Chapter 4: iv
The smell woke her. Not the comforting scents of old paper and lavender, but a thick, chemical cling of smoke embedded in her hair, her skin, the pillowcase. It was in her nostrils, her throat, a phantom burn. Margaux opened her eyes to the grey dawn light bleeding through her window. For one merciful second, she was just awake.
Then she remembered.
The memory didn’t crash; it seeped in, cold and heavy, filling the hollow space the shock had left behind. The roar. The heat. The crackle of dying pages. The winter-grey eyes of the Captain, watching her.
She pushed herself up, her body stiff and aching as if she’d been fighting all night. The routine was a ghost limb, moving her automatically. Fill the kettle. Spoon the Earl Grey into the strainer. Wait for the whistle. Her hand, resting on the counter, was still faintly smudged with grey. She stared at it. She had scrubbed it raw in the shower last night, the water running dark down the drain. It hadn’t mattered. The stain was inside.
The tea was too hot. It scalded her tongue, but the pain was a clean, singular point of focus. She dressed in a simple navy linen dress, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and turned to the door.
Her hand was on the knob when her body stopped, a system failure. Go to work. Open the shop. Dust the shelves. Restock the poetry section. The commands lined up and then dissolved, meaningless. The shop was a wet, black skeleton. The knowledge was a physical blow, a sudden weight that drove the air from her lungs. She let her forehead rest against the cool wood of the door, eyes squeezed shut.
After a minute, or ten, she pushed herself back. This was a void.
Her gaze drifted across the small table by the window, landing on a crisp white rectangle against the dark wood. The Captain’s card. She hadn’t remembered putting it there. She picked it up. Captain Lucas Anders, Engine Company 12. A phone number. An email. Official. Impersonal.
She wouldn’t call him. The thought of hearing that gravelly, controlled voice in the quiet of her apartment made her skin prickle. But he had said her things were at the station. The books. The only pieces of her world that had survived. She needed them back. They were proof.
The walk to the firehouse was twenty minutes in the opposite direction from the bookstore. She took the long way, avoiding the street where the smell would be strongest, where she might have to see it. The morning was already warm, promising another scorching day. The normality of it was an insult.
Firehouse 12 was a squat, red-brick building with wide, gleaming doors. The scent here was different: concrete, disinfectant, a hint of diesel. The giant doors were open, revealing the shadowy bulk of the fire engine within. Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous entry bay.
A man was there, leaning against the side of the truck, polishing a chrome fitting with a slow, circular motion. He was tall—so tall he had to hunch slightly—with a broad frame that strained the fabric of his navy t-shirt. Messy reddish-brown hair, a smatter of freckles across his nose. He looked up as she entered, and a wide, crooked grin split his face.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. And here I thought we’d seen the last of you, Margaux-like-the-wine.”
It was the redhead from last night. O’Malley. Sam. His voice was a cheerful boom in the empty space.
“I’m here for my books,” she said, her own voice sounding small and formal. “Captain Anders said they’d be here.”
“They are, they are. Safe and sound. Cap’s got ’em locked up tighter than a drum in his office.” He straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans. His eyes, a bright, mischievous blue, did a slow, appraising sweep of her from head to toe. “You look better. Less… ashy.”
“Thank you,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else.
“Hey, no problem. We aim to serve.” He winked. “So, you come all by your lonesome? No big strong man to help you carry your heavy, heavy books?”
The question was layered, a teasing probe. Margaux felt a familiar withdrawal, a folding inward. “I can manage.”
“I bet you can. You seem the stubborn type.” He took a step closer, his presence somehow taking up all the air in the bay. “It’s cute.”
Before she could formulate a response, another voice cut in, smooth and deep as polished stone. “Sam, quit harassing the civilian.”
A second man emerged from a hallway door. He was taller than Margaux, but not as towering as Sam, with an athletic, powerful build. His skin was a deep, rich brown, his features gentle and composed. He offered Margaux a smile that seemed genuinely kind. “You’ll have to excuse him. The social graces of a hyperactive puppy. I’m Matthew Braun.”
