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checkoutmybookshelf · 2 years

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Of Fire and Featheringtons: Chapter 8

Well hello friends, and welcome to my second Polin fic! This one builds on The Polin Fic (I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights on Ao3) so be sure to read that before diving into this one!

Like the other one, this fic is safe for work, but a few warnings do apply! If house fires, house fire injuries and deaths, mild gore, and mild blood aren't your thing, then don't be afraid to give this fic a pass. I'll be updating it twice a week here and on Ao3, so check back for updates.

Please really mind the tags on this one, particularly fire deaths! Take care of you first, and feel free to skip this chapter if you need or want to. This one gets a wee bit intense in spots.

I hope you enjoy this Polin fic, I had a blast writing it!

The morning of Felix’s trial dawned gray and threatening rain. Dressed in a licorice green dress, matching high-necked Spencer jacket, and respectable but slightly severe bonnet over her tightly pinned curls, Penelope walked into the Old Bailey. She was on Colin’s arm; her other arm looped through Gregory’s. The youngest Bridgerton brother had insisted that he was of sufficient age to support the family in the matter, and Anthony had somewhat reluctantly allowed him to come after a closed-door discussion with Kate and a promise that Gregory would be on his best behavior. Benedict was close on Gregory’s opposite side, and the four of them walked behind Anthony and Simon. All five men wore well-cut suits in gray or blue so dark that, like Penelope’s dress, they could be mistaken for black at a glance. Anthony’s and Simon’s strides were purposeful, and their party was given a wide berth most of the way up the walk to the building.

As they approached the stairs, however, Mr. Mondrich approached the party, nodding politely at the gentlemen and bowing briefly to Penelope before falling in behind her and Colin. Something about the man’s presence was calming; Penelope felt less exposed. That feeling only increased as they entered the building. Lord Fife clapped Colin on the shoulder and smiled encouragingly at Penelope before nodding to the rest of the group and moving to walk beside Mondrich. Lord Smythe-Smith and the Earl of Chatteris also joined their group, with Smythe-Smith walking just off Simon’s shoulder, and Chatteris slotting in beside Fife. Other gentlemen who had lost homes to fires that summer also joined their group, so by the time they reached the door to the courtroom, Penelope was securely in the center of a group of gentlemen who had every reason to see Felix convicted.

Her heart twisted; she could not deny that she felt safe in the group, and that she was grateful for both the support and the extent to which that support highlighted that she was there to bury Caesar, not to praise him. That comfort turned to acid in her belly; nothing about this day should be comforting. She swallowed convulsively several times, willing the breakfast that had been pressed on her to stay in place.

Fife and Chatteris held the double doors to the courtroom open, and the party swept inside. They were in an upper gallery across from the royal box. Penelope found herself in the center of a long bench surrounded by Bridgertons and backed by several rows of allies. She was absurdly grateful that Madame Delacroix had chosen a color that would allow her to more or less disappear in the crowd, and that Kate had worked some magic with hair oil to ensure that her hair was firmly tucked away. It would not give her away to a casual onlooker. Felix would, she was sure, be able to pick her out of the crowd, but it was unlikely that anyone who was not specifically looking for her would notice her. Being front and center in the gallery was not comfortable for a former wallflower, but she could blend quietly into the group enough to keep her heart rate merely rapid, as opposed to galloping.

She was absurdly grateful that Colin was predisposed to flaunt propriety when it suited him. As soon as they had gotten seated, he had—unconsciously, she was sure—reached down and twined his fingers through hers, squeezing firmly. She had already spotted several of the queen’s agents, and one had made eye contact with her, then given her a miniscule nod. She had nodded back, and then needed to remind herself to breathe. Although her presence could never have been kept from the queen, it was disconcerting to be identified quite so quickly.

Anthony leaned across Colin, speaking low to Penelope. “Remember, if at any point you wish to leave, we will return home,” he said.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I shall be all right, Anthony.” His disbelief was evident, but he nonetheless sat back, pensive, as they all waited for the accused to be brought in and the judge to arrive. Colin squeezed her hand again, and she squeezed back. I’m all right.

They did not have to wait long.

A side door slammed open, and two bailiffs dragged a shackled, bedraggled-looking Felix to the prisoner’s box below the judge’s stand. In lieu of gasping, Penelope’s grip on Colin’s hand tightened. His head whipped to her, but she held onto an impassive, if not entirely calm, mask.

Felix looked significantly worse for wear. He still wore the clothes that he had been arrested in, burn marks and all. They hung off his frame more than they had the last time Penelope had seen him. His cravat was loosely tied, giving him a somewhat rakish appearance that was reinforced by the several days’ scruff on his face and hair that was just long enough to be shaggy. There were also bruises on his face, some yellowed and weeks old, others purple and painfully recent looking.

Despite his appearance, once he was left in the box, Felix shook his hair back from his face—chin up, expression imperious—and lounged nonchalantly on the bench. The shackles at his wrists prevented him from spreading his arms and laying them along the edges of the box, but his posture suggested that had he been able to, he would have. Penelope had to give him credit for his performance; he certainly projected the air of an arrogant ton gentleman who was severely unimpressed by his current circumstance. He had not even cast an eye about the room, did not seem to care whether the crowds in the galleries and the main floor were for or against him.

The gallery that the Bridgerton party was seated in was at a forty-five-degree angle to the box, and the bored tilt of Felix’s head certainly allowed him to see who was there. Penelope knew the instant he caught sight of her, his bored sneer slipped into surprise for an eyeblink. She was certain nobody else saw that, but the entire room—and the judge, who entered as Felix stood—noted his insolent two-finger salute to the gallery.

“All rise for her Majesty, Queen Charlotte,” called the bailiff. Rising mechanically with the rest of the room, Penelope’s chest tightened, and rising made her feel alarmingly lightheaded. When had she become afraid of the queen?

The doors of the royal box opened, and in strode Queen Charlotte, flanked by Lady Danbury and several ladies in waiting. The queen nodded to the judge and acknowledged the room with a brief wave before finding her seat. Once the queen and the room were seated again, Penelope risked a glance at the royal box, accidentally locking eyes with the queen.

Although it was not unheard of for debutantes to swoon artfully to make a point to a gentleman—or to simply be overcome with heat at a party and swoon in truth—Penelope had never fainted, intentionally or otherwise. The fury in the queen’s eyes across the courtroom nearly broke that streak. She was suddenly lightheaded, and being already seated, she couldn’t sit to relieve it. Instead, she clutched Colin’s arm, feeling as though the queen’s dark eyes were about to swallow her whole.

Gloved fingers gently caught her under the chin, turning her face to meet Colin’s eyes. “If you go any paler, we are leaving. I will not have you faint on me,” he murmured to her. “Take a deep breath, Pen. We’re all here for you.” She jumped when the gavel banged. Colin took her other hand as well, as they both faced forward and the trial began.

Felix, despite the aches and pains from nearly two months of imprisonment and harsh treatment from the guards in the Tower of London, managed to maintain his air of unaffected disdain through the queen’s entrance and the solicitors’ opening statements. He suspected that nobody but Cousin Penelope had seen his shock at seeing her in the upper gallery, and his jauntily insubordinate salute ought to have distracted anyone who might have caught the flicker of expression.

As the Featherington’s solicitor stepped onto the floor before the judge to argue his case, Felix looped his shackled hands behind his head and slumped down on his bench, closing his eyes. For weeks, the man had prattled at him to be respectful and humble at his trial, particularly since he had been caught red-handed and his workshop had been thoroughly documented by the crown to use against him. His careful forethought and planning had precluded a plea of madness. The only hope, the solicitor had repeatedly emphasized, was for Felix to show remorse and contrition. Even then, the best the solicitor had hoped for in sentencing was lifelong imprisonment.

For weeks, Felix had seriously considered trying to get out of this alive. Lord knew he could grovel when he needed to, but groveling for life in the Tower ultimately seemed pointless. Better to stand tall in the supremacy the fire afforded him and take whatever came with his head high. That would better honor the fire and the responsibility it had given him all those years ago. He grinned, remembering.

The day after the worst haying season storm in living memory had dawned hot and gloriously sunny, without a cloud in the sky. Felix and a few of his friends–not one of them older than eight years–had escaped their nannies and tutors to play in the hayloft of the Featherington’s massive barn. They had worn themselves out stacking small bales to create forts and shooting clumps of hay and other loft detritus at each others’ walls. Finally, both factions had dissolved, giggling into sleepy stupors and then into true sleep.

As he grew older, Felix would come to understand that a roof repair had gone neglected in that barn and that a leak had thoroughly soaked some of the bales of hay in the loft. As a seven-year-old child, however, all Felix knew was that he had gone to sleep in a sunny hayloft with his friends, and a strangely cold breeze across his face had woken him to a flaming hellscape. The smoke was so thick he couldn’t see the other hay bale fort, but he could clearly see the motionless, burning bodies of his own fort mates, and the flames that licked at his own clothes, even as his panicked hands slapped them out. Eyes watering, throat too dry to scream, Felix had thrust himself to his feet and nearly passed out, dropping back to hands and knees as quickly as he had risen.

No child wants to die, but at that moment Felix was certain he was going to. He lacked the strength to stand and find his way to the hayloft ladder–if it hadn’t already burned away. There was no corner to hide in, and if he did nothing, then he would die when the supports burned away and the loft collapsed the twenty feet to the fire below. A lightheaded and panicked Felix was about to curl up next to the charred body of his best friend and wait, but then the fire seemed to move.

The flames flexed and bowed with more intentionality than he expected from flames, and they seemed to arch, creating a tunnel clear of active flames. Crouched low but not on all fours to avoid burning his hands, Felix followed the tunnel. It wended through the hayloft, encouraged him to scrabble down a beam that was charred but sufficiently sturdy to support his slight weight, and pushed him through the main barn doors as the loft finally collapsed.

Felix had crouched against the dirt road to the barn, bawling softly, breathlessly, as he stared at the flames licking up the sides of the building. It was beautiful. Eventually, the field workers saw the smoke and came running, but the building was well and truly lost by the time they arrived.

The first few workers on the scene scattered almost immediately to raise the alarm, not seeing the child on the road. When all the men of the estate and half the nearby country townsmen had arrived to do what they could, a boy of ten or eleven was dispatched to see Felix back to the main house. Felix had dawdled the whole way, turning back and watching the flames play lower and lower as they ran out of fuel. The older boy snapped at Felix several times to come along before grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and dragging him up the walk to the house and promptly depositing Felix into the care of his nanny.

After the fire was out and the bodies of Felix’s playmates had been discovered, there had been days of questions, many of them directed at Felix. Had any of them started the fire? How had he survived when none of his friends had? How had he gotten out? The only answer the child had been able to offer–that the fire let him go–had unsettled every adult who asked the questions. After the boys had been buried, other parents had kept their children away from Felix. What might have been a lonely few years for another boy had, for Felix, been a time of exploration. He became fascinated with candles, hearth fires, torches, and lanterns. He wanted to see if the little fires would move for him like the big one had, whether he had really seen what he had seen. Whether the fire had really let him go.

Small household fires weren’t enough for him by the time he was ten. He began to slip away from lessons to start campfires in the woods. When those refused to burn hot or high enough, he began experimenting with different tinder, different structures, to see if he could find a fire he liked, and that liked him back. Try as he might, he could not find that moment of connection, of sentience, that he remembered from the barn fire.

A chance grease fire in the kitchen when he was eleven, and the cook’s subsequent bellowed lecture to the entire kitchen staff about the dangers of pouring water on such a flame inspired Felix to experiment with different cooking fats to see what burned best.

He buttered and burned a chicken coop for his thirteenth birthday. That time, the explosion of chickens through the entrance of the coop was enough to put out the flame, even with the off butter to coax it along. The next time, he blocked the entrance to the coop. One chicken escaped from that fire, and Felix–seized with an emotion he could not name–released that chicken to live a long and happy life in the wild rather than see its neck wrung for dinner. The fire had spared the chicken, as it had spared Felix all those years ago. Who were the kitchen girls, or even the cook, to kill it?

After the second chicken coop burned, Felix’s father ordered him to Eton, begging help from the extended Featherington family to afford it. The lessons at school had introduced Felix to historical and literary fires, fire spirits, and an academic take on the beauty of fire that he knew to his bones. The time also taught Felix how to be cagey about his particular love of fire–he had inadvertently frightened off any potential friends by waxing philosophical about it in an early seminar–and how to set them quickly and covertly. He had never been formally named as the instigator of the stable fire at school, but he had saved his money and purchased the single surviving horse.

When he finally returned home from school, Felix’s father attempted to teach him how to run the estate, but the two men grated on each other unpleasantly. The fire in the new barn had been Felix’s way of handling the growing unease and conflict. He had not even stacked the deck by setting packets of accelerant in the path of the exits. Had the fire judged his father worthy, Felix would have learned to live with the man, perhaps even brought him into the fold on their family’s role in allowing fire to judge peoples’ worthiness. Alas, his father had been unworthy.

What Felix had not anticipated was having to sit through his mother’s months of weeping. It had reached a breaking point the day that Felix had simply walked into a room, and she had thrown herself at him, sobbing something about how much he resembled his father. He had–somewhat unwisely–tried to comfort her by explaining that the fire had judged his father unworthy and that she ought not mourn something that a higher power had ordained. That had simply made her cry harder for a few moments before she asked him what on earth he thought he meant. He had not explicitly told his mother that he had set the fire that had killed his father, but her eyes told him that she knew. Less than a week later, he had been packed off to Cousin Penelope.

The Featherington’s solicitor’s account of Felix’s life to the court largely omitted Felix’s fascination and love affair with fire, but it communicated the bare bones of his story, up to and including the fact that his mother had likely known she was sending a troubled young man to a family ill-equipped to handle him. Just how his mother had managed to avoid a criminal charge for not turning her son in, Felix had to hope he would learn in hell, particularly since the family solicitor had told him outright that the crown was advocating to have Cousin Penelope charged alongside him. By her presence in the gallery, either his letter advocating her lack of knowledge had worked, or the fact that she had turned him in had removed her from the fate he was facing.

He wondered if she had ever received the books he had sent away for.

An open-handed slap to the face drew Felix out of his memories and thoughts. The bailiff stood before him.

“Answer the question,” he snapped.

“And what question would that be?” drawled Felix, ignoring pain in his face.

