The acrid smell of burning paper hit my nose a second later.

“Get him outside!” Sheriff Miller shouted, his voice competing with the high-pitched wail of the alarm.

Deputy Vance hauled Mark toward the front door, his boots slipping slightly on the wet white rug where the tea had spilled.

Mark was still thrashing, his heels dragging across the oak floorboards.

“You won’t have anything left!” Mark screamed, a fleck of foam appearing at the corner of his mouth. “Nothing!”

The second deputy, a young man named Carter, unclipped a heavy red fire extinguisher from his belt and ran toward the library.

Thomas Bell grabbed my elbow and pulled me back toward the open front door.

The cold autumn air rushed into the foyer, swirling the black smoke into gray ghosts around the crystal chandelier.

“Stay back, Claire,” Thomas said.

His grip on my arm was firm, his leather glove cold against my bare skin.

I did not move away.

I watched the black smoke billow from the room where my mother had spent her final days.

“The archives,” I whispered.