Prologue
The narrative of Ophelia Crumb
2nd August 1905
There is no smell so bitter as that of ash after rain. The sickly coal-black paste that clings to the sodden timbers like a baby clings to its mother, in the last desperate hope that its life means something, something real, something important. There is no sight so sickening as the bones of those you once loved spread out like kindling in the gutter, matchsticks, broken and twisted by the heat of their own flames, now stamped and beaten and broken, unrecognisable as the once living, breathing creations that made them what you grew to know, to care for, to love.
I still think about them sometimes. When I lay awake at night, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the grunts and snores of the other girls. It’s almost a year since the fire, though I can still feel the heat of the flames against my skin, hear the crackle of burning fabric and wood, smell the stench of smoke and scorched flesh tearing through the foyer. My screams as I tumble through the broken doors and into the night, the street lit up in the glow of the blaze, broken glass and drunken beggars littering the darkness. Hands at my waist, my arms, dragging me from the heat, into the cool night air; rough fingers scrabbling at my face, forcing my eyes open, voices in my ear, screams, a blur of noise and confusion, the grey sweep of cobbles as it rises to meet me— Continue reading
Bordered Gothic 