The judge snorted. “Have you anything to say in your own defense, Mr. Featherington? Have you any regrets or apologies to issue? Anything at all?”

“Fire regrets nothing and makes no apologies,” said Felix. “I do not see why I, as its hands, should either.” He caught and held the judge’s eyes, back straight and posture steady. He studiously ignored the wave of mutters behind him; whispers of “he’s mad” had no meaning. Fire couldn’t be mad, and neither was he. Out of the corner of his eye, Felix saw his solicitor throw his hands into the air and stalk toward the bench, stage-whispering some protestation or other at the judge, who shook his head firmly before banging his gavel again.

“Given the preponderance of evidence before me, and the accused’s shameless disregard for those he has killed, injured, and put out of their homes, I can come to no other verdict than guilty.” The pause was undoubtedly to allow the room to react, but no one, not even the hangers-on in the audience on the main floor, was surprised or objected. They understood, perhaps even better than the ton, the consequences of a second great fire, and arson was particularly despised.

Instead of the expected outcry of voices, the room filled with a sense of impending doom, as though the sword of Damocles itself was hanging over the Old Bailey. Felix cast a quick glance at the gallery, checking Penelope’s reaction. She was sitting on the very edge of her bench, hands clasped in her lap, face an impassive mask. She clearly wasn’t surprised, but she, like the rest of the room, was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Felix kept his eyes on her as the judge resumed speaking.

“Counsel for the accused has requested imprisonment for life as a sentence, recognizing the accused’s somewhat tenuous connection to an esteemed family of the ton.” He nodded to the wall of Bridgertons in the gallery. “As a judge, however, my responsibility is to more than simply the ton. My responsibility is to the memory and family of the people that the accused killed, and the greater public good. London cannot, shall not, have a second great fire, which means that London must not condone or coddle arsonists. The crown has requested a death sentence in light of the severity and extent of the accused’s crimes.” The judge sat back in his chair, pensive for a long moment. Felix watched what little color that had been in Penelope’s face drain away, accentuating the mask quality of her impassivity, although he still could not tell what she felt beneath it.

“Mr. Featherington. This court sentences you to death by burning at the stake. You shall be taken from this place to the Tower of London, where the sentence will be carried out on the Tower Green one week hence.” The bang of the gavel was overwhelmed by Felix’s bark of laughter.

“You are a fool,” he said, still laughing uproariously. “Fire cannot hurt me, man. What shall you do when the flames die, and I am still here? You will have carried out the sentence. Will you let a man who you fail to execute walk free? Just imagine what I shall do then!” He laughed all the way back to his cell in the Tower.

Penelope nearly fainted when the judge announced the sentence; only Colin and Gregory’s hands at her back kept her upright as Felix–still laughing–was bodily dragged from the room. The shock had so disconnected her from her own body that Colin had to physically lift her from her seat as the room stood as the queen exited the courtroom, and the judge dismissed everyone else. From behind her, Penelope could hear the jubilant discussions about the sentence, as well as the telltale sounds of enthusiastically clasped hands and clapped shoulders.

There was a light touch on her elbow; Penelope turned to see Mondrich behind her, eyes sympathetic, and with none of the triumph she saw in the faces surrounding her.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bridgerton,” he said softly. He touched the brim of his hat to Colin and moved toward the doors without giving her the chance to respond. Penelope’s head spun. Mr. Mondrich had almost lost his livelihood, and he was apologizing to her? She could not make sense of it just then. Everything else was too much, and she did not seem to be able to block out the noise and hard words of those around her. Every word, every sound, hit her like a physical blow on unprotected skin.

“Excuse me, beg pardon, excuse me, sir, pardon me!” The polite but insistent refrain came from an imposing man in royal livery who was making his way to the front of the gallery and slid along the line of Bridgertons until he stood before Penelope. The lack of space made his bow oddly abortive; in any other circumstance, it would have been an insult.

“Mrs. Bridgerton, her Majesty requests that you attend her.”

“Can it not wait?” asked Colin, just barely civil with both Simon and Anthony over his shoulder. “It has been a taxing day. Surely the queen will understand if Mrs. Bridgerton needs to refresh herself.”

“I’m afraid her Majesty insists,” said the liveried man.

“Very well,” Anthony broke in. “I, the Duke, and Mr. Bridgerton shall accompany Mrs. Bridgerton.”

“Your pardon, my lord, but this invitation is only for Mrs. Bridgerton.” The liveried man’s tone was so precisely polite as to be excruciating, and Penelope was suddenly tired of charades, machinations, and maintaining a facade for the ton.

“It is well,” she said. “I shall return shortly.” Gently shaking off all four Bridgertons and Simon, Penelope followed the man to a private room set aside for the royal family. She heard footsteps behind her but did not look back. The last thing she needed just then was a reminder of what was still very much at stake if the queen chose to believe that Penelope was untrustworthy and had somehow skirted consequences for aiding and abetting arson.

The room was austere in the extreme; the dark wood of the furniture matched that of the floors and wainscoting, and the walls above the wainscoting were covered in licorice green paper with dark gold accents. Thick, matching curtains covered the single window in the room, so the only light came from candles and the small fire in the fireplace. The mantle was practically gothic, with actual gargoyles carved into the columns supporting the lintel. This was a room so oppressive that it could have physically squeezed secrets out of people.

Lady Danbury and Queen Charlotte stood together by the mantle, whispering furiously as Penelope entered the room and curtsied. No one else was present, and Penelope’s escort was outside the closed door. Breaking protocol, Penelope rose without being acknowledged and waited for the older women to end their conversation. Refraining from eavesdropping would have been a courtesy for anyone else; Penelope simply had no energy for their politics just then.

As the moments stretched into minutes, Penelope’s temper began to boil. She was exhausted, mentally and physically wrung out, and yet she was forced to stand here and watch the political equivalent of matchmaking mamas decide whether she had performed well enough to suit them. Never mind her own feelings of guilt, betrayal, and sorrow; never mind that she was human, no. She had to be the perfect portrait for their tastes. No more. It was time to consult her own feelings. She had been named a member of this private court; she would damn well act like one.

“Have I shown the ton where my loyalties lie well enough, your Majesty, or did I drag my brothers-in-law out to no purpose? If you are to censure me, please get on with it so I may return home. I have rather a pounding headache.” Where that bright, debutante tone had come from, Penelope had no idea. She had been aiming for politeness and neutrality.

Lady Danbury’s jaw dropped, and both women’s heads whirled toward Penelope. The crackling fury in the queen’s eyes would have been terrifying that morning, but Penelope had passed the point of caring.

“Have a care for how you speak to me,” thundered the queen. “I made you a member of this court, and I can remove you just as easily.”

“That may be a blessing if this entire debacle is a preface of the trust you have in me and how I am to be treated,” snapped Penelope. “I am no child flat on my back with a stab wound today, ma’am. Since joining your private court, I have done nothing, nothing to deserve mistrust and hostility, and yet I have met it at every turn! If you would have me gone, banish me and be done. It could not possibly be any worse than living with the knowledge that I turned over a member of my own family to be burned to death.”

“You may wish to have a care for the rest of your family–” began the queen before Penelope cut her off.

“Empty threats frighten me not a whit. You have no grounds to threaten my mama, my sisters, or my in-laws, and you do not dare anger the ton with consequences for trumped-up charges. You have not the political goodwill to spare, ma’am.”

The silence that descended was thick and shocked. An elastic moment that seemed to stretch for eternity snapped as Lady Danbury thumped her walking stick against the hard floor.

“I told you she would call any bluff you might make, your Majesty,” said the older woman, tiredly. “She would be so valuable if you would simply let your mistrust go. Hasn’t the intervening time since the final Whistledown proved that Mrs. Bridgerton can be an asset?”

“Apparently not, since she was entirely willing to allow the crown solicitor to charge me alongside Mr. Featherington,” said Penelope. Lady Danbury’s eyes widened, and she stared openly at the queen. Silence reigned for long minutes.

“Things cannot go on like this,” Lady Danbury said, at last. “Ma’am, if you cannot trust Mrs. Bridgerton, we cannot function. Perhaps letting her go is the wisest course.”

“Absolutely not,” snapped Queen Charlotte. “Nothing in the intervening time since she was brought into the fold has changed the fact that she is too dangerous to remain outside this little…immediate family. The chit would have had the ton rising against me if their precious Lady Whistledown had asked it of them, and she was no great friend of the crown.”

“I should rather think the crown is no great friend to me,” said Penelope.

“Penelope!” hissed Lady Danbury.

Heedless, Penelope continued. “Tell me, your Majesty, what sleight of hand did you have to pull to convince the crown solicitor that I was the one who knew what he was, not Mrs. Featherington? What sentence were you hoping I would garner? One to neatly remove me from your hair?”

“Your dear Aunt Featherington was most eager to make a deal to avoid taking any responsibility,” said the queen, clearly irritated that Penelope had recognized her hand in the backroom dealings.

“I never fomented rebellion, your Majesty. I never committed sedition. The only thing I ever managed to do was damage your pride. If your pride is so delicate that a scandal sheet can damage it, then I cannot imagine the scandal sheet is at fault. I shall make this simple. I am leaving, ma’am. Watch me forever, if you wish, but I am done with this backstabbing cabal. I make no promises, you would not trust them in any case, but I tell you that I am leaving, and this will remain between the three of us.” Penelope curtsied deeply but briefly, rose, and used both hands and her body weight to tug open the heavy door, startling the man outside as she strode past him.

She strode past the Bridgertons and Simon, who formed up behind her as she left the building and emerged into the gathering twilight. The cool air and the still, clear evening did nothing to settle her fury. Impulsively, she had refused to return directly to Bridgerton House, insisting that she needed to visit her mama. She had suggested that she would simply hire a hack, but Colin had lifted her off her feet and into the family carriage, saying that they could be dropped off on the way with no issue. She had chosen not to fight his “they,” as she could already see alarm in his eyes and expression. She could say what needed saying as well with him at her shoulder as she could have alone.

#polin #polin fic #polin fanfiction #polin bridgerton #regency fic #colin x penelope #colin and penelope #colin bridgerton and penelope feathertington #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #bridgerton netflix #bridgerton books #no beta we die like edmund #of fire and featheringtons

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soughthope · 1 year

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Mobile Muse List

The activity of each muse will vary depending on my mood. I get obsessed. I'm human. You get it 💕

Canon Characters

Dean Winchester, 26 - ??, Jensen Ackles

Jo Harvelle, 24 - ??, Alona Tal

Meg Masters, ageless, Rachel Miner

Rowena Macleod, 300+, Ruth Connell

Steve Harrington, 19, Joe Keery

Max Mayfield, 15, Sadie Sink

Eddie Munson, 20, Joseph Quinn

Jim Hopper, 47, David Harbour

Dustin Henderson, 15, Gaten Matarazzo

Alex Chen, 21, Lana Condor

Chloe Price, 19, Emma Mackey

Kate Marsh, 18, Eliza Scanlen

Courtney Wagner, 18, Malese Jow

JJ Maybank, 19, Rudy Pankow

Rafe Cameron, 21, Drew Starkey

Wheezie Cameron, 14, Ciara Bravo

Pamela Isley, 28, Bridgit Regan

Bruce Wayne, 30, Robert Pattinson

Kara Danvers, 27, Melissa Benoist

Tony Stark, 35, Robert Downey Jr

Peter Parker, 21, Tom Holland

Frank Castle, 33, Jon Bernthal

Cassandra, 21, Adelaide Kane or Emma Appleton

Elsa, 25, Ginny Gardner

Peter Pan, Ageless, Robbie Kay

Fawn, Ageless, Emma Stone

Korra, 23, K. Devery Jacobs

Zuko, 25, Ryan Potter

Adora, 23, Florence Pugh

Catra, 23, Lulu Antariksa

Noah Flynn, 23, Jacob Elordi

Maya Hart, 15 - 20s, Sabrina Carpenter

Joel Miller, 40, Pedro Pascal

Nathan Scott, 20s, Felix Mallard

Noah Foster, 19 - 20s, John Karna

Emma Duval, 19 - 20s, Willa Fitzgerald

Billy Loomis, 19 - 20s, Skeet Ulrich - AU

Jakob Toretto, Verse dependent,

Letty Ortiz, Verse dependent, Michelle Rodriguez

Suki, 20s, Devon Aoki & Hayley Kiyoko

Bella Swan, 18 - 20s, Diana Silvers

Emmett Cullen, ageless, Cody Christian

Leah Clearwater, 20s, Julia Jones

Billy Hope, 30, Jake Gyllenhaal

Rick Grimes, 30s, Andrew Lincoln

Glenn Rhee, late 20s, Steven Yuen

Rosita Espinosa, 29, Christian Serratos

Penelope Featherington, 18, Nicola Coughlan

Anthony Bridgerton, 31, Jonathan Bailey

Simon Bassett, 29, Regé-Jean Page

Stiles Stilinski, 19 - 20s, Dylan Obrien

Scott McCall, 19 - 20s, Tyler Posey

Liam Dunbar, 20, Dylan Sprayberry

Stu Macher, 20 - ??, Matthew Lillard

Fezco, 20, Angus Cloud

OC Characters

Allison Roe, 17 - 27, Leighton Meester - one tree hill

Joshua Scott, 15 - 21, Peyton Meyer - one tree hill

Grace Scott, 18 - 20, Sara Weisglass - one tree hill

Princess Bean, 15, Georgie Henley - Fandomless

Tessa Cameron, 23, Madison Bailey - Fandomless

Finnegan Cunningham, 30, Sam Heughan - Fandomless

Noah Wolffe, 23, Nick Robinson - Incredibles universe

Lexi Oneill, 25, India Isley - Fandomless

#(🐝) out of character.

