Jemima thought her dress had been sufficiently saved, although it must be horribly charred where the flame had eaten before he’d stamped it out for her – but the young man seemed to have some sort of a plan, now, to tackle the rest. Blindly mimicking him, Jemima groped about for her wand too, but between her cut palm and the decoratively tight wand-pocket in the folds of this gown and her dance card in the way, still swinging on her wrist – for heaven’s sake, of all the useless things! – it took her valuable moments and considerable effort to retrieve it. Assuming his water-spell to drench his clothes was part of the proposed strategy, Jemima did the same, casting a shaky Aguamenti on her skirts where it was not already sodden with champagne. Hopefully that would be enough to spare her –
But Aguamenti wasn’t proving enough for the fire on the floor, and the man’s efforts seemed to be only just keeping it at bay, because the flames were still springing up in the gaps, still creeping across the carpeted hall. He had set himself between it and her now, which she was immensely grateful for, but Jemima didn’t have much of an angle to add to the water-streams. She felt a twinge of responsibility for the fire – if she’d caught the fallen candle faster, it wouldn’t be spreading like this – but maybe the storm would do the work for them, if they let it blaze and burn out by itself?
The flames were bad, obviously, but she also didn’t want to watch it get any worse and fatally burn this bystander for his efforts, because if he died saving her it really would feel like her fault forever. “It’s not enough,” Jemima said, over all the noise of it all, because the flames were springing back more fiercely than she’d expected, and she flinched at how close he was to it. So she tugged him back by the arm, hardly knowing which way down the hall they were stumbling – hardly considering that the powder room might be a dead end – just adamant that the best thing they could do was get away from here, and maybe even put a solid door between them and the flames.
But Aguamenti wasn’t proving enough for the fire on the floor, and the man’s efforts seemed to be only just keeping it at bay, because the flames were still springing up in the gaps, still creeping across the carpeted hall. He had set himself between it and her now, which she was immensely grateful for, but Jemima didn’t have much of an angle to add to the water-streams. She felt a twinge of responsibility for the fire – if she’d caught the fallen candle faster, it wouldn’t be spreading like this – but maybe the storm would do the work for them, if they let it blaze and burn out by itself?
The flames were bad, obviously, but she also didn’t want to watch it get any worse and fatally burn this bystander for his efforts, because if he died saving her it really would feel like her fault forever. “It’s not enough,” Jemima said, over all the noise of it all, because the flames were springing back more fiercely than she’d expected, and she flinched at how close he was to it. So she tugged him back by the arm, hardly knowing which way down the hall they were stumbling – hardly considering that the powder room might be a dead end – just adamant that the best thing they could do was get away from here, and maybe even put a solid door between them and the flames.