“Margaux,” she said, relieved for the interruption.
“We remember,” Matthew said. His eyes held hers, warm and attentive. “How are you holding up? That was a traumatic thing to go through.”
The simple, direct concern was disarming. It felt real, unlike Sam’s performative flirtation. “I’m… managing. I just want my books.”
“Of course. The Cap’s out on a supply run, but he left instructions.” Matthew gestured toward the same hallway. “Office is this way. I’ll get them for you.”
Sam fell into step beside them as Matthew led the way. “Left instructions, he says. More like left a manifesto. ‘Do not let O’Malley near the recovered property. Do not let O’Malley offer the victim dinner. Do not let O’Malley breathe the same air as the victim.’ Guy’s a control freak.”
“He’s thorough,” Matthew corrected mildly, shooting a look at Sam that was more warning than reprimand.
The hallway was linoleum and framed team photos. Captain Anders’s office was the first door on the left. It was obsessively neat. A single desk, a filing cabinet, a small bookshelf with manuals, no personal effects. On the desk, centered with precision, sat her stack of books. Someone—Anders, presumably—had carefully wiped each one clean of soot and placed them in a new, sturdy cardboard box.
“See?” Matthew said, lifting the box effortlessly. “All accounted for. He even separated the ones with damp corners so they wouldn’t stain the others.”
The meticulous care was unsettling. It felt like an autopsy report, not a rescue. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“My pleasure.” Matthew’s smile was gentle. “It’s the least we can do. You know, if you need anything else, you can always call the house. Any of us.” His gaze was sincere, holding hers a moment too long.
Sam snorted, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, especially Matt. He’s our designated feeler-of-feelings. Writes poetry and everything.”
A flicker of something—irritation, perhaps—passed behind Matthew’s eyes, but his smile never wavered. “Ignore him. It’s a standing offer.”
“I appreciate it,” Margaux said, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. She just wanted to leave. The office felt like a sealed container.
Matthew carried the box out to the bay for her. As she reached for it, her small hands grasping the sides, his fingers brushed against hers. He didn’t pull away immediately. “It’s heavier than it looks. You sure you don’t want a ride home?”
“She’s sure,” Sam called from behind them.
Matthew finally released the box, his expression turning a degree cooler. “Sam.”
“What? I’m just saying. A woman who knows her own mind is a rare thing.” Sam sauntered over, crowding Margaux’s other side. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that was still loud enough for Matthew to hear. “Between you and me, wine girl, the strong silent type gets old. You ever want a guy who actually knows how to have a fun time…” He let the sentence hang, his crooked grin implying everything.
Margaux took a full step back, the box clutched to her chest like a shield. The two men, one openly leering, one a mask of quiet concern, created a pincer of attention that made the wide bay feel suffocatingly small.
“Thank you both,” she said, her voice flat and final. “I can manage from here.”
She turned and walked out into the blinding morning sun, the weight of the books solid in her arms. She didn’t look back.
Inside the bay, Sam watched her go, chuckling. “Adorable. She’s all flustered.”
Matthew didn’t respond. He was still looking at the empty space where she had stood, his gentle face unreadable. After a moment, he turned and walked back toward the hallway without a word.
Sam’s grin faded slightly, his eyes narrowing as he watched Matthew’s retreating back. “Yeah,” he muttered to himself, pulling out his phone. “You keep writing your little stories, Matt. Let’s dance.”
Outside, Margaux walked quickly, the cardboard corners digging into her arms. The encounter buzzed under her skin, an annoying, persistent static. The joker and the gentleman. Both wearing uniforms, both offering help. Both leaving the same metallic taste of unease in her mouth.
She shifted the box in her arms. Inside were the stories of Brontë and Morrison and Plath. Stories of women in rooms, women fighting to get out, women being watched. She walked faster, the hair on the back of her neck rising as if she could still feel their collective gaze on her back, from the shadowed bay of the firehouse, tracking her every step home.