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ao3feed-kathony · 4 months

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A Brother's Intervention

read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/55976815 by ssilverkonic7 As Felix looked at his sister, he thought how lonely she looked. And he decided to find a solution to this situation. Her sister was too perfect to fall in unrequited love with that idiot. Felicity, born male, is Colin's worst enemy. Words: 1840, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Characters: Penelope Featherington, Colin Bridgerton Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sheffield | Kate Sharma, Eloise Bridgerton/Phillip Crane, Sophie Beckett/Benedict Bridgerton read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/55976815

#kathony #kanthony #anthony bridgerton #kate sharma #kate sheffield #ao3feed #fanfic

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bcbliophile · 6 months

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@everyoneismytoy Felix & Penelope

Becoming a well known author was not the life her mother had wanted for her, she wanted her to be married and have children, not write filth and yet here Penelope stood, on the set of a movie based on her first book series about the romance between a duo of stalkers, twins and a barista working to put herself through nursing school. She had been very hands on with the casting, with a clear vision of who would play the main characters and when she saw Felix's audition she knew he would be perfect for the job, she didn't know of his past or his family until after when her mother called to scream at her, their families had apparently been friendly at one point though she had no memory of this.

The redhead was looking over her notes from the director when she spotted him and instantly walked over to introduce herself. "Hi-- Felix right? I'm Penelope Featherington, I just wanted to thank you for signing on to do the movie. I know you'll be great !" It was a big undertaking, playing two main characters, but she had faith he could do it.

#everyoneismytoy #penelope's threads #v ; bright lights & the big city ( modern au )

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homoo-wan-kenobi · 2 years

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Polly Walker for Felix Magazine UK

Polly's actually so beautiful that I simultaneously wish that I was that ladder and that chair 😍

#polly walker #felix magazine uk #portia featherington #lady featherington #bridgerton netflix #bridgerton #bridgerton season 2

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daddy-long-legolas · 4 years

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Character List (Requests)

Started: 1/16/21

Last Updated: 5/14/22

Completed Works: 0

Masterlist

NOTE: You can request another show or character, but keep in mind that I may not know or like the show/character. I’m open to any requests aside from incest/non-con/domestic abuse/severely triggering topics.

EXTRA NOTE: IF SOMETHING TRIGGERS YOU, AND YOU ARE WORRIED ABOUT THAT TOPIC BEING IN ANY OF MY FICS, TELL ME AND I WILL LITERALLY GO THROUGH AND ADD THAT TRIGGER WARNING. IT IS NO HASSLE. YOU CAN GO ANON IF YOU AR NERVOUS ABOUT ASKING

The Character List is below the “Keep Reading”

LOTR/The Hobbit:

Aragorn

Boromir

Faramir

Legolas Thranduilion

Arwen Undomiel

Haldir

Thorin Oakenshield

Tauriel

Fili

Kili

Bofur

Thranduil Oropherion

Bard

Lindir

Maedhros

Erestor

Harry Potter:

Harry Potter

Hermione Granger

Bill Weasley

Charlie Weasley

George Weasley

Fred Weasley

Ron Weasley

Ginny Weasley

Draco Malfoy

Blaise Zabini

Tom Riddle

Theodore Nott

Oliver Wood

Cedric Diggory

Neville Longbottom

Luna Lovegood

Lily Evans

James Potter

Sirius Black

Remus Lupin

Newt Scamander

Theseus Scamander

Leta Lestrange

Queenie Goldstein

Tina Goldstein

Narnia:

Peter Pevensie

Susan Pevensie

Edmund Pevensie

Lucy Pevensie

Caspian X

Star Wars:

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Anakin Skywalker

Padme Amidala

Ahsoka Tano

Luke Skywalker

Leia Organa

Din Djarin

Boba Fett

Ben Solo

Rey

Poe Dameron

General Hux

Marvel:

Steve Rogers

Tony Stark

Thor Odinson

Natasha Romanoff

Loki Laufeyson

King T’Challa

Bucky Barnes

Dr. Stephen Strange

Sam Wilson

Pietro Maximoff

Wanda Maximoff

Peggy Carter

Shuri

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield)

Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire)

Yelena Belova

Kate Bishop

Marc Spector/Steven Grant

Layla El-Faouley

Bruce Banner

MJ Watson

Gwen Stacey

Otto Octavius

Curt Connors

Max Dillon

Twilight:

Jasper Whitlock

Emmett Cullen

Edward Cullen

Rosalie Hale

Carlisle Cullen

Jacob Black

Paul Lahote

Seth Clearwater

Leah Clearwater

Kate Denali

Tanya Denali

Garrett

Alec

Jane

Felix

Demitri

Criminal Minds:

Derek Morgan

Spencer Reid

Aaron Hotchner

Emily Prentiss

Jennifer Jareau (JJ)

Luke Alvez

Penelope Garcia

Bridgerton:

Anthony Bridgerton

Benedict Bridgerton

Colin Bridgerton

Daphne Bridgerton

Eloise Bridgerton

Simon Bassett

Penelope Featherington

Prince Freidrich

Marina Thompson

Others:

Catra (She-Ra)

Adora (She-Ra)

Sokka (ATLA)

Zuko (ATLA)

Katara (ATLA)

Dean Winchester (Supernatural)

Sam Winchester (Supernatural)

Finnick Odair (The Hunger Games)

Cato Hadley (The Hunger Games)

Asra Alnazar (The Arcana)

Julian Devorak (The Arcana)

Muriel (The Arcana)

Portia Devorak (The Arcana)

Nadia Satrinava (The Arcana)

Sage Lesath (Fictif)

The Darkling (Shadow and Bone)

Kaz Brekker (Shadow and Bone)

Malyen Oretsev (Shadow and Bone)

Feel free to request any other characters! (I’ll only be able to write for a character that I’m familiar with though)

#fanfic #fanfiction #request #masterlist #fandom #fandom imagines #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #harry potter #narnia #the chronicles of narnia #twilight #star wars #marvel #mcu

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thekatebridgerton · 1 year

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thekatebridgerton 2022 Masterlist of aus

this post is going to be long, to be fair, I think I wrote out my favorite aus in 2022. it was a great year creativity wise. So lets take a look:

If Eloise had been closer to Marina her book probably would have been more like a genderbent WHWW pt 1

au If Eloise had met Phillip while he was Married to Marina pt2

Forced Marriage au Bridgerton men edition

Bridgerton couples There was only one bed trope

List of The Bridgerton as mental illnesses darker timeline au

The hoe and the monogamist trope (saint and sinner)

Crack Encanto au post pt1

Crack Encanto au post pt2

Crack Encanto au post pt3

Which Bridgerton is the most insomniac

The Bridgertons on a scale of 1 to 8 Royalty au edition

The Bridgertons as Star wars Characters pt1

Philoise almost meeting aus

Gregnelope crackship au idea

Kanthony first words soulmate au aesthetic

Bridgerton couples mafia au p1

Kate interviewing for the wife Position au

Wallflower Penelope has no suitors because…au

Violet Bridgerton time travel fix it, multicouple oneshot

Reverse TVWL What if Kate tried to go after Benedict au

Mafia au pt 2, the Kanthony drabble

Mafia au pt3 Polin edition

Bridgerton couples Star wars au pt2 the story

Philoise College professor x student au

She’s all that polin au

Colin vs the angry wallflower and the bored modiste oneshot

Masterlist of Birdgerton rom com ideas

Polin Made of Honor au (ft bluerosejuliet)

Bridgeton couples Criminal minds au

Polin Aesthetic prompt: Abduction to love

Polin Aesthetic prompt: Best friend brother + brother’s best friend

Polin Aesthetic prompt: Two person Love Triangle

Polin Aesthetic prompt: The one that got away

Polin Aesthetic prompt: Childhood marriage promise

Polin Aesthetic prompt: friends with benefits

Polin Aesthetic prompt: Fish out of water

Addams family au vignete

Polin Aesthetic prompt: Secret baby au

Polin Aesthetic prompts: Polin in Law enforcement

Sophie as Benedict’s mistress, comedy au

Polin Aesthetic prompts: Neighbours to lovers au

Bridgerton mafia au post #4

Bridgerton couples Yandere au part 1: the plot

Bridgerton reincarnated au pt1

Bridgerton Yandere au pt 2, how it may end eventually

Bridgerton yandere au pt3

Bridgerton yandere au post #3

Bridgerton Yandere au post #4, Gregory’s take

Philoise meet cute S2 au

Reincarnated au pt2 Franchesca version

Genderbent Felicity: Felix Featherington verse pt1

Ghost x Reincarnation au pt1

Kanthony as rival fashion designers au

Kanthony Medieval warlord au

Gaslight gatekeep girlboss OG post

Kanthony twisted Cinderella au

Bridgerton Couples, write on your skin soulmate au

Bridgerton couples professional Athletes au

Reincarnation au part 2

Reincarnation au pt3: the climax of the story

Bridgerton Reincarnation au pt4: the plot thickens

Ghost x Reincarnation au pt2

Genderbent Felicity: Felix Featherington verse pt2

Reincarnation au p4

Twisted Fairytale Full au pt2

Kanthony pirate-ish au

Penelope fake Dates Phillip, Polin au

Polin meet the Robinsons idea

Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss inspiration idea pt2

Bridgerton Ghost Whisper au pt1

Felix Featherington verse pt 3

Bridgerton couples Sherlock Holmes au

Reincarnation au pt5, Saphne edition

to the anon who asked which were my favorites, for the 2022 aus, its really hard to pick, I absolutely adored writing my Twisted Fairytales Bridgerton au and one of these days a will totally write a full fic about it, but also the Star Wars au and the Mafia au were so much fun!! I loved writing those. The reincarnation verse was also so good, and arghh I should have expanded on the Criminal minds au.

Long Story short, it's really hard to pick which was my favorite au to write in 2022, but the ones I listed above always make me grin like a maniac, even when I'm busy and sleep deprived.

#masterlist of aus #aus of 2022 #polin #kanthony #benophie #philoise

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thekatebridgerton · 2 years

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If Felix Featherington and Elliot Bridgerton co-exist in the same universe, Penelope has two protective brothers by her side and fighting off Colin.

I'd love to see genderbent Felicity AND genderbent Eloise in the same universe. It would be hilarious. Because they would totally be drinking buddies. Elliot who is a little older takes it upon himself to make sure Felix knows that a true intellectual only drinks the finest wine. And Felix would both idolize and have cero respect for Elliot. Depending on the day.

They both agree that Colin should be kept away from Penelope. They have both punched Colin for looking at Penelope like a thirsty scoundrel and Colin keeps affirming he's just good friends with Felix sister (like a liar!! Fel can see right through him!!)

#bridgerton #genderbent Felicity #genderbent Eloise #polin

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thekatebridgerton · 1 year

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Edward Sharma 🤝 Elliot Bridgerton 🤝 Felix Featherington: Protecting their sisters/friends from idiots aka Bridgertons men.

As they should. Anthony and Colin are weirdos who can't keep their horny thoughts in their pants. Elliot knows this! he's part of the family. Felix and Eddie share his pain and they hang out together at the boxing club to plot at how to mess up Anthony and Colin's next visit to the Sharmas and the Featheringtons.

#genderbent edwina sharma #genderbent felicity featherington #genderbent eloise bridgerton

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checkoutmybookshelf · 2 years

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Of Fire and Featheringtons: Chapter 2

Well hello friends, and welcome to my second Polin fic! This one builds on The Polin Fic (I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights on Ao3) so be sure to read that before diving into this one!

Like the other one, this fic is safe for work, but a few warnings do apply! If house fires, house fire injuries, mild gore, and mild blood aren't your thing, then don't be afraid to give this fic a pass. I'll be updating it every week here and on Ao3, so check back for updates.

I hope you enjoy this Polin fic, I had a blast writing it!

Felix had gotten into bed more or less immediately upon returning to Colin and Penelope’s house—he had had no more sleep than his hosts, after all. However, between his elation at how well the fire at Chatteris House had gone and his snide satisfaction at having landed a verbal blow across Colin bloody Bridgerton’s shoulders, he had been too wound up to sleep.

On his initial banishment to Cousin Penelope’s home after his father’s death, Felix had been furious. However, upon discovering that his mother had apparently not informed Cousin Penelope about the circumstances of his father’s death, Felix had found a new level of freedom to polish and increase his particular set of skills. In his country home, he had used what was commonly available in his fire packets: chicken and bacon fat, and rancid butter. The variety of cooking greases and oils available to him in London had meant he could experiment. Flaxseed oil and rancid butter seemed to catch the easiest and burn hottest, but he had not completely foregone bacon fat, as a bit of that on the bottom and sides of his containers meant he could use less wax, and that seemed to encourage the spread of the fire.

The other skill Felix had added to his repertoire since coming to London was timed wicks. That had been a somewhat serendipitous discovery; Felix had not expected that buying an older gentleman who was a mass of burn scars and had a missing hand would result in an evening spent listening to an explosives expert explain in drunken but deliberate detail how to properly create a wick that would set off a mine or a rocket at a precise time. Some small-scale experimentation in the garden shed had soon seen Felix with a method for ensuring that he could not only set multiple fires in a building simultaneously, but also that he was several streets away by the time anyone noticed that anything was wrong. He had begun with single, large fire packs that he lit and ran. Now, he found he preferred the effect of between six and ten smaller packs, divided across two locations, and connected by timed wicks.

The Chatteris fire had been his most ambitious setup yet, and he had barely made it back to his room before his cousin’s thoroughly obnoxious third son of a husband had burst in and dragged him off to try to fight the fire.

For all the posturing and snarling Felix did when Bridgerton dragged him into firefighting, Felix had found that he thoroughly enjoyed being at the scene of his handiwork. At the first fire he had set in London—in Bridgerton’s old bachelor lodgings, which made it burning to the ground all the sweeter—he had been so distracted by the beauty of the fire that he had managed to be in everyone’s way. At one point, he had been so mesmerized by the beauty of the light playing against the ash and soot whirling in a ballet through the air that he had managed to completely decimate the bucket chain. The fire’s grande jete to a neighboring building had taken Felix’s breath away. Nothing else in the world embodied such grace and power.

True Featheringtons—Cousin Penelope included, although he had not broached the topic with her—were marked by fire; it was theirs to appreciate, control, and loose upon whatever target took their fancy. For anyone to get in the way of fire’s beauty and power was blasphemous. He would show Cousin Penelope that, show her how wrong Bridgerton was. She already seemed predisposed to like him, or at least sympathize with him, which had been an unexpected development. Felix was sure if he could simply remove Bridgerton from the picture that he and Penelope could build a Featherington Empire on the power of fire. All London would bow to them, or they would make the Great Fire look like a candle’s flame.

With a deep sigh, Felix gave up on trying to sleep. He had worked himself up, and there was only one cure for that. Rising, he slipped from his room and skulked through the house toward the garden shed. In the hallway, a flash of red-orange light dazzled his eye, and he stepped back into a shadow. The light had reflected off Cousin Penelope’s hair; Bridgerton was carrying her sleeping form toward their bedroom.

