My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(108)

“No, no!” Mr. Blackwood said. “She’s been shot!”

The duke used the distraction to lunge for the gun, but Mr. Rochester turned and fired.

The duke crumpled to the floor.

Dead.





THIRTY-SIX


Alexander

The fire was growing. Alexander didn’t wait. He lifted Miss Bront?’s motionless body into his arms and ran.

This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. But as Miss Eyre and the Rochesters led the way, and Miss Bront? continued not moving, he had to admit that it did seem to be happening. She’d been shot—hit by one of those stray bullets.

A wall collapsed, bringing oil lanterns crashing to the floor. More fires erupted, making him run faster as he carried Miss Bront? through the halls and up the stairs. He ran until his side ached, and then he kept running because Miss Bront?’s face was pale and blood soaked her jacket. Sweat poured down his face.

The others pushed their way outside. Even out of the building, the heat was intense. It billowed off the House in angry waves, making the lantern-lit air shimmer. Smoke obscured the night, hiding the nearly full moon.

The fire would only get worse. “Let’s go!” he shouted, but his voice was lost under the rush of flame and destruction. “Hurry!”

Miss Burns had joined the others ahead, all of them moving quickly, and not quickly enough.

People filled the streets, the fire reflecting in their wide eyes.

“What’s happened?” someone asked.

“I heard it was a ghost attack on the Society!”

Another person called, “It was the king! He realized he’d made a mistake by dismissing Parliament and set the House on fire!”

Alexander staggered through the growing crowd of onlookers, his heart beating wildly in his ears. In his arms, Miss Bront? was as light as a doll, and just as motionless. Was she breathing? He couldn’t tell. She was so still; her head lolled back and her eyes were shut.

He pushed through the crowd, caught in the wake made by Miss Eyre’s flying elbows. “Make way!” Miss Eyre cried. “My friend has been shot! Is there a doctor?” People shouted at them, telling them to stay still and watch the fire like everyone else, but Alexander ignored them all.

Finally, they reached a break in the crowd, and Miss Eyre cleared a pair of children off a bench they’d been standing on. Alexander settled Miss Bront? there and dropped to his knees at her side. Miss Eyre, Miss Burns, and the Rochesters clustered around him.

“What do you think?” Miss Eyre asked.

Alexander tore off his gloves and touched Miss Bront?’s throat, seeking her pulse. Nothing.

He let out a strangled cry. “Miss Bront?.” She couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t.

But his bookish friend was completely still, her pale face streaked with soot and ash.

“Miss Bront?,” he whispered. “Please don’t die. Please don’t leave us.”

The fire warmth of her skin was fading. He leaned in close, listening for her breath, but there was no sound of it, no evidence of life. Her black lashes fanned across pale cheeks, unmoving.

“No, no, no.” His fingers searched her throat again, wanting more than anything to find a pulse. In the months he’d known Charlotte Bront?, had he really appreciated her as he should? In the back of his mind, without him truly realizing, he’d assumed Miss Bront? would always be in his life. Always influencing, planning, smiling, writing. Oh, Lord, could he imagine her always writing.

And the idea of losing her—it was a stab to the gut.

An eruption tore from the building, followed by terrified screams. Alexander looked up just in time to see an enormous fireball hurl into the sky, and the House—which might have been saved before—was now completely engulfed in flames.

Hot wind gusted off the building, making the crowd of onlookers scream and stagger back.

That was it. The Society—all its records and talismans and library—was gone now. But Alexander could hardly feel the pain of that loss, because when he turned back to Miss Bront?, she was still silent and unmoving.

He bent and rested his forehead on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I should have—” The words clogged in his throat as tears spilled out of the corners of his eyes. Was he crying? Blast it all. “I care about you, Miss Bront?,” he rasped. “And now I’m too late in saying so.”

Furiously, he wiped at his eyes, but the tears kept coming and after a moment, he let the sobs heave out of him.

“Oh, stop watching,” Miss Eyre said from behind him, “and get back in there.”

Alexander sat up just in time to see Miss Bront?’s ghost sniffle. “Shh, Jane, I’m trying to listen.” But she disappeared back into her body.

Then the body gasped.

“Miss Bront?!” He cupped one hand over her cheek, feeling warmth bloom beneath her skin. Her color lifted and her pulse fluttered. “Miss Bront?, you’re—”

She opened her eyes and looked around, though she wasn’t wearing her glasses.

“Can you see anything? Shall I find your spectacles for you?” He didn’t particularly want to leave her side, but he would search ten thousand burning buildings if it meant pleasing her.

“I—” She coughed a little.