Portland’s collapse had awoken Fotherby to his senses. He left his father’s lifeless body and struggled the short distance over to his friend, lifting his head and willing the young man to breathe. Rebuking himself for allowing the man in his arms to enter the building, he snatched his wrist and tried to find a pulse. A relieved smile caught his lips as he felt the steady beat beneath his thin fingers, and he turned as he heard the sound of cartwheels on gravel.

“Doctor Fotherby?” he heard a voice call. “Henry?”

“I am here,” he tried to call back, but his burnt throat would not allow such volume.

It did not matter for within seconds Doctor Shipton rushed into view and took in the sight before him. Fotherby was seated on the ground, his back again...

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