Chapter Twenty-Four

So she ran head-first into the inferno. Unfortunately every entrance into the Mill save one had collapsed. Somehow her mind registered people of every class and status, hauling buckets of water in through the Mill gates, desperately trying to smother the flames and get inside. The screaming of men, women, and children alike could be heard as plainly as if they had been right beside her. An awful, agonized chorus for help, sinking into her bones, and making her wish she could curl up and die, if only to escape that wretched noise. But she pressed on. Luckily the side door, the one that led past John's office, was still unblocked. She threw the door open, and was met with a blast of heat so powerful it made her stagger backwards. But she steeled herself against it, and pushed forward.

Smoke, thick and black, assaulted her lungs, instinctively pressing the need to cough, But Margaret fought against it. She knew somehow that once she started coughing, it would be nearly impossible to stop. Through the black haze she could see the flames. Distant though they were, it was not difficult to tell that the fire was hot-unimaginably hot- and burning through everything fast and frenzied. She could hear the screams now, could pinpoint their location, and made to run toward them, but stopped short. To her left were the stairs that led to John's office. She felt the overwhelming need to check it. But why? John would not be up there. Even if he would have ignored the workers crying out for help (which Margaret knew he would not) she had seen herself that he had gone to the other end of the Mill. The end where the fire was the most terrible. She fought with herself over the confusing desire to run up the stairs for what felt like hours, though in reality was only a few seconds. She sighed in irritation, mostly at herself, before picking up her skirts and dashing away up the stairs.

She made to throw the door open, but instead found herself running face first into the hard wood as the door collided with some object on the other side. Her face hit the wood much harder than she anticipated, and her eyes watered at the pain it inflicted upon her nose. The door was stuck, obscured by some unknown object on the other side. She pushed against again, but it would budge no further than the five or so inches it initially did. There was a gap where the door opened, but not nearly wide enough for her to fit through. She pushed a few more times against the stubborn door, feeling a slight panic begin to rise within her at the increasing heat of the Mill, but the door would not move. Margaret glanced back down the stairs and saw with a start that the flames had spread from the looms, and were now burning their way through the floor by the staircase. Perhaps if she could push the door open enough, she would be able to fit her arm through the opening and feel what the obstruction was. She knelt down, and braced her left shoulder against the wood beneath the door handle and pushed with all her might. Quickly, before she lost her strength, she shoved her other arm through the crack and felt around on the floor for the unknown blockage. She felt her hand brush against something soft, like fabric and tried to stretch her arm further in that direction. Fabric, lots of fabric. Almost…like that of a dress. Her hand touched something cold then, and she realized then that the obstruction was a woman, a woman who suddenly clutched her hand with a desperate strength.

"Are you alright?" Margaret called loudly. "Please, can you hear me?" There was no response, but the fingers grasping hers did not lose strength. "I am going to get to you out of there!" She called, panic welling up inside her again. "Can you move away from the door?" The fingers left hers, and there was a slow shuffling sound from behind the door. Margaret wrenched her arm back and pushed against the door with a renewed vigor. Finally, the door was opened just enough for her to squeeze through, which she did as quickly as she could. Flames seemed to pour in through the shattered window that faced the looms, and with it came the thick black cloud that permeated the rest of the Mill. She wondered, not to the first time, where John was, and if he was safe. Her eyes, were immediately drawn to the figure of the woman on the floor, laying on her stomach and seemingly unconscious. Even through the haze of smoke burning her eyes, there was no mistaking who she was. The crisp black linen of her dress, the elegantly coiffed hair, blacker than the deepest of starless nights…

This was her mother-in-law.

"Oh God," Margaret breathed out as she collapsed to her knees beside the still form of Mrs. Thornton. With shaking hands, she gently rolled her over onto her back. Her injuries were something to behold. There was blood everywhere, even on Margaret's hands, and she could see the stain it had left on both the door, and the floor in front of it. She must have been thrown against the door during the initial explosion, and lost consciousness. It was the only explanation. But surely she must be alright. After all, she had taken hold of Margaret's hand, and had tried to move away from the door.

"Mrs. Thornton!" She called, shaking her shoulders. There was no reply. But that did not matter. Alive or no, she could not-would not leave her in this burning building. She would get her out, even if she herself died in the process. So she slipped her arms underneath her mother-in-law's still form, and pulled with all her might.

She was heavier than she looked, but that was most likely attributed to the fact that she was unconscious. When she managed to pull her out of the way of the door, she reached behind her with her foot, and kicked it wide open. The flames had spread even further now, and part of the railing was now aflame. Very carefully, she stepped down on foot at a time, and somewhat blindly made her way down the stairs. The creaked and groaned with each step, and Margaret hastened to be off of them. Unfortunately the fire had done more damage than could be seen, and while she was still halfway up, the entire staircase collapsed.

