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“Not a chance,” I murmur against his neck. “And before you ask, yes, I still want my pasty.”

“I would not dream of suggesting otherwise. Though I confess, I had rather hoped I might distract you from it for a little longer.”

I lift my head to look at him. “You've had me distracted for the better part of an hour, you greedy sod.”

His grey eyes crease at the corners as he kisses the end of my nose, and I steal one more before begrudgingly letting him help me down, though I keep my arms around his waist for a moment longer.

“Go on,” he murmurs, ushering me towards the little staircase at the back of the shop. “Get yourself comfortable upstairs, and I will bring your tea and that precious pasty of yours.”

He gives my arse an affectionate pat as I gather my skirts, and I glance back at him with a grin before hurrying up to our bedchamber.

By the time Iscairn joins me upstairs, I've managed to escape the last confines of my gown and make myself comfortable beneath the covers. He arrives carrying a tray with our tea and, thank Christ, my pasty, which I promptly relieve him of before he's even had a chance to put it down.

The pastry crumbles between my fingers as I sink my teeth into the warm mutton, and I groan.

Oh, that's good. That's very good.

He shakes his head with a smile as he climbs into bed and leans back against the pillows. I tuck myself between his legs, resting against his bare chest while his arm slips around my shoulders, and he reaches for his ledger on the bedside chest.

The leather binding creaks as he opens it, turning past page after page of names until he reaches the latest entry. I take another bite of my pasty, listening to the gentle scratch of his quill as he records the name of the last soul he harvested. Even after all these years, he takes his time with each one, making sure each name is written properly before setting the pen aside.

“Mm. Could you do mine while you're at it, please?” I ask, wiping a little gravy from my chin and licking it off my thumb. “I meant to write it down earlier, but I never got around to it.”

I give him the name, and he reaches for my ledger, flicking through the pages until he finds the right place. Once he's finished writing, he sets the quill aside, leaving the book open on my lap as he rests his chin on my shoulder.

“Do you still fancy a visit to St James's Park tomorrow?” he asks. “I thought you might like to see those pelicans the King has acquired.”

“Oh, yes!” I turn my head to grin at him. “I want to see whether they've got beaks as ridiculous as that mask of yours. I think it would be⁠—”

“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!”

I sit bolt upright, sending my ledger tumbling off the bed.

What the…

Behind me, Iscairn retrieves the fallen book, though his attention is already on the open window.

Ours is the nearest physician's door on the street, and it wouldn't be the first time somebody's come shouting for us in the middle of the night. But I've got a belly full of mutton, neither of us has a stitch on, and there's not a cat in Hell's chance I'm getting out of bed to sew some poor sod back together at this hour.

Another shout rises from the street below, followed by the frantic ringing of church bells, and Iscairn throws back the covers to reach for his breeches.

“Oh, for pox's sake,” I groan, rubbing my face. “What now?”

I climb out of bed and cross to the open window, where the cooler night air is a welcome relief against my skin. Before I can lean out to see what all the fuss is about, another voice rings out from below.

“FIRE! THERE'S A FIRE! FETCH BUCKETS!”

Beyond the rooftops to the east, a reddish glow spreads across the night sky, with the occasional flicker of flame rising above the distant houses. People are spilling into the street in various states of undress, some carrying buckets while others hurry past with armfuls of bedding and whatever possessions they've managed to snatch up. A woman in her nightgown is shouting for her husband, and farther along, a child starts wailing.

“Where is it?” I call down to a man hurrying past with two leather buckets.

“Pudding Lane!” he shouts back, barely slowing.

Pudding Lane? It had better not be…

“Which building?”

“The baker's!” he yells over his shoulder. “Farriner's! The whole place is alight!”