Felix’s growl at Bridgerton’s lack of respect for the fire in his cousin was not audible; he was certain. That did not prevent Bridgerton from slowing and shooting a look over his shoulder. He did not look convinced that all was well when he shook his head and continued, but Felix was satisfied that he was unseen. He made his way out to the garden shed to continue his preparation for his next fire.

The garden shed was a relic from the house’s previous owners, and the Bridgerton’s gardener did not use it. It had fallen largely into disrepair, but the bones of the small structure were still solid. The whole building listed a bit to the left, and the roof had a few gaps in it. There was clinging ivy and moss all about it, but the window let in full afternoon sunlight. Felix preferred to slip out here in the afternoon because people were less likely to see the candle he used. He had gone out of his way not to disturb the plant life that obscured the door to ensure that casual passersby would fail to notice that the little structure was in use.

Once inside, Felix unwrapped an oilcloth packet full of palimpsest, a very sharp paper knife, a chipped porcelain saucer covered in a waxy residue, a few beeswax candles, a box of sturdy pins, and a wooden block that was about ten centimeters wide on each side and fifteen centimeters tall. On the floor next to his makeshift workbench was a bucket emitting a rancid stench through its wooden cover.

Carefully, with the reverence of a monk performing a ritual, Felix laid out his materials. Saucer and candles went in the upper right corner of the workspace, where they were out of the way but immediately reachable. The block and pins went in the upper center of the bench, ready to be grabbed. The palimpsest stack was to his left, within easy reach, and the paper knife was in his right hand, quickly tested against the edge of his left thumb. He was ready to begin.

With the precision that comes only from long years of practice, Felix quickly measured and cut strips of paper that would fit neatly around two of the long sides and one short side of the block. Once he had a small stack of sheets, he cut a stack of palimpsest strips that were two centimeters wide and fifteen centimeters long. Next, he cut a stack of squares that would fit on one of the short sides of the form. Finally, he shredded a single sheet into thin slivers. Shifting his paper strips slightly to one side, he took the block and pins and folded the long sheets around the block, pinning them carefully to hold them in a box shape with an open top. Then, the narrow strips were carefully folded to seal the gaps at the edges and pinned into place.

Setting the paper-covered form aside, he pulled a flint and steel from a pocket and set one of the plump beeswax candles on his work surface. Most people used spills, newfangled matches, or a striker, but Felix preferred a more consistent method, particularly since he could not always guarantee an existing flame to light a spill. It was the work of a moment to light the candle. No matter how often Felix lit a candle or stoked a fire, he had never lost the wonder of the miracle that was fire. He took a long moment, staring into the heart of the small flame, and understood in his bones why Prometheus had delivered flame to humanity. It had practical utility, certainly, but the beauty, grace, and otherworldly motion of flame at any scale was the true gift. Far too few people truly appreciated fire as Felix did. He cupped the tiny flame in his palms, ignoring the pain of flame too close to skin. Any interaction with fire was a privilege; only those who did not understand quibbled about pain.

“Hello, beauty,” he whispered, watching the flame dance in response to his breath. As the beeswax began to melt, Felix released the flame itself and held the candle at an angle above the saucer, so the liquid wax collected into a small pool. He then manually spread a thin layer of wax over the outside of the form, sealing the sheets of palimpsest together and transforming the paper sculpture into something that could temporarily hold up to containing a slurry of rancid grease and oil. It only needed to hold together long enough for its contents to ignite and spread.

In the hour and a half Felix stole that afternoon, he managed a full twelve containers. When he realized the time, he smiled; he was getting faster. He did not fill the containers that afternoon; he was still debating the site of his next fire, and his system worked best if he filled and sealed them as close to placing them as possible. But once he decided what his next target would be, he would be prepared. Either his cousin’s husband would learn to appreciate fire, or he would perish.

Penelope spent the weeks after the Chatteris House fire quietly speaking to anyone and everyone she could think of who might have any insight at all into their arsonist—or pair of arsonists. At their tea to discuss the issue several days after Lady Danbury visited Penelope, the Queen and Lady Danbury had maintained that for multiple fires to begin simultaneously, there had to be more than one perpetrator. Penelope had argued harder than she had ever argued before in her life, but the Queen had refused to hear the single arsonist theory unless there was concrete evidence to support it. Penelope understood the logic, but after weeks of speaking to maids, delivery boys, the men of the fire brigade, and vendors who provided cooking fats to ton and common households alike, she could not understand why she was still hearing no rumors, no gossip, not even a wild story from the overactive imagination of a maid or delivery boy. Even when Anna and “Penny”—two gossipy maids running errands—approached these same people, all they spoke of was what was commonly known.

Her tenure as Lady Whistledown had taught her many things, but at the core of those lessons was that a secret was not safe if two people knew of it. It was how she had been found out, and she had taken the lesson to heart. She was sure, deep in her bones, that if there was a second arsonist, she would have heard something by now. She would also have been able to discover a pattern if one or two people were purchasing cooking fats. Even if they were distancing themselves by using delivery boys, new patterns in merchants’ ledgers would have appeared, and none had. Penelope’s theory was that if delivery boys were being used, the person behind them never used the same delivery boy twice, never sent any delivery boy on a regular day or time, and never purchased sufficient volume to raise eyebrows. In her opinion, the perpetrator was hiding in the random background noise that occurred in any business. Unfortunately, that kind of evidence was not something she could bring to the queen and Lady Danbury. Penelope had a theory based on what she was not seeing rather than what she was seeing, and the Queen was somewhat famous for preferring to see clear lines of causation.

Frustrated by the lack of new information and questioning her instincts despite herself, Penelope spent an afternoon laboriously copying out a map of Mayfair, gluing additional sheets of paper to her initial sheet as she needed them. She had thought to organize the information she had visually because despite several discussions with Lady Danbury, they had been unable to find any significant connections or common threads between anyone who lost a home to arson that season, aside from them all being members of the ton. Penelope had a half-formed idea that there might be a geographical connection other than “Mayfair,” but she was having difficulty corralling the idea into a useful or concrete thought. Paper was, as she knew, delightfully concrete and never failed to help her transform ideas into thoughts.

The gentle scritch scratch of quill on paper, interrupted periodically to dip it in the inkwell, soon slipped Penelope into a near-trancelike state. Some part of the back of her mind was still turning over the facts and pieces of evidence, but the font of her mind, the part she was actively aware of, simply faded to allow the task to swallow her. She had lived in Mayfair all her life, so drawing out the streets she had walked so many times was soothing.

Where her penmanship was energetic, and she often felt that her hand failed to keep up with the whirring of her mind, copying out the map was a different sensation, with long, smooth lines and a perfect synchronicity of eyes and hand without interference from her mind. Time fell away from Penelope.

Until, that is, there was a warm, gentle pressure on the crown of her head.

“…that Anna has come in here three times, and you haven’t once responded? Whatever has you so focused, Pen?” Penelope blinked, needing a moment for her mind to reengage and process Colin’s words. As she was sorting out his question in her head, she leaned into the hand he had placed on her head, bringing her back to herself. His chuckle had a throaty quality that made her breath catch in her throat as he leaned down from his position, standing behind her chair and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, allowing her to nestle into him.

“I hope you realize that this level of focus is entirely your fault,” she said, smiling. “When I was writing Whistledown, not once did Mama, Prudence, or Philippa catch me unawares.”

“Ah, so this isn’t for a new alter ego that we must hide from the ton. Excellent. Is that Mayfair?”

Trying to set her quill down, Penelope found that her hand—which she couldn’t remember feeling since she had begun—was firmly clenched around it and cramped viciously.

“I thought I might mark the fires, see if I could find—” she drew in a hissed breath at a particularly painful cramp, “a pattern.” Using his teeth, Colin pulled his gloves off and tucked them into a trouser pocket before taking her hand—quill and all—and slowly, gently massaging the cramps out. Penelope sighed as the muscles relaxed, and turned her face up, meeting Colin’s lips in a kiss. The mindless contentment of project work gave way to the bliss of being held by Colin Bridgerton.

Even after a year of marriage, it never failed to amaze Penelope that she had a partner, someone she could lean on for support, and whom she could support in turn. She had spent so many years feeling deeply alone that she thought she would never cease to relish these moments.

Colin finally broke the kiss, both breathing faster. “You know, I could send our regrets to Number 5 if you wanted,” he rumbled. He knew he was thwarted when Pen’s eyes widened.

“It’s Saturday,” she said, voice a complicated mixture of sudden recognition, excitement, and disappointment. “I cannot believe I forgot. Did you say Anna has been in to fetch me three times? Whatever is the time? Are we late for dinner?” Penelope twisted in her seat, taking a good look at her husband. “You’re dressed.” He looked absolutely dashing in a blue dinner jacket that brought out matching hues in his eyes. That was when Penelope realized that she had been copying to candlelight. “When did it get dark?” Colin laughed as he pulled Pen’s chair out for her. She nearly ran smack into Anna, who was walking in the door.

“Ma’am, you absolutely must dress now, you’re like to be late as it is.” Anna took her mistress’s elbow and steered her toward her dressing room.

“The books,” yelped Penelope, stopping and beginning to twist around.

“Which ones, Pen?” called Colin, turning back into her study.

“Arabian Nights and Gulliver’s Travels. Thank you,” she called over her shoulder as Anna hustled her off. Her nephews would never forgive her if she forgot their bedtime stories.

Ever since Violet Bridgerton had taken her youngest children and moved into Number 5 to allow Viscount Anthony Bridgerton to build his family in Bridgerton House, the dowager Viscountess had insisted on family dinners at least twice a month; had she her druthers, she would have been surrounded by her children and grandchildren every Saturday for dinner.

As the grandchildren had gotten to that awkward age where they were old enough to understand that they were sent to bed long before the adults but were too young to be expected to sit through dinner, the various aunties had formed a tradition to take it in turns to visit the nursery at bedtime and read the children a story or two before rejoining the adults. The boys rarely permitted Eloise to read to them after she had attempted to interest them in Wollstonecraft. Kate—who was ensuring that her children spoke at least a little Hindustani—had a treasure trove of books from her own childhood to read to them, including the Kathasaritsagara and Ramayana. Anthony had confided in Colin that he was half-convinced that Kate was teaching the boys to swear in Hindustani rather than English, but he had yet to prove it. Daphne and Sophie were convinced that the children needed “improving” stories, and largely stuck to Aesop’s Fables, Lessons for Children, and Tales of Mother Goose. Francesca and Hyacinth preferred novels and were reading the children Robinson Crusoe and The Swiss Family Robinson, respectively. Penelope wasn’t entirely sure that Sophie and Daphne knew about Francesca’s and Hyacinth’s choices, but she wouldn’t be the one to out them.

For her first Christmas as their aunt, Penelope had embroidered Augie, Edmund, and Miles’s names on bookmarks, so they could be in charge of choosing and remembering where they were in the books she read them. Augie and Edmund took the responsibility very seriously, always double-checking the placement of their bookmarks, and charging “Auntie Pen” to take good care of them until the next time. Miles was still a bit too young to fully understand, but he liked finding his bookmark, and replacing it at the end of his story. Penelope’s workbasket at home had a barely begun bookmark for baby Charles as well, but she imagined she had some time before the infant was ready to join in and choose his own bedtime stories.

Despite Anna breaking several speed records getting Penelope into her evening gown and setting her curls in order, Colin, Penelope, and Felix were decidedly tardy when they finally arrived at Number 5. Kate met Penelope at the door, telling her that the boys were already in their beds, and had been asking for her, before shooing the gentlemen into the drawing room. Penelope walked distractedly toward the small nursery in which the children spent family dinner nights at their grandmother’s.

In the carriage on the way over, a particularly hard jostle had launched the books from Penelope’s lap, and Colin’s arm, saving her from a similar fate, had thwarted her attempt to catch them. Felix had gone rather hard to one knee on the floor of the carriage, and caught the tomes before they could fly open and jar the children’s bookmarks. Glancing at the titles in the brief flash of light from a streetlamp, he had—quite unexpectedly, as Felix always seemed ill at ease at Bridgerton family dinners—genuinely smiled.

“I liked the stories of the Jinn,” he said. “I had the pleasure of corresponding with a fellow at Oxford who studied Islamic literature, and he introduced me to Ifrits. I have…something of an affinity for them. Do your nephews also enjoy the stories?”

“Augie and Edmund particularly enjoy the exploits of Sinbad, although Miles seems to have an affinity for Grand Vizier Jafar al-Barmaki,” said Penelope, making a note to write to Lumley and ask him about Ifrits. “Would you care to listen to the stories tonight? The boys always ask questions, and I am so often at a loss for answers. These tales are as new to me as they are to them.” The deep shadows in the carriage meant that Penelope couldn’t see his eyes clearly, but she knew something complicated flashed through them, and the smile on his face was strangely sad.

“I should hate to impose, Cousin, but that is a kind offer. Perhaps an evening when we are not so late. I cannot imagine that the Duchess, Viscountess, and Mrs. Bridgerton would appreciate me keeping the children up so late.”

“The rest of us are always ready for an entertaining tale,” said Colin, a note of caution buried so deeply in his voice that Penelope herself had almost missed it. “If you have a recommendation, Cousin, I’m sure that we could convince Pen for an encore performance after dinner.” Her cousin must have been in an excellent mood, thought Penelope, who was expecting Felix to grouse back at Colin and was startled when he readily agreed.

“It would be a pleasing diversion,” he said.

“And you’ll have to explain what an Ifrit is,” said Colin. “I have never heard the term in any of my travels.”

“My scholar correspondent described them to me as possibly a sort of Jinn or possibly a different sort of spirit—the terms are ambiguous—but associated with fire,” Felix answered. Colin’s hand unconsciously brushed one of Penelope’s curls at the mention of fire. His shoulders also stiffened, although he could not have said why. Felix’s tone and manners were—well, truth be told, they were more agreeable than they had been in weeks. Perhaps that was why it struck Colin as strange, although it did not explain why he could not relax his shoulders.

“Perhaps we should follow in Augie and Edmund’s preference then, and read one of Sinbad’s adventures,” suggested Colin. “There has been too much of fire of late, and I shouldn’t want to upset Mother or the girls. I dare say they’ll be grateful that the travels under discussion are, for once, not mine.”

