I caused the fire. I did. Not deliberately, but it was my fault.

Now I have to face the consequences.

People in the twenty-first century say some strange things: “I shall have to learn to live with myself,” or, “I shall have to forgive myself.”

It is all tommyrot, which, come to think of it, is something I think you do not say anymore.

I have no choice but to live with myself. And I cannot forgive myself. I am not even sure it is possible.

How did the fire start?

It would have been the new wood. New, unseasoned wood—which throws off sparks. I had watched Roxy Minto walk up the lane with her bandaged head; I had tried to wave goodbye to her, hoping she would come back.

I had been too lazy to go down to the woodshed and fetch the proper aged logs, and I used the new ones that had just been cut.

So.

My fault.