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the mist, for every man changed his hobnailed boots for leather-soled shoes on arrival at the powder mills each morning, as the slightest spark of metal on stone could cause an explosion. Neither Henry nor Rose could go a step further until they had done the same, and she plunged after him into his office to kick her feet into their special footwear before racing down the track and along to the next of several buildings strung out in a line above the west bank of the river.
    Henry came to a halt then, raising his hands so that every man stood still. Rose fixed her eyes on him, her pulse thudding. At close quarters, she could see his face working painfully, but he was in charge, their leader. They looked to him for instructions, and he must not let his heart, which ached to get inside and rescue anyone injured, rule his head.
    â€˜No one must go in! Not yet! Fred?’ he questioned, raising an eyebrow at his foreman, a giant of a man who stood, arms akimbo, the leather apron he, like every other worker, wore making him look even larger than he actually was.
    â€˜I doesn’t know what’s ’appened, Mr Maddiford, sir,’ the fellow answered, ‘but no one goes in till we knows ’tis safe. It don’t appear too serious. The roof be still on.’
    Henry sucked in his cheeks, his eyes travelling keenly over the exterior of the corning house. Beside him, Rose’s pleated brow throbbed. Nobody had yet staggered out, though a pall of grey-brown smoke with its distinctive smell had billowed through the glassless windows and was hanging in the saturated air in a choking smog. Was someone lying unconscious inside? Her heart beat savagely, every second an hour as they waited . . .
    Edward James stumbled from behind the sturdy structure, half supporting himself on the stone walls, dazed and visibly shaking. In an instant, his colleagues surrounded him, keeping him upright as he struggled to reach his respected boss.
    â€˜I only went outside fer set the rollers in motion,’ he stammered, and as his knees folded beneath him, his fellow-workers dragged him upwards. His head was rolling on his shoulders, his face white and anguished with his need to explain. ‘There were a lump o’ cake stuck to the bottom. ’Twere too big fer get out wi’ the wooden shovel so I poured a pail o’ water over it, an’ turned the rollers on fer crush it like we always does, an’ the next thing . . .’ He shook his head, his eyes wild with shock as he gazed fearfully over his shoulder at the wide doorway. Though the initial acrid cloud still clung to the vaporous mist in long threads, no more smoke had drifted from the interior of the building.
    â€˜Were anyone inside?’ Henry demanded, his eyebrows fiercely dipped.
    â€˜N . . . no,’ Edward James stuttered, his teeth starting to chatter. ‘We’d just stopped fer eat our croust. Young John’d just . . .’
    â€˜Ais, I’s all right,’ the youth called from somewhere in the crowd.
    The taut lines on Henry’s face slackened, and Rose felt the blessed relief invade her tense body. She heard her father muttering something under his breath, and then he turned to his foreman. ‘Reckon as ’tis safe enough now, Fred?’
    The big chap nodded, and as they both stepped cautiously towards the doorway, Rose went to follow, but Henry put a restrictive hand on her arm. ‘Not you, Rose. ’Tis too dangerous.’
    Rose swallowed hard as she stared at him, her eyes deep, glistening orbs of alarm. ‘And . . . what about you, Father?’ she croaked.
    â€˜â€™Tis my job,’ he said levelly, a loving smile touching his lips. ‘Now you look to Eddie James. Poor fellow’s in shock.’
    Rose obediently backed away, biting hard on her lip in an effort to stop it quivering. If anything ever happened to her father . . . Accidents were not a common occurrence at the gunpowder mills.