“No,” demurred Felix, expression hidden in a deep shadow. “I should hate to disturb their sensibilities.” As the carriage slowed to a halt, Felix offered the books back to Penelope. “I do hope the boys enjoy their stories tonight.” Then he climbed out of the carriage, followed closely by Colin, who offered her a hand to balance with as she stepped out.

Why on earth had such a simple conversation so unsettled her? And what had made Colin’s shoulders go tense? Penelope had the distinct sense that she had badly misread something, but could not imagine what. Normally, she enjoyed discussing books she had read, and some of the few pleasant times she had had with Felix this summer were discussions about shared reading. If only she had been able to see his eyes when he had declined her invitation.

A few steps clear of the nursery door, it popped open, and two dark-haired, light-brown faces peered around the doorjamb.

“Auntie Pen!” came the stage whisper as Augie and Edmund waved furiously at her.

“Miles and Charles are already asleep because they’re babies,” Edmund informed her imperiously, reminding her of Anthony when he was on his dignity. “Augie and I are all grown, though, and we waited to hear a story.” Augie eyed his cousin solemnly.

“You would have fallen asleep if I had not poked you,” he said. Edmund blushed furiously, and gently shoved his cousin.

“Here now, you know you are not to shove your cousin,” said Penelope, smoothly handing the books to Augie and scooping Edmund up. “Now Augie shall choose the first story, and you may choose the second if you show me you can behave like a gentleman.” Quietly, mindful of the sleeping infant and toddler in their cribs, Penelope shepherded her nephews into the room, closed the door, and settled on one of the low beds. Edmund was tucked to one side of her, and Augie pulled himself onto the bed and curled up on her other side. He had already found his bookmark, and offered the open book to Penelope, eyes serious, and embroidered bookmark in hand.

“Sinbad will make it home ok, won’t he, Auntie Pen?” Augie asked.

“’Course he will, he’s the hero,” scoffed Edmund, wide eyes on Penelope’s face.

“I suspect he will make it home, just like Uncle Colin always does when he travels,” she said. “However, you must let me read to find out.” Two little heads nodded, eyes still on her face. Penelope found her place on the page and began to read in a low voice.

Several stories of Sinbad later, both boys were drooping, clearly tuckered out, but unwilling to miss the next bit of the story. It had been an exciting story so far. Penelope was in the midst of a description of a ship fire that was so realistic that she could have sworn she smelled the smoke when she glanced at the door and her blood ran cold. A very small, very faint wisp of smoke was playing at the crack at the bottom of the door.

“Sit for a moment,” Penelope said to her nephews. Sleepy, neither boy moved nor protested as she carefully cracked the door open. The hallway was full of smoke, and a glow came from the end of the hallway that led toward the rest of the house. She didn’t watch for more than a moment, but in that time, she caught a flicker of flame.

Penelope did not wait. She didn’t wonder why nobody had raised an alarm, and she didn’t wonder where the nannies or maids had gotten off to. She found a small swaddling blanket and knotted it into a sling across her chest, then slid baby Charles into it, taking a moment that felt like an eternity to make absolutely certain that he wouldn’t slip, even if she did not have a hand on him.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she thought it might force its way up her throat and out her mouth. She did not know if a fire was burning above her head and had no way of knowing if this was arson or accident, but she had seen enough fires in the last few months to understand how fast they could move. That nobody else had come had to mean they either did not know or could not get to them, which meant that Penelope had to get her nephews out the back door, now. She very carefully did not think of Colin, of Felix, or of the rest of the family. She could not both get the children out and look after a roomful of adults.

With a quietly fussing Charles firmly against her, Penelope lifted Miles from his crib before turning to the older boys. They had scooted off the bed and were in arm’s reach of her, eyes wide and uncertain but not yet afraid. That was good, Penelope thought. They would be less likely to bolt if they weren’t afraid. She smiled at them, shifting Miles to one hip and taking Edmund’s hand firmly. Of the two older boys, she trusted Augie to stay with her more than Edmund. Ideally, she would have hands on both of them, but she was one woman, and there were four little ones. Ears straining, she could hear crackling but no groaning beams. Had she caught the signs more quickly than she had thought? Did nobody else know that the house was on fire? She met Augie’s eyes firmly.

“Hold on to my skirt, Augie, and stay right with me. Do you understand? Do not let go for anything.” There was a flicker of fear in the boy’s eyes, but he nodded, and took a firm grasp on her skirts. Miles was starting to wriggle in her arms, roused by the motion and Charles’s increasingly audible fussing. She clutched him tighter, one arm running up along his spine to prevent him from throwing himself backward to try to escape her arms. If she dropped him and he ran…

“We are going to go right out the back door. We might have to run, all right?” Penelope waited another agonizing eternal second until Edmund and Augie both nodded back at her. Penelope took a deep breath. The calm before the storm, and likely the last calm moment she would have tonight.

Colin, you must get everyone else out, she thought, fancying that he might somehow hear her thought, understand the danger his family faced, and act before anything catastrophic happened. Keeping her grip on Edmund with three fingers, Penelope used her thumb and forefinger to wrestle the door open.

In the few moments she had needed to secure the babies, the fire had made terrifying headway down the hall. Several feet of floor and wall were limned in flame, and they were coming straight toward her and the boys. A wall of heat hit Pen like a physical blow, drying her eyes, skin, and mouth. Her throat was instantly thick with smoke, and her lungs rebelled when she gasped unconsciously at the progress of the fire. She coughed hard. She knew the sounds and sensation of fire from outside the building, but none of that prepared her for the sheer, heart-stopping terror of being inside the building when it burned. Augie and Edmund were silent, too frightened even to scream. Charles had truly awoken and was squalling at the top of his lungs. Miles was sobbing at the top of his lungs as well, clinging to Penelope’s neck with throat-crushing strength. Perhaps someone will hear them cry, she thought desperately, and they will raise the alarm.

Some instinct and a near-imperceptible change in the sounds of the house made Penelope look up. The ceiling above her was a mass of embers, holes already showing and ash drifting down, threatening to get into her eyes. The floor above them was burning, too.

“Run!” She couldn’t go any faster than Augie and Edmund’s little legs could run, but they had to move faster. If something fell from above…

The hallway stretched interminably before Pen. She was moving slowly, too slowly. The boys were tired, had short legs, and were terrified, and she didn’t have the wingspan or strength to carry all four. Had the air itself turned to molasses?

She felt the moment when Augie tripped and lost his grip on her skirts. Stopping, she took his hand in the same one she still held Edmund’s, and extended her arm forward, forcing them to run slightly in front of her. This saved both their lives as they rounded the final corner, the door to the outside just a mere twenty feet before them. If the children had been behind her, if Penelope hadn’t been running as fast as the boys could go, they would have been fully pinned beneath the support beam that groaned horribly and came crashing down.

A corner of it landed on Penelope’s slight train, yanking her off her feet. One hand caught her, elbow locked to ensure that she didn’t crush the baby strapped to her chest. There was a jolt of pain in that arm that Penelope roundly ignored. The other was cradling Miles’s head, putting her hand—paltry protection that it was—between his head and the hardwood floor. She let the hip opposite Miles fall to the floor, and somehow managed to sit up a bit, skirts twisted tight around her. Most of them were under the beam; it was a miracle that her legs hadn’t been caught.

Her head shipped around, finding Augie and Edmund. Both boys had stopped dead, and both had tear tracks washing clean streaks through the soot on their faces. She pulled at her skirts, but realized almost instantly she wasn’t going to be able to free herself.

“Come here,” she yelled over the roar of the fire and the creaks and groans of weakening wood. Augie took a step, realized Edmund wasn’t moving with him, grasped his cousin’s hand, and dragged him to Penelope, who was pulling the sling from around her one-handed. Miles had stopped screaming, but she wasn’t about to put him down. She retied the sling around Augie and thrust Miles into his brother’s arms. Edmund needed both hands to hold his brother, but Augie kept a hand around Edmund’s arm.

Penelope met Augie’s eyes. He met hers right back, afraid but clear. “Run outside! Find your Papa. Run, Augie, fast as you can!” She pushed the boy to get him moving, and when he broke into a sprint, dragging his cousins behind him, he did not look back.

The four boys disappeared out the door. Safe. They were safe.

Well, they wouldn’t burn in the house, anyway. Penelope could only hope that someone would find them before they were trampled in the darkness and confusion.

Turning her attention back to her skirts, Penelope checked what layers were trapped. Only the outer skirt of her gown was trapped, her petticoat and chemise having ridden up enough from running and falling that she could wriggle them free. She could not, no matter how hard she pulled between fits of coughing and brushing hot ash and embers away from bare skin, free the gown from beneath the beam. She even went so far as to scoot her skirt out from under her bottom, planted her feet on the beam itself, and use her legs to push and try to free herself. Neither her skirts nor the end of the beam she was trapped beneath were on fire, although the other end of the beam was burning merrily. She was beginning to feel lightheaded, with darkness creeping into the edges of her vision.

The smoke, she realized, horrified. In her haste to get the boys to safety, she had forgotten one of the most basic dangers of fire. She had not even tried to get below the smoke, had been breathing it in as she ran. It would choke her long before she felt the flames if she did not get herself out. She could see the door. She refused to suffocate in plain view of escape; it would not happen.

She coughed again and felt a button pop on the back of her gown. Feeling floaty and lightheaded, Pen reached behind her. Propriety could go hang. If she could get herself out of the dress, she could get herself out of the house. She managed to unbutton the top and bottom two buttons, but the two in the middle, at the narrowest point of the dress, she simply could not reach, no matter how she contorted herself. Without popping or undoing the buttons, she couldn’t eel out of her dress. Feeling the strength leave her body like water spilling from a pitcher, she felt herself slowly collapse to the floor. Still fighting, she yanked on her bodice, trying to break the thread shanks holding the buttons or stretch the buttonholes. Something, anything to get her out of the dress. Darkness irised into her vision.

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Of Fire and Featheringtons: Chapter 4

Well hello friends, and welcome to my second Polin fic! This one builds on The Polin Fic (I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights on Ao3) so be sure to read that before diving into this one!

I hope you enjoy this Polin fic, I had a blast writing it!

Felix had somewhat awkwardly declined the viscount’s three o’clock in the morning offer for him to stay at Bridgerton House with Cousin Penelope and the rest of the family, citing a desire not to put them out further, given the sudden influx of unexpected guests. The viscountess had briefly tried to argue, but Cousin Penelope herself had been Felix’s unexpected savior when she wanted to send her maid home to fetch a few things, and Felix had leaped at the chance to escort her. He had actually needed to keep a sharp eye on the walk, given that even Mayfair had its dangers at that hour of the morning, but on arriving at Cousin Penelope’s house, Felix had sent the maid back with a couple of footmen and simply remained, neatly severing the Gordian knot of society manners.

Exhausted but too elated to sleep, Felix had simply collapsed back on his bed and relived the glory that had been the Number 5 fire. He had had plenty of time to stockpile fuel and had used more paper packets than ever before. The house had burned fast and hot, the conflagration a stunning tango between smoke and flame. He ran his hands through his own red curls, breathing deeply as the scent of smoke trapped therein was released. This fire had true teeth. It had grown past his wildest dreams to take a second house down–although admittedly the fire brigade being occupied with a fire that had not been his had been a lucky happenstance.

This fire had judged the nanny and the maids in the house next door unworthy. Felix had remained with the other men once the children and Colin had been rushed off to Bridgerton House, and had seen the charred, twisted husks that had been pulled from the smoldering wreckage. They did not deserve to see the beauty of the flames.

Cousin Penelope had been untouched by the fire. Felix was deeply grateful that his suspicion about her worthiness had been confirmed. She had the bloodline and the hair to command fire. Felix fancied that Cousin Penelope was the flames in a candelabra. Many, varied, with surprising depth, but ultimately gentler than his own raging inferno. Which made her marriage all the more blasphemous.

A scowl twisted Felix’s face at that thought. The fire had judged Colin Bridgerton unworthy but had been thwarted in handing down its sentence. The man should have burned, trapped under that beam, and then Cousin Penelope would have been rid of him. Felix had not been able to contrive getting in the viscount and duke’s way when they had barreled through the back door. His heart had practically leaped into his throat and strangled him when he had heard the dowager viscountess’s cry as Colin had collapsed in the street, burning. The damned Bridgertons moved too quickly and as too much of a unit for Colin to die, however. Almost instantly, a heavy blanket had been thrown over him, too many hands to count slapping it, smothering the flames to a horrific, choked death.

Felix had had to sit up himself at that thought, feeling the breath stop in his own throat. They had dared to murder the fire. They would have to pay, alongside Colin. He wouldn’t be able to get into Bridgerton House; he knew that. The viscount was too conscious of security, too unwilling to hire new people for Felix to slip in as one of many strangers and take the quarter hour to set up his fuel packets and timed wicks. If Number 5 hadn’t been as small as it was, and the dowager viscountess hadn’t had extra help tromping in and out of the place all day to get family dinner prepared, Felix would never have pulled it off. The fire’s revenge would not be quick, but Felix would not serve it cold, either.

Gentlemen of the ton liked nothing more than to celebrate, mourn, and simply exist in their gentlemen’s clubs. Once Colin had recovered, there was certain to be an evening out at the club for the Bridgerton men. The question was, should Felix target White’s–the club the Bridgertons had been members of since birth and where at least the duke and viscount were most comfortable–or Mondrich’s, the club that Colin had some sort of history with and Benedict preferred? White’s would have all sorts of security, and their regular staff would be able to identify anyone who didn’t belong. Mondrich’s was smaller, so the odds of being spotted as an outsider were greater, but there were always outsiders and new staff because Mondrich himself was still building a reliable, consistent staff and constantly hired temporary people.

Between Colin’s history with the place and the fact that sportsmanship among the ton generally meant the subject of the celebration chose the club, Mondrich’s was a likelier target. Felix’s expression could not be described as a smile, but he did show teeth. He had time to prepare, while Colin Bridgerton recovered enough to go out carousing. And the next time, Bridgerton and his meddling brothers would not escape the justice of the flames. Cousin Penelope would be free to marry someone who was worthy of both her and the fire.

