The clang of the heavy iron door still vibrated in Laima’s ears as the roar of the fire intensified. Smoke, thick and acrid, already stung her eyes, making the dim light of the burning cellar dance with menacing shadows. Flames licked at the linen runner, reaching for the stacks of neatly bundled invoices and the antique display cases filled with Borys’s eclectic collection of funerary oddments. The air grew heavy, hot, and thin. “Borys, where’s another exit?” Laima coughed, her voice raspy, already feeling the oppressive heat on her skin. Her gaze swept frantically across the cluttered space, searching for anything beyond the bolted door. Borys, for once, seemed less concerned with the state of his pastries and more with the immediate threat of immolation. He fumbled with the clasp of his waistcoat, a frantic patter of tiny brass buttons escaping his grasp and bouncing across the grimy flagstones. “An exit? My dear, this is a *secret* lair. We don’t exactly advertise the escape routes, do we?” His tone was unusually high-pitched, lacking its usual performative gravitas. Jurgis, however, remained unnervingly silent. He stood rooted to the spot where he’d been pushed back by the force of the door slamming shut, his wide, unseeing eyes fixed on the rapidly spreading blaze. His good hand, the one not encased in polished brass, trembled, a stark contrast to his usual hardened composure. Orange glare washed across his face, painting his features in stark, ghastly relief. Laima recognized the glazed, distant look. It was the same expression she’d seen on war veterans who had witnessed too much, lost too much. “Jurgis!” Laima yelled, grabbing his arm. The skin beneath her fingers was cold, clammy. “Snap out of it! We need to move!” He didn’t respond, didn’t even flinch. The heat intensified, making her hair feel brittle. A wooden shelf, laden with dusty urns, caught fire with a sudden whoosh, sending sparks showering across the room. Laima coughed against the heat. She had to get him out of this, had to break through whatever invisible wall had trapped him. Her mind raced, a frantic kaleidoscope of their bickering, their shared moments of professional awe, the almost-kiss in the workshop. All of it led to this: Jurgis, paralyzed by an old wound, and Laima, the wallflower botanist, needing to be stronger than she had ever imagined. Ignoring the Karmic Book of Etiquette's strictures on unmarried proximity, Laima leaned in, gripping his stubbled jaw. The brass knuckles of his prosthetic arm brushed her wrist, cold against her singed sleeve. She smashed her mouth against his in a blunt, urgent kiss that tasted of soot, turpentine, and reckless panic. Jurgis made a guttural sound, a strangled gasp that was half surprise, half a jolt back to the present. His pupils shrank into focus, finally fixing on her face, then catching the wall of flames behind her. His good hand instinctively rose, not to push her away, but to grasp her arm, pulling her closer, just as the kiss deepened, becoming less about breaking a trance and more about a shared, undeniable intensity that flared hotter than the flames. He pulled away first, his breath ragged. “Laima…” His voice was rough, barely a whisper. The distant look was gone, replaced by a raw urgency. “There’s no time,” Laima gasped, her own lungs burning. “Borys, the exit!” Borys, who had been gaping at their sudden embrace, finally found his voice. “Right, right! The… the catacombs! Not much of an exit, really. More of a shortcut for certain… illicit deliveries.” He pointed to a section of the cellar wall, obscured by a moth-eaten woolen hanging depicting a sorrowful nymph. “Behind there. It leads to the subterranean passages beneath the Conservatory.” Laima didn’t hesitate. She ripped the woolen hanging aside, revealing a section of rough-hewn stone. “How do we get through?” “It’s a load-bearing wall, my dear,” Borys fretted, wringing his hands. “And it’s… thick. Very thick. Only a very strong, well-placed impact could shatter it. You’d risk a cave-in, of course.” Jurgis’s gaze, now clear and determined, fell upon his remaining old brace, the unrefined, clunky contraption on his good leg. It was still a jumbled mess of brass and crude springs, far from the elegant botanical integration of their prototype. He tested his weight, jaw tight with pain. The pain would be immense, the risk of further injury significant, but the alternative was far worse. “It’s our only chance,” Jurgis stated, his voice low and firm. He took a deep breath, the smoke searing his lungs. “Stand back. Both of you.” Laima grabbed Borys, yanking him away from the wall. The roar of the fire grew louder, heat radiating in suffocating waves. She could hear the creak of the floorboards above, the distant crackle of wood. They had moments, not minutes. Jurgis planted his feet, his body tensing. He lifted his clunky, unrefined brace, the brass cogs groaning under the strain. He aimed for a weak point in the mortar, a faint crack visible in the dim, smoky light. His first kick landed with a dull thud, sending a tremor through the wall but doing little to break it. Ash and dust flew, coating his face. “Again!” Laima urged, her voice fierce, no trace of the hesitant wallflower remaining. “Harder, Jurgis! We don’t have time for hesitation!” He bared his teeth against the searing agony in his knee, leaning his full weight back for leverage. He roared, a primal sound torn from his chest, and slammed his reinforced foot into the wall. This time, there was a sickening *CRACK*, followed by a shower of stones. Dust exploded outwards, momentarily blinding them. The old brace groaned, twisting on his leg, but a small, jagged hole had appeared. “Keep going!” Laima yelled over the escalating roar of the fire. The ceiling above them began to sag, sending down a rain of debris. Borys whimpered, covering his head. Jurgis didn’t stop. He kicked again, and again, each impact widening the breach. The old brace shrieked, metal bending, bolts tearing free. With a final, violent shove, the stone gave way, crumbling inward, revealing a dark, narrow passage beyond. Jurgis stumbled forward, his old brace now utterly ruined, twisted metal dangling uselessly from his leg. “Go, go, go!” Laima pushed Borys through the opening, then turned back, pulling Jurgis, who was now limping heavily, after them. They scrambled into the suffocating darkness of the catacombs, the roar of the burning cellar fading behind them, replaced by the damp, musty silence of ancient stone. The passage was long, winding, and filled with a thick, earthy chill. Laima, now fully in command, navigated the unfamiliar twists and turns, her botanical knowledge helping her discern the faint currents of air that hinted at an exit. Jurgis leaned on her, his breathing heavy, his face streaked with soot and sweat. Borys, meanwhile, was surprisingly agile, scampering ahead, a dark shape in the gloom. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a faint glimmer of light appeared ahead. They pushed through a thicket of overgrown ivy, emerging onto the upper lawns of the Krin Conservatory. The cold night air hit them, a sharp, shocking contrast to the inferno they had escaped. They were covered in soot, their clothes singed, and Jurgis’s leg was a mangled mess of twisted metal and raw skin. Before them, bathed in the soft, iridescent glow of a thousand luminous gas lamps, was the Winter Solstice Exhibition. Scores of elegantly dressed socialites milled about, their laughter and polite chatter echoing across the manicured grounds. The main stage, adorned with garlands of crystalline flora, stood prominently, already occupied by the stately Duke Valdemar and a visibly nervous Dr. Ignas Balodis, who held a gilded vial aloft, ready for his grand announcement. Laima darted her eyes between the stage and the main exhibition hall, where a sign proudly proclaimed ‘Ruta Varnas’s Innovation Showcase’. Two disasters, unfolding simultaneously, and they were trapped between them. They had only time to stop one.

Ashes and Innovations