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across the floor. It stretched several feet past the threshold of the oaken door. Wayne Craveté, who I’d long ago dismissed as a limp-wristed, useless ditzy gossip, was holding onto the nozzle with a grip firmer than a size queen on a twelve incher. His face was grimed, the back of his hands blistered, his clothes drenched. He made not a noise as he held on. Water was being pumped steadily through the opening onto the ground floor of the tower.
    We got as close to the tower as we could. Through the massive doorway, I could see several people attempting to quell the flames with hand-held fire extinguishers. Presumably the force of the explosion had gone upward. Heat rises, so the danger was less for all of us. I thought. I hoped.
    Many of the castle windows had been blown out in the explosion. Rain was pouring in the east side windows, the ones where the wind was blowing in the hardest. Several guests were removing the more valuable pieces of art and furniture from the Great Hall.
    I pointed to the people on the other side of the door to the tower. “They’ve got to get out of there,” I said. “The remnants of the tower could collapse.” We rushed to the doorway. We shouted. One of them turned to us. I yelled, “Get out of there!”
    But it was too late. A flaming beam crashed down. It hit one man in the back. Another stumbled backward and fell to the floor. Both began bellowing. What happened next must have taken five to ten seconds. Scott leapt for the opening. I followed an instant later. As we reached them, Craveté directed his blast of water toward the four of us. He also caught the beam and the most on fire of the victims. We were too scattered for him to get all of us at once. The second man was nearly overcome with smoke. I dragged him toward the door, pushed him through it, and returned to Scott. He was trying to use his jacket to shield his arms from the flames as he attempted to grip the beam and pull it off the second victim. I grabbed one of the smoldering cushy chairs and wedged it under the beam and pushed the chair farther under it in order to leverage the beam up. Scott grabbed the man who had been hurt and yanked him. The man’s clothes were burning. I saw flames start on Scott’s jacket. The outer shell sheemed to shrivel in the heat, but the inner lining held for now. The man he was trying to save was thrashing and screaming. Scott let out a tremendous bellow. I took hold of the man. I pulled so hard I thought my arms would pull out of their shoulder sockets. Scott and I pulled together. Inches and seconds later, the man was free. The two of us rushed him out the door. In seconds blankets encased all of us. Craveté’s water continued to drench us.
    I checked Scott. The arms of his jacket were scorched. The back of his wrists had ugly red marks. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”
    Pietro, who was in charge of the servants assigned to our room, rushed up to us. His face was alternately illuminated and darkened as the flames rose and fell. “Thank God you are safe.” He had to shout to be heard above the humans screaming and the storm pounding. He gave a futile swipe at the sweat pouring down his face. He said, “We were worried that you were inside when the explosion occurred. Are you all right?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Are there other people in danger still inside?”
    “If there are, it is too late. The flames are too strong to get close to. The heat is bad.”
    “What happened?”
    “No one knows.”
    Unpleasant thoughts had already flashed through my mind. Would we have been murdered if we’d been in this evening? If there had been no dead body, would there still have been an explosion? If we’d been inside, we’d most likely be dead. This jumble of thoughts would take more time to get used to than I had now.
    Help was needed to make sure the flames were quelled. “Is there anything we can do?” I asked Pietro.
    “They are going to be able to save the rest of the