Ovidia didn't hesitate. The satchel, stuffed with legal parchment and a multi-million dollar bank statement, shimmered faintly in the heat, an insignificant detail against the burgeoning inferno. Her gaze, however, remained fixed on the tightly bound cylinder of woven flax. “Are you completely insane?” Enid shrieked, her voice cracking as she fumbled with a ceramic pitcher, splashing water uselessly onto the growing blaze. “The deeds! Your fortune! It’s right there!” Ovidia ignored her, already reaching for the rolled sling. The woven flax felt dense with Mercer’s tight knots. Heat licked at her nightgown as she struggled to pull the bulky shape away from the advancing flames. Her brow furrowed with annoyance. This was entirely too much effort for a Tuesday morning. Or, rather, a Tuesday late morning that was quickly becoming an afternoon, thanks to this entirely unnecessary drama. “Mercer, a little help here,” Ovidia grumbled, dragging the edge of the canvas bundle with a grunt. Her bare feet were already uncomfortably warm against the singed floorboards. “This thing weighs a ton. And my hands are getting gritty.” Mercer, who had just managed to smother a significant portion of the burning drapes with the heavy wool rug, paused, staring. He’d expected her to grab the satchel without a second thought, to protect her newfound wealth. Instead, she was wrestling with a piece of furniture, complaining about the *manual labor* involved. He moved, not for the briefcase, but for her. With a single, powerful tug, he yanked the entire lounger clear of the porch fire, shoving it toward the safety of the kitchen doorway. “Stay back, Ovidia,” he commanded, his voice gruff but edged with something akin to wonder. His eyes briefly met hers, a flicker of bewildered devotion in their depths, before he turned back to the inferno with renewed ferocity. Enid stared between the salvaged bed and the rapidly charring leather. The heat was becoming unbearable, smoke stinging her eyes. “But… the money…” she whispered, utterly baffled. “Money is replaceable,” Ovidia said, her voice muffled as she fanned herself with a loose flap of her nightgown. “A good nap spot, however, is a sacred trust. Besides, Mercer can always make more truffles. He’s remarkably good at digging things up.” She wrinkled her nose, wiping a smudge of soot from her cheek. “And now I’m going to need another shower. This is absolutely exhausting.” “Exhausting?” Enid turned scarlet. “You think *this* is exhausting? Your house is on fire! Someone just tried to burn you alive!” “Exactly,” Ovidia sighed, leaning against the kitchen archway, arms crossed. “So much unnecessary exertion. Couldn’t they have just sent a strongly worded letter? Or perhaps a telegram? This kind of dramatic flair is really just rude.” Mercer, meanwhile, was working with an almost supernatural efficiency. He tore down still-smoldering drapes, stomped on stray embers, and used the heavy rug to beat back the most aggressive flames. The raw force of his efforts was incredible to witness, a silent, focused battle against the encroaching destruction. Enid, shaken out of her stupor by the sheer proximity of disaster, found herself moving on instinct, grabbing a bucket from the pump outside and filling it, then tossing the water onto the smoldering beams that Mercer indicated. The acrid smell of burning wood filled the air, mingling with the sharp scent of pine from the nearby woods. “Aim lower, Sterling!” Ovidia called out, observing from the dry boards. “You’re just making steam. Get the base. The wood is thicker there, it’ll need more saturation.” Enid paused, mid-throw, a fresh insult dying on her tongue. Ovidia, the perpetually inert woman, was giving tactical advice? She blinked, then adjusted her aim, pouring the water with more precision. Ovidia was right. The steam dissipated faster, and the sizzling died down more effectively. Together, the three of them—Mercer a whirlwind of quiet, powerful action, Enid a frantic but increasingly effective assistant, and Ovidia a surprisingly insightful, though constantly complaining, strategist—slowly began to gain ground. The fire, which had threatened to consume the entire cabin, began to recede, leaving behind charred wood, smoke-stained walls, and the lingering smell of burnt sugar, likely from Mercer’s forgotten baking. “Right,” Ovidia announced, pushing off the archway with a groan. “Now that’s dealt with, can someone make me some chamomile? This whole ordeal has really cut into my relaxation schedule.” She gave a long, suffering sigh. “And my nightgown is ruined.” Enid stared at Ovidia, her soaked hair plastered to her face, a streak of soot across her cheek. The disdain she usually felt for Ovidia had been replaced by a strange mix of bewilderment and grudging respect. Ovidia wasn't a victim; she was… something else entirely. She was a force of nature, utterly unmoved by the chaos around her, yet capable of sharp observation. And she had just dragged a sleeping sling through an inferno. Mercer, his face smudged with ash, his breathing heavy, surveyed the damage. The front porch was partially gone, scorched to the very foundation, but the main structure of the cabin had been saved. His eyes, however, weren't on the ruin. They were on the dark, misty expanse of the Blackwood beyond their clearing. “Wait,” he murmured, his gaze narrowing, picking out a faint, almost imperceptible movement amongst the dense firs. A flash of color, stark against the muted greens and grays of the forest. “There.” Both women followed his gaze. For a fleeting second, a figure, small and quick, darted between two ancient hemlocks, vanishing almost instantly into the swirling fog. But not before a distinctive splash of bright, almost garish yellow caught the light. A raincoat. The exact, singular, highly distinctive yellow raincoat Leta Croft wore, rain or shine, claiming it was ‘lucky.’ Mercer walked slowly to the edge of the charred porch, his expression hardening into something cold and dangerous. He knelt amidst the still-smoldering debris, pushing aside splintered wood and blackened fabric. His fingers, calloused from years of labor, carefully probed a section of the floorboards where the fire had burned hottest, yet strangely, unevenly. A small, half-melted metal canister, no bigger than his thumb, lay embedded in the charred wood, its label mostly gone, but a faint, distinct symbol still visible. A single, stylized serpent coiling around a mortar and pestle. The rare chemical accelerant, he realized, sold only at the Willett Creek Pharmacy, where Leta worked.

Trial by Fire