Felix finally felt calm enough to roll onto his side and close his eyes. He would show them, all of them, that the Featheringtons ruled fire, and with fire on their side, they would become the preeminent family of the ton. They would take on the weak, crumbling monarchy’s family, and they would rule by fire. But first, Felix would clean his own house. After all, the fire cared not at all for hypocrisy. If it had, it wouldn’t have judged his father unworthy.

As Penelope unnecessarily straightened skirts appropriate for attending the Queen, she found herself again resentful of the fact that she had been ordered to leave Colin’s side. He had recovered enough to join the family for meals and leisure time in shirtsleeves, but he still tired quickly, and Penelope caught the flashes of pain behind his eyes when he did too much in a day. She was also sure that the sling supporting his broken arm pulled on his burned shoulders, but he had too much energy to simply remain in bed and let things heal more. Penelope had sent her regrets after the first two notes the Queen sent requesting her presence for tea, citing a need to look after Colin during his convalescence.

The third invitation had come in the form of Lady Danbury’s coach pulling up to Bridgerton House. Penelope could not prove that Kate and Hyacinth had been listening at the door, but she would have been willing to put every penny she had made from Whistledown on that bet. After she and Lady Danbury had been ushered to a private sitting room and the door had been firmly closed, Penelope had thought she had seen a shadow move in the doorjamb. Then, she had been thoroughly distracted by Lady Danbury.

“Your Mr. Bridgerton seems to be recovering well,” said Lady Danbury. “Up and about, I see, even if somewhat underdressed.”

“Surely, he is not expected to put the pressure of a waistcoat and jacket over half-healed burns in a family home,” Penelope replied, waspish.

Lady Danbury thumped her walking stick on the floor, frowning. “Straight to business then, I suppose. Do you know what I fail to understand, Penelope? You wanted so desperately to be heard that you wrote a scandal sheet that could have cost you everything. And yet now, when you have a forum and a position of some power, you refuse to speak. You cannot, simply cannot decline an invitation to speak to the Queen when we are in the middle of an ongoing crisis.”

“What I cannot do, Lady Danbury, is leave Colin when he is hurt.”

“That is poppycock, and you know it, girl. Your Mr. Bridgerton has an expansive family who are more than happy to support him through this, and your role is, frankly, too crucial to the Queen for you to be distracted. So what in the heavens is the problem?”

Penelope had already planted herself by the window, looking out, with one hand on a book, before she realized that Lady Danbury knew her well enough to know that she was uncomfortable, and not with the conversation itself. She glanced back, and the knowing look on Lady Danbury’s face made her sigh.

“You’ve found something.” Lady Danbury’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “You have found something, and it is going to have consequences that are far beyond anything you could have imagined as Lady Whistledown.”

Penelope’s hands twisted together, and she looked down at the tangle. “Whistledown ruined people, but it never cost anyone their life. I am afraid, Lady Danbury. Because you’re right, I have found something, and it is…I was stabbed over Whistledown. I am under no illusions about whether the best-kept secrets will get out; it is a matter of if, not when.

“Arson is a choice, Lady Danbury. To be as effective as our present arsonist requires planning, forethought, and knowing something about the people whose homes you set on fire. Somebody knew that my nephews, my husband, and my family would be in Number 5 that night, and they set the house on fire anyway. I never minded the danger to me that came with writing Whistledown, but we almost didn’t get the boys out of the house. Colin will bear burn scars for the rest of his life. How can I put them in danger?”

Lady Danbury’s face was softer than Penelope was used to seeing it as she squeezed Penelope’s hand. “My dear, you do more to keep them safe by finding whoever is doing this quickly than you do by burying yourself in wifely duties. There will always be villains; they will always find ways to hurt people. There is every chance that burning down Number 5 had nothing whatsoever to do with you or with the Bridgertons in general. You know we haven’t found any sort of pattern to explain how houses are chosen. So, you could have lived a perfectly quiet, ordinary life and still be in the position you are now. Worse, perhaps, since a perfectly ordinary Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton would have no recourse, no knowledge, and no way to move forward to ameliorate the situation.

“But because you are who you are, Penelope, you can do something about this. You have the power to help us identify the perpetrator. Come with me to the palace. Tell her Majesty what you have found, and we can make sure that nobody else is hurt. Surely that is worthwhile?”

Still twisting her fingers together, Penelope looked from Lady Danbury to the window, which offered a view of the back garden of Bridgerton House. Augie and Edmund were kicking a ball back and forth with Gregory and Colin–who was not engaged in anywhere near the amount of running as the other three, but still managed to aim the ball to ensure that the giggling children had to hop to or miss kicking it back.

As long as the arsonist was at large, there was truly no safe place in Mayfair. There was nothing to stop him from going after Hastings House, or Benedict and Sophie’s home, or even Bridgerton House, really. Deep in her bones, Penelope knew Lady Danbury was right, which was why she had climbed into the older woman’s carriage, had Anna dress her in something suitable for court, and now stood before a closed door, behind which was Queen Charlotte.

Clutched in Penelope’s hand was a file bearing her map of Mayfair with its damning circle, pages of notes, and the evidence Lady Danbury had given her. Ideally, Penelope would have had more to show for her efforts, but she had yet to speak to the local fire brigade about the Number 5 fire, and the fact that the arsonist had to be one of the ton was not something the queen was going to like hearing. Penelope and Lady Danbury were hoping to talk her down from a house-to-house search to an increased watch presence in Mayfair, perhaps drawing from both the fire brigades and the militias to ensure the maximum number of eyes on the neighborhood.

They both knew the ton would despise this plan–the illusion of safety of a largely police-free neighborhood was too appealing, even with houses burning to the ground. An increased police presence also ran the risk of encouraging the arsonist to escalate, but the hope was that, in doing so, he would make a mistake and fall into the net spread for him.

A footman opened the doors to reveal Queen Charlotte seated on a small couch before a small table loaded down with a full tea service and delicacies. Her typical retinue of ladies- and maids-in-waiting in their powdered wigs was notably absent; only her personal steward was in the room, standing at his mistress’s shoulder. Penelope and Lady Danbury curtsied as the footman left the room, pulling the doors softly closed behind him.

“Ladies,” said Queen Charlotte. “Do sit down and tell me what we know about this wretched arsonist and how I may bring him to justice.” Lady Danbury largely sat quietly, only chiming in with the odd word of support or clarification as Penelope walked the queen through her map and her reasoning behind who the culprit was likely to be. The queen’s face grew increasingly dark as Penelope ticked off the denizens of her street–largely newly married couples, with one or two older families keeping London homes–and why each one was unlikely to be the arsonist.

The newlyweds were as content as most typical ton couples early in their marriages, so they had little reason to go about setting fires. A few of them lacked the necessary qualities to successfully plan and execute a house fire, while those who could possibly have planned and executed the act would have been wholly incapable of keeping the secret behind their teeth. Of the older ton families with houses in the neighborhood, one had remained in the country in disgrace that season, so the house was closed up. There was a chance that the arsonist was using the house as a base of operations, but that would require complicity from the full staff that maintained the house in the off season. The final family was widely considered to have the worst luck in the ton; the family patriarch was a penny-pinching miser, and all his sons had come to untimely deaths, so at the moment the family consisted of a bevy of widows with twelve grandchildren under the age of ten. Penelope felt it unlikely that the widows or patriarch had the time or energy to spare to commit arson, and none of the children were old enough to do more than upset a candle. Accidentally burning one’s own home to the ground was regrettable, but not arson.

As Penelope finished her arguments, the queen picked up the map of Mayfair and studied it for a long moment. “And precisely why, Dame Penelope–” there was a subtle but distinctive emphasis on the title, “should I believe that you are not our arsonist?” The queen did not look at Penelope as she asked the question any more than she looked at Lady Danbury when she exclaimed in protest.

“It seems to me that your house is at the center of this little circle of flames, and by your own reasoning, you possess the intelligence and capacity for secrecy required. Experience shows that you are more than capable of looking the entire ton in the face and making them believe you are lesser. Why, your Mr. Bridgerton could be completely unaware, which positions you behind an influential family that could protect you from such allegations.”

In all reason, Penelope should have been terrified that she was being accused of arson, and having her own logic twisted and used against her. The queen was, after all, the queen, and even with whispers of unrest coming from the court and political actors about precisely how much power she was wielding, given the king’s ill health, for the moment she held the power of life, death, and social favor over everyone.

And yet Penelope could not stop seeing the fear on Augie and Edmund’s faces. The bright red, weeping blisters on Colin’s shoulders as Dr. Walker cleaned the burns. The–admittedly somewhat fuzzy–memories of the queen’s face as she threatened to have Penelope killed if she did not turn Whistledown into a crown asset. The insinuation that Penelope would have inflicted terror on children, grievous bodily injury on her family, was simply too much. Just at that moment, Penelope did not have words, but they were somewhere in the depths of her mind and her belly, and they were rising.

“Ma’am, this is preposterous,” Lady Danbury said.

“Is that so, Lady Danbury? Why else would Dame Penelope recommend against a house-to-house search, except that we might find something?”

“If a search of our home will prove to you that I am hiding nothing, then fine,” snapped Penelope. “Search it. Search it immediately, this very moment, if you will. You will find nothing. But I hope you are prepared for our arsonist to disappear from Mayfair altogether, and we won’t be able to find him until he sets something else on fire. Do you wish to preside over the second great fire of London, your Majesty? Because that is what will happen if we spook this person by setting a cavalcade of liveried royal guards on a Mayfair home.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Charlotte snapped back. “You think that because all the ton sees is my love of grandeur and drama, that I lack knowledge of subtlety? Look in the mirror, girl. The moment you left your home to come here, a small group of plainclothes crown agents searched your house from top to bottom.”

“Your Majesty,” gasped Lady Danbury.

“That Featherington cousin of yours cooperated, and you’re correct. We found nothing. So, very well, we shall increase patrols in Mayfair. But the two of you had best come up with something soon.” The queen sat back with an expression that would have been called a snarl in a woman of less rank.

“If you trust me so little,” said Penelope, voice shaking in rage, “then what on earth am I doing here?”

The queen pursed her lips, eyes shuttered. For a moment, it seemed that she would refuse to answer. Following a short, sharp exhale, she said, “You are, quite simply, too dangerous not to have on a leash. Fight it, if you will, Dame Penelope, but this is how it shall be.”

Rising abruptly, Lady Danbury curtsied. “If there’s nothing else, ma’am, we shall take our leave,” she said, one hand clenched around Penelope’s upper arm. Her other hand swept the paperwork into Penelope’s free arm before she dragged a red-faced Penelope from the room. Neither woman spoke again until they were safely ensconced in the carriage and off the palace grounds.

“It’s not that I cannot ignore the queen, is it Lady Danbury?” Penelope finally asked, voice flat. “It’s that if I don’t prove that I am ‘leashed,’ she will overreact and come after me.”

“I did not know how little trust in you she had,” admitted Lady Danbury. It sounded as though the admission made her teeth hurt. “I thought she had accepted that you were not personally trying to undermine her.”

“This is not going to work.”

“No.”

They lapsed into silence. A headache began to pound behind Penelope’s eyes. It was too much. The Bridgerton family was still largely moving as a clump, as if to reassure themselves that they were all still there. Colin was still walking around with pain behind his eyes from the burns–he seemed far less troubled by the broken arm. She was at a loss as to what to do next to hunt for the arsonist, and she had badly miscalculated her position with Queen Charlotte. So badly, in fact, that she was far too likely to bring royal wrath and retribution down on the heads of the Bridgertons.

She had failed so badly at so many things this summer. She had failed to make Felix comfortable and welcome among the ton, successfully identify a dangerous man who needed to be locked away, and assess the danger she might put her family in. What hope did she have of setting any of it to rights?

Felix had never been so grateful for a well-placed large tree and creeping ivy. When the queen’s men had pushed their way into Colin and Penelope’s house, they had turned the place upside down, poked their noses into every crack and crevice, and carelessly flipped through every book in both Colin’s and Penelope’s studies before tossing them to the floor. What they had failed to see was the garden shed. Felix had put on his best nonthreatening smile and followed the agents throughout the house like an inanely babbling puppy. The smile and the babbling had irritated the agents, but they had served to hide Felix’s very real and present initial fear, and its transformation into unbridled glee when he realized he was safe, and finally, incandescent rage at their treatment of Cousin Penelope.

They weren’t fit to kiss her hem; they had not endured a trial of fire, and if they were to face one, Felix was sure they would be found wanting. Perhaps he ought to arrange such a trial for the palace. Not the building itself, of course; even Felix recognized that there were limits to what his current method could accomplish if he was working alone. But the outbuildings, the stables, or the barracks were reasonable locations.

Focus, he reminded himself. You have to prepare for Mondrich’s first. The palace ground will still be there once you’ve taken care of family business. His preparations for that made it all the more fortuitous that the royal agents had not noticed the garden shed. He had nearly filled it with completed fire packets, more than he had ever used on a single building before. The club would burn with more intensity and ferocity than even the barn where his father had been judged unworthy. But that was for the future; Cousin Penelope’s husband was still recovering.

In the meantime, as the maid and housekeeper worked to put the rest of the house in some semblance of order, Felix let himself into Cousin Penelope’s study to carefully smooth out and reshelve her books. In some ways, he was grateful that his cousin shared his love of stories. She had never been less than generous with her books, and they had given him comfort during his first nights in Mayfair. The books soothed his homesickness for his workshop in the country, and he had guessed that Cousin Penelope would be worthy when the first book she offered him from her shelves had contained several myths about fire. It had been a sign that for all he missed his country workshop and the freedom that came with it to worship fire, he was, perhaps, in the right place.

Smoothing bent pages, he reminded himself to check with the housekeeper; the replacement copy of the Arabian Nights and a book about Jinn and Ifrits he had requested from his contact at Oxford ought to be arriving soon. Felix had felt a pang of guilt at the loss of the books in the Number 5 fire, but he couldn’t have said anything to Cousin Penelope, not then. She wasn’t ready yet. Once she was free of her unworthy husband, then he could approach her, show her the wonder that was fire, and the duty that they, as Featheringtons, had to help it judge those who are worthy.

Together, they would build something worthy of the flame in England.

“Felix?” His head whipped around. Cousin Penelope stood in the doorway, wearing a dress fit for court, and looking drained and holding a messily collated file in one hand.

