On her first turn around the yard, she stopped by the garden shed and looked up at Blackwood Manor. Unlike the front and back of the house, which had eight attic dormers, this side of the house had only four. None of them would have been in the hidden bedroom, but she couldn’t help imagining a pale little girl looking out one of the moldy windows, alone and wondering why she couldn’t go outside. The thought of it twisted and burned inside her chest as surely as an arrow piercing her heart would have caused her agony. Even if she gutted the manor and redid the inside, how could she live there, knowing the pain and suffering an innocent child had suffered behind its walls?
She threw a handful sticks on the pile and went into the garden shed. The stack of old newspapers in a wooden crate was still there, and a tin of lantern oil high on a shelf. Back out at the burning spot, she stuffed crumpled newspaper between the bottom branches of the mound, poured lantern oil over the sticks and old leaves, then lit the paper and stepped back. The fire caught immediately and spread, filling the quiet afternoon with the sound of snapping fingers. The orange and blue flames crackled and spit and rose quickly toward the sky.
She stared at the fire, mesmerized and watching the flames blacken the branches and devour the leaves. The fire grew higher and warmed her face and hands. If anyone had seen her standing there, they would have no clue of the chaos swirling inside her head. How was it possible for parents to lock up their own child? How could they live with themselves, knowing their daughter was being held prisoner, unable to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on her skin while they were free do as they pleased? Did they hide her in the attic as soon as she was born? Did they tell everyone she was stillborn? A memory flickered in her mind—someone saying how happy they were to see Julia had grown up healthy and strong after Mother spent her entire pregnancy in bed. Who was it? She couldn’t remember. Were they worried because they’d been told Mother lost her first baby? Was there a birth certificate in the house with the name of Mother’s doctor? Was Lilly her sister? What happened to her? Was she dead? Did her parents need forgiveness for locking her up, or something else? Did she die in the attic, or did she escape and join the circus? Was it possible the circus was still in business? How did Lilly’s camera get in Father’s desk, not to mention her hairbrush and jewelry? Hundreds of questions boggled Julia’s mind and made her sick to her stomach all at the same time.
She blinked and stepped back, the skin on her face burning as though she’d been out in the sun too long, and panic suddenly tightened her chest. While she’d been in a trance, the fire had grown taller and wider and hotter. It singed the lower branches of a nearby tree and inched into the yard, blackening and destroying the brown grass like water eroding a sand beach. She looked around for something to put out the errant flames. Her father used to use a shovel and pitchfork to keep the fire in check, but she realized too late that she had neither. She looked over at the barn to see if Claude was watching. Maybe he could help. She didn’t see him anywhere.
Desperate, she stomped the burning ground to put out the spreading flames. But the intense heat burned her skin and throat, forcing her back. She held her breath and kept trying, but couldn’t get close for more than a second or two. Then the huge pile shifted and started to collapse, and embers and sparks flew through the air. She jumped out of the way and looked around the yard for something to put out the inferno—a shovel, a hose, a bucket of rainwater. She saw nothing. She had to get Claude. She started toward the barn, running and yelling for help, then glanced over her shoulder at the fire. A flash of red caught her eye and she stopped in her tracks to look back at the house.
Flames engulfed a set of curtains in an open window.
Father’s den.
For a second, horror paralyzed her. Then she came to her senses and ran into the house. She grabbed the braided rug in front of the kitchen sink and raced toward the den. The fire had already destroyed the curtains and was crawling across the ceiling, the dry wood bursting into orange and yellow flames. Smoke filled the room and piles of old papers and books blackened and curled and burned next to the fiery window. She held her breath and beat the rug against the books and papers, but no sooner had she put one blaze out, when another started. Smoke burned her eyes and bits and pieces of burning ceiling fell on her pants and jacket. Coughing and squinting, she tried beating back the flames with the rug, but they were spreading too fast.
Claude suddenly appeared beside her, a fire extinguisher in his hands. “Get out of the way!” he yelled.
She backed up, hacking and gagging, the back of her hand over her mouth. Claude pulled the fire extinguisher pin and aimed the hose at the flames. For a brief moment, Julia thought the fire was going out. Then the extinguisher quit working. Claude frantically turned the knob, shook the cylinder, and hit it with his hand, but it didn’t help. The wall above the window buckled, the frame caved in, and burning timbers dropped to the floor. With more air to feed it, the fire flared higher. More papers caught fire and a section of burning ceiling fell to the floor in a thunderous crash, throwing up more flames and sparks. Claude grabbed Julia’s arm and steered her toward the door.
“We need to get out of here!” he shouted.
In the hall, smoke filled the ceiling and slithered toward the other rooms. Claude and Julia hurried into the kitchen and out the back door. When they were far enough away, she stopped to look back, her face covered in soot and sweat, one trembling hand over her mouth. Fire and smoke poured out of the den windows, and flames licked up the siding toward the second story. Julia’s legs went weak. What had she done?
*
The ruins of Blackwood Manor lay in a smoking pile of black timbers and smoldering ashes, two charred chimneys and numerous sections of burnt walls standing amongst the rubble. By the time the fire trucks had arrived, the flames had fully engulfed half the house. There was nothing Julia and Claude could do but watch.
When the roof caved in, Julia fell to her knees on the ground. Claude stood silently beside her, his face a curious mixture of shock and relief. The firemen rushed toward the burning building with their hoses, and the second and third floors collapsed in a thunderous, fiery heap. Julia trembled and stared as they struggled to put out the flames, tears streaming down her soot-covered face. She felt disconnected; as if it were happening to someone else, or it would end soon, like a nightmare or practical joke. Someone or something would wake her and she’d find out it was all a dream, she was sure of it.
Then a fireman brought over two blankets and wrapped one around her shoulders, and she realized that, indeed, this was happening to her. Somehow, she had started a fire in Blackwood Manor and now it was being destroyed, along with its horrible, hidden secrets. The fireman offered a blanket to Claude, but he shook his head.
The fireman knelt next to Julia and said, “Are you all right, miss?”
She managed a nod.
“Were you inside when the fire started?” the fireman said.
She shook her head.
He looked at Claude. “What about you?”
“I was in the barn,” he said.
The fireman put a hand under Julia’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you off this wet ground. It’s cold out here.”