the flames so that the hordes of people darting about like ants had time to get out of the way, and save their precious belongings. Both Noah and Weyland were masked in magic, their forms hidden by the hot shadows thrown forwards by the fire.

“Noah,” he said, and instinctively grabbed her shoulders.

It was only just in time.

The next instant Noah wailed as she felt something grab within her belly, and then both she and Weyland were hauled forwards, through the crowds, dragged forwards, forwards, forwards, up Ludgate Hill and through the open western doors of St Paul’s.

Catling had called.