“Cousin Penelope, I didn’t expect you,” he said. “I thought you’d like it if your books were in some sort of order when you arrived…” he trailed off, uncertain. For all he liked his cousin, for all her worthiness, he simply had few people skills. The tired but genuine smile that crossed Penelope’s face put him at ease.

“That’s kind, thank you,” she said. “I’m so sorry we have left you to shift for yourself lately; we’ve been dreadfully neglectful hosts.” She didn’t put the file down, but she walked into the room and leaned down to collect a couple of books that had landed open, pages splayed, spines up, on the floor. With the same loving care that he himself had given the books, she smoothed out the pages, unfolding crunched leaves and hugging each book briefly before putting them back on the shelf.

“Please don’t worry about me,” Felix finally said, when it occurred to him that her comment called for some sort of response. “I’m sure things have been dreadfully difficult since the fire.” He had certainly been having difficulty with the fact that Colin had survived despite being unworthy. “I don’t mind having more time at all. I’ve been reading, keeping myself occupied.”

“I’m glad you’ve been finding things to do,” she replied. “I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you to your own devices for a few days longer. Colin is recovering, but Anthony, Benedict, Simon, and a few of the other gentlemen want to take him out to Mondrich’s before he comes home. I suspect that will be less than a week, but…” she trailed off, looking troubled. Felix sat back on his heels, really taking a moment to look at his cousin.

He would expect her to be tired after everything that had happened, but this was more than reasonable. Something else he wasn’t aware of had to be bothering her. His stomach fell through the floor as it occurred to him that she could well be with child. He desperately hoped that was not the case; she could not be allowed to carry the child of someone the fire had deemed unworthy. Hoping for a straight answer, he tentatively said, “You have been dealing with so much, cousin. Is there anything you wish to confide in me? Sometimes it helps to discuss matters we struggle with.” Was that casual brush of her hand over her stomach confirmation? It could simply be a habit, or perhaps something to do with her courses, but…he would have to probe a little more.

“You aren’t still feeling the strain of the fire, are you?” he asked. She shook her head, appearing to refocus.

“No, I am quite well,” she said. “I simply have much to think about. Not the least of which is what I shall do when Augie and Edmund want to know what happens next to Sinbad. That book was tricky to find.”

He could ease her mind there, at least. “I hope you don’t mind, cousin,” he said, hesitantly. “I took the liberty of writing to my acquaintance at Oxford. He had a second copy of the Arabian Nights and is sending it so the boys can finish their stories. And so that any new Bridgertons can hear them, as well.” Perhaps that had been a bit blunt, but Felix’s insides were crawling with the thought of his cousin carrying a child the fire would have to take.

“Mind? Not at all, Felix, that was so kind of you. Please give me his direction so I can write to thank him.”

“On behalf of present and future little Bridgertons?”

Penelope laughed outright at that. “The present ones, certainly. As far as I am aware, there won’t be a new Bridgerton for a while.” Felix internally sighed in relief. He could continue his plans without worry.

Once the studies were returned to order and Penelope had checked in with Anna and the housekeeper, she changed into an everyday dress and bid Felix farewell before returning to Bridgerton House. Left to his own devices, Felix crept out to the garden shed to prepare a few more fire packets before the sun set.

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Of Fire and Feathertingtons: Chapter 3

Well hello friends, and welcome to my second Polin fic! This one builds on The Polin Fic (I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights on Ao3) so be sure to read that before diving into this one!

I hope you enjoy this Polin fic, I had a blast writing it!

Colin was typically most at ease at family dinners, but the omnipresent unease he had felt since Felix had come to stay with him and Penelope had significantly increased in the carriage, and he was finding it difficult to relax. He and Gregory had planned to finish an ongoing chess game before Gregory went away to school, but he was too tightly wound, and found himself pacing slowly across the room, untouched glass of scotch in hand. He would be glad when Pen had finished reading the children stories and rejoined them.

The entire family—with the exception of Francesca, who was in Scotland—had gathered, and since Colin had not been feeling up to playing, Gregory had attached himself to the knot comprised of Anthony, Benedict, Simon, and an extremely animated Eloise. Sophie, Kate, Hyacinth, and Violet were chatting and laughing around a small coffee table, embroidery hoops in hand. Felix was slouched in a chair approximately equidistant between the two groups, a book at the end of one outstretched arm, and his glass dangled loosely from his other hand. He was close enough to technically be part of the gathering but just beyond the comfortable radius of functional inclusion of either of the small groups. Colin was puttering past the window that looked out into Number 5’s back garden in daylight when the reflection of the small fire in the fireplace to ward off an unseasonal evening chill caught his eye. As he watched the flames dance in the glass, his mind drifted to Pen’s afternoon project.

Mapping out the location of the fires in Mayfair was an interesting proposition. There was no discernable pattern he could see to streets or house numbers, but if Pen was right about there being a single arsonist rather than a pair, then he would be limited in how far he would be able to travel to set fires. Particularly if he was preparing beforehand and was bringing his supplies with him to each house. Perhaps there would be a way to see if there was a particular distance between fires. That might give them some sense of how far the rogue could travel to set fires, and then they could begin to pinpoint where his home or workroom was.

The sooner they found the blackguard, the sooner his Pen could stop getting up at all hours of the night and putting herself in danger to ensure that no women or children were left out in the cold or trampled by the very people attempting to help. And the sooner she would stop displeasing the queen. Colin sighed quietly; only Penelope Bridgerton, née Featherington, could manage to infuriate a monarch a second time, particularly not after she had been brought into the royal fold because she was too dangerous to be left to her own devices. He did not think that Penelope knew that after the third fire, when she had been visiting her mother, a concerned Lady Danbury had invaded his study. Lady Danbury had informed him in no uncertain terms that the Queen preferred her ladies to listen and to pull their strings without making a scene, and in her estimation, appearing at fires violated that mandate.

He had attempted to talk her into staying home when he helped fight fires, but the flat look she had given him had told him in no uncertain terms that she would not stand by and let her peers and their children be risked if she could do anything about it. He had given up that line of argument because he knew as well as she did that she was safer if he knew what her plans were and did not accidentally work at cross-purposes. If there was one thing that not even the wrath of the Queen could do, it was force him to act in a way that would make Pen less safe.

They needed to find this cad quickly. He would offer to help Pen with her work the next afternoon; two heads would be better than one.

Colin’s thoughts were interrupted by a brief coughing fit from Violet. He turned to see Kate hand his mother a cup of tea. Anthony’s and Benedict’s heads had also craned about to check on their mother. A few sips later, the cough subsided, and Violet chuckled in that quiet way of hers.

“The rain shower we had yesterday evening must have gotten into the woodpile,” she said. “Colin, dearest, would you open the window for a moment or two? We can let the smoke clear out a little. How you men put up with this at your gentlemen’s clubs, I shall never understand.”

Colin opened the window and stepped away from the chill breeze as Anthony and Simon made polite comments about sending someone ‘round to ensure her wood pile was properly cured and not minding the smoke, respectively. Sophie pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders as Kate rose and moved closer to the warmth of the fire. Anthony looped an arm behind her back, pulling her close to help keep her warm.

The smoke cleared for a moment once the window opened, but then it grew thicker. Within minutes, everyone was coughing on and off from the smoke. Anthony and Simon were attempting to see whether there was a closed flue or blockage in the chimney. Benedict had wrapped Sophie in his jacket for warmth and walked her and Eloise to the window, where the air was fresher. Colin’s unease rose as he set his drink down to join them. Before he stepped toward the fireplace, however, the scent of the smoke changed: burning grease. Just then, Gregory’s voice piped up.

“This wood isn’t wet; it’s perfectly cured.” Colin’s heart turned to ice, and his stomach fell through the floor.

“Mother, we must get out now!” Colin’s voice was raised and terse. Anthony looked at him as though he was speaking gibberish.

“Colin, what on earth—” The housekeeper burst through the door, panting and coughing.

“Lady Bridgerton, we must go. There is a fire!” Colin had Hyacinth under one arm and his mother’s hand in his in less than a second, shepherding them toward the door as smoke billowed in through the open door. Benedict was close on his heels, with arms around Sophie and Eloise. Simon had Daphne’s hand in his, Anthony had Kate and Gregory’s hands in his, and Felix slouched behind. As they passed the hallway that led to the kitchen and nursery, Colin heard Sophie behind him ask Benedict, “What about Charles?” Colin’s head flicked back; the hallway was already in flames.

“The nanny and the maids surely got the children out. We will find them outside,” called Benedict over the crackle of the flame. And Pen was there, Colin thought. She’ll make sure they get out. She has to get out safely. He looked up briefly. The ceiling above him was largely obscured with smoke, but he could see bright glowing spots that he was sure meant the upper floors of the house were already on fire. The roar he associated with house fires was growing, and he began to hear wood creak and groan. He sped up, pulling his mother and youngest sister through the house and out the front door with him into the cold, blessedly smoke-free night air.

Colin did not stop until he had crossed the road to the small huddle of household servants. Violet and her housekeeper immediately began a head count to ensure that everyone in the household had made it out. Colin had turned to face the house. The roof was already in flames. There was no doubt in Colin’s mind that the same arsonist had struck his mother’s home. His fists clenched. When they found the man, Colin was no longer sure that he would live to face the crown’s justice. He might be beaten to death by at least five and possibly as many as eleven Bridgertons.

As he imagined pounding the arsonist to a paste, he scanned the small crowd. He wouldn’t be able to see the children in the press of people, but Pen’s hair, as she reunited the boys with their parents, would reflect the light of the flames; he’d be able to see her. He was on his second scan of the crowd, palms perspiring. Surely, surely, he would see—

A flash of red curls. He eeled through the crowd, headed for the flaming hair. But when his hand landed on the shoulder, he found suiting wool beneath his fingers, not the soft satin of Pen’s dress. Felix whirled to face the person who had grabbed his shoulder. Colin would have expected any number of expressions—fear, anger, and many flavors of disgust—but in the flash of expression beneath the startle on Felix’s face, Colin swore he saw euphoria. Then Felix’s face resolved into something reminiscent of bored distaste.

“Have you seen Penelope?” He would worry about that expression later; right now, Pen and the boys were the priority. Colin needed to know they were safe. He had to calm the pounding of his heart and swallow the bitter taste of fear in his mouth. He would not lose all of his nephews and his wife in one terrible night. He did not think his siblings would survive the loss of their children, or that he would survive losing Pen.

“What do you mean nobody has seen them?” Colin whipped around at the anguished tone in his mother’s voice.

“We can’t find the nanny, the children, or Mrs. Bridgerton, ma’am!” Violet Bridgerton’s normally stoic housekeeper was crying. “They must still be inside.”

Kate’s cry was wordless and immediately followed by a yell from Anthony. Colin watched, frozen in place, as Kate sprinted back toward the front door, Anthony on her heels, but somehow unable to catch her. Somewhere behind him, Colin heard Daphne screaming at Simon to let her go, and Simon telling her that she would do no good if she got herself killed. Sophie’s sobs were muffled in what Colin assumed was Benedict’s chest. From the house was a deep creaking groan that Colin knew all too well from watching too many houses burn to the ground this summer. A support beam was coming down, and Kate was nearly at the top of the steps.

“Stop, Kate!” bellowed Colin. Kate did not look back, but the miniscule hesitation in her step let Anthony catch up to her, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around to shield his wife with his body as a support beam fell diagonally across the doorway, thoroughly blocking it with debris and flame. The back of Anthony’s jacket was singed, but did not catch fire. Colin saw his brother’s face as Anthony realized that there was no way he could get to his sons. Anthony’s face on the day their father had died had lived in Colin’s nightmares for years. This was inexpressibly worse. Kate’s face was blank as she slithered bonelessly to the ground, legs simply refusing to support her.

Daphne and Sophie had gone silent behind Colin as he started toward the house. Kate and Anthony had to move; they would be burned. He himself was moving on instinct, his mind refusing to think, to process what had just happened. Wordlessly, he lifted Kate in one arm, holding her up by main force, and reached up to take Anthony by the shoulder, pulling him down the stairs away from the flames. At the bottom of the steps, Benedict scooped up Kate, and Simon took Anthony’s other side. Violent had Sophie and Daphne under her arms, with Hyacinth on Daphne’s other side. All four women had tears running down their faces. Gregory was standing between the crowd and his older brothers, looking small and lost.

If it had not been for the absence of the fire brigade—and where the bloody hell are they? Colin thought, furious—and the silence that had fallen over the stunned household and family, then the young, high voices yelling, “Mama! Papa!” would have gone completely unheard.

Colin wasn’t sure whether Benedict dropped Kate or if she launched herself to the ground, but she was the first of the three mothers to reach the children. She was talking a mile a minute in Hindustani as she quickly but carefully took baby Charles from the sling around Augie and handed him to a still-sobbing Sophie before propelling the older boy into Daphne’s arms and clutching her two to her. Within moments, all the men had shucked off their jackets, wrapping the children in them against the chill in the air.

Sophie had collapsed to the ground entirely, Gregory’s jacket and her shawl around Charles, and Benedict’s jacket over her shoulders as he held both his wife and son. Colin’s and Anthony’s jackets were wrapped around Edmund and Miles as Edmund chattered at his mother, rapid-fire, in the same language she was speaking. Despite Augie being arguably too big for Daphne to comfortably hold, he had been wrapped in Simon’s jacket, and Daphne had him in her arms, with Simon holding both of them. Violet was trying to keep a hand on each of her grandchildren at once while trying to comfort Daphne and Sophie.

Edmund was increasingly alarmed, wriggling in his parents’ grip and yelling at his mother. Anthony wasn’t even trying to ask for an explanation in English. Miles and Charles were simply crying, adding to the hubbub and confusion.

Between the fire, the voices, and the crying, Colin couldn’t make out any sensical phrases, and did not truly expect to. He was scanning the crowd again because if the boys made it out, then so had—

“—Penelope!” Augie was typically a serious, soft-spoken child, something that the Bridgertons collectively agreed he had gotten from Simon rather than Daphne. His soft-spoken voice was often overlooked when the Bridgertons got together, particularly since both Edmund and Miles had inherited the general Bridgerton boisterousness, in addition to Kate’s outspokenness. Colin should not have been able to hear him over or under the noise, but when his nephew said his wife’s name, all other sounds fell away, and Colin zeroed in on his sister’s child.

