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had never been quite so well-entertained by their daughter, although she was proud of Christine's beauty and loved the admiring comments people made when they saw the baby. At the moment she was gossiping happily with the mayor's nieces and showed no sign of wanting to leave.
    Restless, Rand went to the tall windows that framed a view of the city. Gaslight created blurry stars along the straight arteries of the main thoroughfares and the numerous tall buildings of the business district gathered around the impressive cupola of the massive courthouse.
    "Quite a sight, isn't it?" asked a slender, vaguely sly-looking young man.
    Philip Ascot, Rand recalled. Ascot, with some combination of Roman numerals after his name to prove to the world that the family hadn't come up with an original name in several generations.
    It was a mean, petty thought, borne of impatience. Still, he had a low opinion of Ascot, who claimed to be in the publishing business but who, as far as Rand could tell, intended to make his fortune by marrying one of the debutantes of Miss Boylan's finishing school. Lucy? he wondered, recalling Diana's assessment that the Hathaways were stinking rich.
    Rand stifled a grin. Lucy would make duck soup of a fellow like Philip Ascot. "It is indeed," he said at last. Flipping open the geld top of his pocket watch
    with his thumb, he checked the time. "It's a bit late for sunset, though."
    "Oh, that's another fire in the West Division," Ascot informed him. "Didn't you hear?"
    A cold touch of alarm brushed the back of his neck. "I heard there was one last night, but that it had been brought under control."
    "It's been a bad season for fires all around. But I can't say I'm sorry to see the
    West Division burn. It's a shantytown, full of immigrant poor. Could stand a good clearing out." Ascot tossed back a glass of whiskey. "Nothing to worry about, Higgins. It'll never get across the river."
    Even as he spoke, an explosion split open the night. From his vantage point, Rand saw a distant flash of pure blue-white light followed by a roaring column of pale yellow flame.
    "It's the gasworks," someone yelled. "The gasworks have blown!"
    Rand crossed the reception room in three strides, grabbing his wife by the arm. "Let's go," he said.
    "Randolph, you mustn't be rude—"
    "We're leaving," he said. "We've got to get home to Christine."

Chapter Three

    The big, blocky coach with the crest of Miss Boylan's school on the door lumbered through streets jammed with people. Every few feet, the driver was obliged to stop and make way for the firefighters' steam engines or hose carts.
    "It's spreading so quickly." Phoebe Palmer pressed her gloved hands to the glass viewing window. "Who could imagine a fire could move so fast?"
    She clearly expected no answer and didn't get one. Both Lucy and Kathleen O'Leary were lost in their own thoughts. Kathleen was particularly worried about her famfly.
    "I knew I shouldn't have come," she said, her customary easy confidence shaken by the sight of the fleeing crowds. "I shall burn in hell entirely for pretending to be a great lady."
    "If we don't start moving any faster," Phoebe said, "we shall burn right here in Chicago." She yanked at the end of the speaking tube and yelled at the driver to hurry. "There's an abandoned horsecar in the middle of the avenue," she reported, cupping her hands around her eyes to see through the fog of smoke and sparks. "Driver," she yelled again into the tube, "go around that horsecar.
    Quickly." With a neck-snapping jerk, the big coach surged forward. Phoebe scowled. "He's usually better at the reins," she commented peevishly. "I shall have to speak to Miss Boy Ian about him."
    As the coach picked up speed, Lucy patted Kathleen's hand. "None of this is your fault, and you're surely not being punished for a silly prank." To distract her, she added, "And it went well, didn't it? Everyone at the reception believed you were a famous heiress from Baltimore."
    Just for a