We stood near the edge of the village while people moved around us. The morning’s gray sky had lifted enough to show a thin line of pale blue over the trees. Smoke drifted from the houses. Somewhere bread was baking, rich and warm beneath the sharper smells of livestock and damp earth.
Wulfric folded his arms. “You said you go into burning houses.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
I thought of Milo. Toast. Brian. All the people whose names I’d never known.
“Because I’m a firefighter.”
His brow furrowed. “Someone who fights fire?”
“More or less.”
“With what?”
“Water. Hoses.”
Blank look.
“Long tubes that carry water.”
He looked doubtful.
“Ladders. Axes. Breathing equipment.”
Nothing.
“Big red carts.”
Still nothing.
I sighed.
“Where I come from, when something burns, we have people trained to deal with it. We go inside burning buildings to find anyone trapped. We move people away from danger. We deal with wrecks, collapsed buildings, floods, anything that goes badly enough that ordinary people need someone to make the next decision.”
He watched me closely. “People call for you.”
“Yes.”
“And you go?”
“Yes.”
“Even into fire.”
“That is rather the defining feature of the job.”
His gaze moved over my face.
I fought the urge to check whether I had pottage on my chin.
“You are not a warrior.”
“No.”
“Yet you walk toward danger.”