“Auntie Penelope got stuck taking us out the back and told me to tell you and Papa,” Augie finished telling Daphne. Daphne’s eyes met Colin’s for the split second it took him to process the implications of Augie’s words. Then, he bolted for the back door of Number 5.

The door was billowing smoke, and there was a threatening orange glow but no flames around the actual door itself, so Colin had no trouble getting in the building. He could see Pen when he entered. She was on the floor, unconscious, apparently pinned under a burning beam, barely twenty feet from the door itself. She had gotten so close to getting herself and the children out; she had gotten the boys out. The beam she was trapped beneath was burning, but her dress didn’t seem to be. Skidding to his knees beside her, he saw as quickly as she had that there was no way to free the dress, which had actually begun to burn, but not the parts next to her skin, just the train of her skirt. She had managed to get almost all her buttons undone, had gotten so close to freeing herself. He wasn’t too late.

“The deal was,” he growled, as he undid the two absurdly well-stitched buttons that had nearly cost Pen her life, “that you would never, ever go inside a burning building!” Sliding her shoulders and arms from her sleeves, he dragged her free of the overgown. “I’ll stay outside, Colin. I’ll just make sure that the women and children are safe,” he said, in a mockery of Pen’s earnest voice. “Hang the bloody Queen and Lady bloody Danbury for being right. I should never have let you risk your life attending fires.” He lifted Pen into his arms, feeling lightheaded. “You are going to breathe, Penelope. Do you hear me?” He ran for the door.

Had he been a hair slower, neither of them would have survived the fire. Colin could hear the death throes of the structural supports of the house, could hear pops and crashes as more and more pieces of the house fell. Another beam—smaller than the one that had trapped Penelope but burning merrily and falling from a much greater height—slid from its mooring and dropped on Colin’s shoulders, knocking him clean off his feet. Somehow, he managed to slide one hand beneath Penelope’s head and neck to protect them and caught himself on a straight arm. That he managed to hold himself on that arm and not collapse atop Penelope when he felt the bone snap and felt the burning across his shoulders as the beam pinned him was nothing short of a miracle. Colin bellowed as the pain swamped him; he would swear his skin was melting, but he couldn’t let go of Pen, and he couldn’t clear the beam from that position through brute strength.

His head swam. He had to move, had to find a way to get up, or they would both die. His vision was blurry, and he was having trouble thinking straight, so he didn’t dare curl his head down and let the beam roll forward off him; he couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t hit Pen. How it hadn’t already slid down his back and pinned his legs he didn’t know, but if it did that, he would be well and truly trapped. He couldn’t move, couldn’t get them out. His body trembled with exertion.

“I’m so sorry, Pen,” he whispered, letting his head drop.

The beam lifted away.

“Come on, Colin,” grunted Anthony, in his ear. Colin clutched Penelope to him, sure he was hallucinating Anthony and Simon. Instead of wasting time trying to take Penelope from Colin, the two men lifted the pair bodily and ran with them the final ten feet of the hallway, through the curtain of fire that had covered the door, and far enough into the lane to be safe from the building as it collapsed in on itself.

Colin clutched Pen to him with his good arm, watching her face, willing her to breathe. She had breathed in so much smoke; had it been too much? People were yelling at him, trying to take Pen from him, but he ignored all of it, watching as Pen sucked in a breath and began to cough. She’s breathing. She will be all right, he thought. That was when something heavy but soft landed on his back, followed by a flurry of blows. He yelled again at the pain in his back and his arm. As his vision swirled and the strength drained from his body, Benedict was in front of him, catching first Pen and then Colin, as his consciousness fled the pain and noise. Before he was completely gone, Colin caught a glimpse of Felix’s face as Benedict passed Penelope—her eyes were fluttering open!—to her cousin, and the violently reverent expression on his face disturbed Colin to his core and undoubtedly contributed to the horrific nightmares he slid into.

Once the nightmares subsided, Colin simply drifted, not awake by any means but also in too much pain to truly sleep. All he could do was float in the sea of his own pain, enduring as waves crested and broke. Sometimes he thought he heard voices: his mother’s, his siblings’, Pen’s. He could make sense of any of it, but they became his beacons, the lighthouses that promised him he was not lost, and that the tide would bear him back to consciousness and sensibility. He simply had to wait and keep his head above water.

Pain flares made that difficult; he imagined he heard Felix’s voice during one spike, and suddenly Penelope’s cousin’s face, as he had seen it at the fire, filled the sky. Colin nearly went under; only the thought that Pen had breathed, had opened her eyes, and was undoubtedly waiting for him to do the same made him hang on rather than sink into the comfortable oblivion he knew was below.

Slowly, so very slowly, the world solidified around him. The nebulous but overwhelming pain became sharper, located in particular places in his body, rather than being the end-all, be-all of existence. The universe shrunk from an endless sea to something that had definable, understandable edges and dimensions. His left arm throbbed dully, like when he had broken his leg as a child. His back and shoulders burned, but were simultaneously cooler than the lower half of his body. That was the worst pain, the burning sensation—he knew intellectually that he was not on fire, but his nerves and skin seemed not to have gotten that message. The arm and shoulders hurt more, but the irritation of the crick in his neck was what finally clicked reality fully back into place. He was lying on his stomach, so his head was turned, explaining the crick in his neck. He was fairly sure that he was only covered in a blanket to about the bottom of his ribcage, which would explain the odd sensation of being cool and burning simultaneously. His left arm felt compressed and oddly heavy—splinted? The desire to check led him quite naturally to open his eyes.

This was his room, his bed, but not the ones he shared with Pen. This was one of the two rooms he had grown up in, and a near-twin for the one at Aubrey Hall. He was at Bridgerton House. Were that the case, however, he should be faced with a wall, not the door. He couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. He was sure his head was faced away from the door; why could he see Penelope’s head bent over something in her lap, and his mother’s head bent over an embroidery hoop? The information from his eyes and the rest of his body were contradictory, and Colin was too thirsty, pained, and tired to reconcile the contradiction. Instead, he just looked at his wife.

A stray curl was tucked behind her ear, with the end bobbing around the level of her chin. She was sitting in a sunbeam, highlighting the softness of her skin and making it glow subtly. He knew her face so well; most people would think she was focused on whatever she held in her lap, but the focus crease between her eyebrows was missing. She was distracted. She was beautiful. And she was gloriously, wonderfully awake and all right. That eased a tension deep within Colin, and his shoulder muscles relaxed infinitesimally, setting off a fresh wave of burning across his back and shoulders.

As though she could feel his eyes on her, Pen’s chin lifted, and she met his eyes—through the mirror, Colin realized. She had put a mirror next to the bed, so he would be able to see her when he woke. His mind was still moving slowly; by the time he completed that thought and processed the swoosh-crackle sound of paper falling to the floor, Pen had bolted around the foot of the bed and was next to him, one gentle hand on his cheek, seemingly oblivious to the tears streaming down her own.

His mother was over Pen’s shoulder, her hand on his hair. “Welcome back, dearest,” she said. In the mirror over his mother’s shoulder, Colin saw Hyacinth’s head poke around the doorframe. His youngest sister’s bellow rivaled Anthony’s when she called out to the house that he was awake.

“Hyacinth,” Violet sighed, shaking her head. Penelope still hadn’t spoken or moved, just watched his face. As the thunder of feet bore down on the room, Colin attempted a grin.

“If you’re going to do anything scandalous, Pen, I’d do it now, before the entire household is here as an audience.” He was sure the grin was not up to his usual caliber, but it nonetheless broke the mask on Pen’s face, and she smiled that half lovestruck, half lovingly chiding smile that his best roguish grin never failed to elicit from her. She leaned down and kissed him gently. He lifted his good arm—admittedly somewhat awkwardly, from the angle, and painfully, as the burns on his shoulders pulled—and cradled the back of her head, reveling in the silky feel of her curls and the softness of her lips. They were both safe, both here, and Colin took a long moment to simply savor the fact.

They broke the kiss just as a chorus of “Uncle Colin, Uncle Colin!” filled the room, and Augie, Edmund, and Miles bounced in the door. Violet scooped up the enthusiastic Miles to prevent him from leaping onto Colin, and Penelope hugged Edmund around the shoulders to the same effect. Augie was practically bouncing, but not a danger of tackling his uncle. Kate and Daphne were hard on their children’s heels; Colin imagined that neither had allowed their children out of eyesight since the fire. All three boys spoke over each other, filling Colin in on what had been happening as Sophie—Charles in one arm, the other looped in Benedict’s arm—and the rest of the family squeezed into a room that was objectively too small to hold them all. Kate and Daphne had taken up positions on either side of Penelope, their arms around her shoulders.

The pain and pull in his neck and shoulders was more than worth it, as Colin ruffled his nephews’ hair and grinned as he listened to their stories about what they had been up to since the fire and declaring him and Auntie Pen heroes. For all he had just woken up, Colin found himself tiring fast. A rapid series of glances between Pen, his mother, Kate, and Daphne resulted in a veritable stampede of grandmother, mothers, and sons heading for the dining room with promises of treats. Penelope stayed at Colin’s side, and Anthony, Benedict, and Simon remained in the room. Benedict quietly brought Penelope’s chair around the bed so she could sit on it rather than the floor or the bed itself and avoid jostling Colin. Once she was settled, Colin took her hand in his good one, hiding a wince as he addressed Anthony.

“Everyone’s here. They couldn’t save Number 5?” Anthony hesitated, then muttered, “The hell with it,” and sat on the floor against the wall, putting himself on Colin’s eye level. He was quickly joined by Benedict and Simon.

“Number 5 burned to the ground, and so did one of the neighbor’s houses,” Anthony said. “There was another fire on the other side of Mayfair, and the fire brigade was called to the other one first. By the time they got to us, there was no saving either house.” Colin’s hand tightened around Penelope’s.

“Did everyone get out?” he asked.

“No. The children’s nanny was trapped trying to get to the nursery. A couple of maids in the neighbor’s attic didn’t make it out, either.”

“Damn,” said Colin, tiredly. “How are the boys? They seemed themselves.”

“Augie’s had nightmares,” Simon said, quietly. “But that’s no price at all for his life.”

“Edmund and Miles coughed a bit that night. They didn’t breathe enough smoke to really harm them, though. We owe Penelope an enormous debt,” added Anthony. “The house went up so quickly. By the time we knew the boys hadn’t been brought out, it would have been too late. The roof came down less than five minutes after we got you two out.”

“You gave us a hell of a scare,” said Benedict, quietly. “Your back was on fire when Anthony and Simon pulled you out of the house and holding yourself up on that broken arm nearly sent the bone through your skin.”

Penelope’s face was calm, but Colin could feel her hand tremble in his.

“And how long am I stuck in bed?” he asked. “How long have I been in bed?”

“Just a couple of days from the laudanum. Dr. Walker said you could get up when you felt strong enough, but wearing anything heavier than a shirt will be unpleasant for a few weeks,” said Anthony. “If you had had your jacket on, you might not have been so badly burned, but as it was, there wasn’t anything left of your waistcoat back, and your shirt wasn’t even fit for rags.”

“The doctor isn’t worried about infection,” Penelope chimed in. “He was fetched quickly enough. He was in this morning and says everything looks well.”

“So will you finally get some rest yourself?” Anthony asked her.

“Pen, you haven’t sat here for two days!” Colin exclaimed.

“We did feed her while she was here,” said Benedict, dryly. Simon snorted softly.

“Speaking of feeding people,” Penelope broke in. “I imagine if we sit here much longer, Colin’s stomach will make itself known.” Simon and Benedict hauled themselves up off the floor.

“I expect that means us, then,” Benedict said, cheerfully. “Come on, Viscount. Let’s give them a few minutes while we find some sandwiches.” Benedict hugged Penelope around the shoulders as Simon and Anthony each clasped Colin’s good hand in turn in that quiet way the Bridgertons had of acknowledging the emotions that had suddenly thickened in the room. Benedict finally released Penelope and clasped Colin’s hand before the three men left the room.

Penelope slid off the chair as soon as the door closed, nestling her head in next to Colin’s without jarring him. There were tears on her cheeks again, he noticed.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Have you really been sitting here for two days?”

“You cannot imagine for a moment that I’d leave you.”

“Pen, you breathed in so much smoke. You should have been resting.”

“The coughing stopped after the first day. I couldn’t leave you, and I couldn’t convince myself that it wasn’t my fault that you had to come back in for me. That if I had been just a little smarter, a little quicker, that you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” Penelope saw the change in Colin’s eyes and leaned in for another kiss, stopping his protests before they left his mouth. “I know, intellectually, I know, it’s not my fault. But Colin, I woke up, and you were on the ground in front of me, on fire. I couldn’t have left.” Her entire body trembled at that too-raw image.

“You got the boys out, Pen. Nothing is more important than that.” Colin’s shoulders were beginning to scream at all the movement, but he nonetheless reached out and curled his arm around her shoulders, pressing gentle kisses to her lips, her forehead. He could taste her tears.

“I sent Anna home in the wee hours of the morning to get my file on the arsonist. I couldn’t leave you and I couldn’t sleep, so I sat here, and I worked. I mapped out the locations of all the fires that followed the pattern.” She stopped suddenly. “Do you want to try sitting up? It will make eating easier.”

“That was quite the shift in conversation,” Colin said, pulling his head back a bit to try to see her whole face more clearly and wincing at the crick in his neck. “What don’t you want to tell me? My God, Pen, I’m not the arsonist, am I?” A genuine smile split Penelope’s face in spite of herself.

“If you are, you’ve done a terrible job,” she chided. “But Colin, the fires are…well, my map is not perfectly to scale, and there is no way to pinpoint a location exactly. There is room for human error and…” Her eyes went distant and worried. “You cannot tell anyone about this; it’s just a theory, and I have not yet shared it with Lady Danbury or the Queen.”

Colin frowned. He knew Penelope’s work was secret. He had been there when the Queen had surreptitiously named Penelope a dame and made her a clandestine member of the inner court. That Penelope felt the need to remind him of what had to remain secret spoke volumes about the stress she was under. She had found something significant.

“You know I will keep your secrets, Pen.”

“The fires form a circle, and at the center of that circle is our street. I think I was right, Colin. There is only one arsonist, and he isn’t some disgruntled tradesman or worker who resents the ton. I think he’s one of us.”

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