John fought his way through the crowd and towards the door to the sorting room, adrenaline running like a river inside of him. The door was apparently jammed, and several men were there attempting to force it open. There were so many people in the Mill Yard, most of them faces of those he did not recognize. They stood frozen, looking lost and confused, terror written plainly in their eyes.

"Go!" He yelled to them over the noise of those still trapped inside. All eyes turned to look at him, as though imploring for an occupation. "Go and get water! Buckets, damp cloth, anything! We have to smother the flames before it spreads to other buildings!" At his instruction, dozens of people ran off out of the Mill gates, commanding others to do the same. John rushed over to the men at the door, and with their help, picked up a large wooden beam that lay a few feet away. It was still smoldering, but appeared to be mostly intact. The wood itself was hotter than he expected, and it burned his hands and side where he held it against him, but he didn't really notice it. He was focusing on breaking that door down and getting everyone out. The door itself shattered into a hundred flaming splinters upon the first try, and as one they dropped the beam, and ran in through the doorframe.

The heat hit him like a wave from the sea, and he squinted to see through the flames. Suddenly John was thrown to the side as a horde of terrified people bolted through the new found opening. His back hit a burning wall, and a few cinders fell in between his jacket and vest. It didn't take long for him to register that his back felt as though it had caught fire, and he tore his jacket off as quickly as he could. He could still hear screams, still hear people calling for help. Others were running in through the door with buckets of water, hoping to overpower the flames, and still others could be seen carrying forms out into the Mill yard. Whether they were alive or not, John did not know.

He hurried through the Mill, carrying each body he found out into the Mill yard, before running back inside. His lungs, eyes, throat-his entire body was burning from the heat of the flames, and the smoke it created. Sweat poured from his face, and there were several small injuries he had obtained from running back and forth. But he did not notice them; he felt no pain, had no thoughts other than the poor souls he knew were still trapped inside. His workers. He would not leave them there to die.

He could not let this be like the last time. Not like that fateful day in May two years before. Hundreds of bodies-men, women, children-burned down to their bones. Unrecognizable bodies, the horrid, acrid smell of burning flesh…something he never, ever wanted to experience again, happing right now, all around him. Responsibility hit him full force in the chest. Even though this had not directly been his fault (and neither had the last time), he could feel it still. The crushing, almost overpowering weight of guilt settled upon his shoulders, taking root within his soul. Dear God, how could this have happened again? After everything he had done to ensure otherwise, after all the safety precautions he had taken against this very thing. True, he had been very distracted lately in all other areas of life, but he did not think that he had been neglecting his work. He was fighting, tooth and nail, to keep this business from sinking beneath the crashing waves of failure…and all for nothing?

This building, these people who were dying around him…they were his life. They alone held the key to every endeavor he embarked upon. They controlled his success and failure. They controlled his status in the world, his significance as a man, his worth as a husband. Likewise he controlled their well-being. He alone ensured that they would eat each night, that they had a place to call home, that their children would not starve, or end up alone and on the streets…He had already acknowledged that it would take nothing less than a miracle to keep the Mill running. But now there was no Mill. No looms, no sorting rooms, no cotton, no money. And to think he thought himself a failure before. Now he could not hide his shame, even from Margaret. Now Margaret would share this with him, fully knowing just exactly how horrible things really were for them. Because everything that made up who he was, was burning away at an alarming rate, leaving nothing left but him.

John Thornton laid completely bare, his soul soon to be exposed to the world, to his wife, and all his demons with it.

Everything he was, everything he wanted to be, everything he could have been, was burning to the ground before his very eyes. Everything he had offered her. Everything he could not give, crumbling away into blackened dust. How could it have come to this? Already he had failed her in every possible way. He was overly jealous, accusatory, degrading, and very, extremely, mentally ill. He had scorned her and rejected her love out of spite, wanting retribution for the way she scorned him. He had been so selfish as take her as his wife, to emotionally abuse her, throw her love away as if it were a rotten orange, and now to subject her to his shame, failure, and ultimately destitution. God, that he were such a man as to deserve her! And still, even after he promised her he would return, he almost hoped that he did not. It would be better for her, his death. She would be free from ridicule, from him, and could stay with her remaining family, perhaps marry a man worthy or her. Regardless of how much he wished otherwise, he would not recklessly abandon his own life. He made her a promise. Even if it was to be his last act on this earth, he would at the very least, try his best to return to her.

He owed her that, at least.

He scanned the floor once more, looking for anyone else that might have been forgotten. They'd checked under all the looms, in every closet, under every pile of rubble they could…but it was not everyone. The number of people outside were less than those he had employed. Surely there were more people in here somewhere. But where? Then it struck him.

There had been another leak in the storage house. But unlike the last time there was a leak, he could not simply patch it up. He had assigned several men to tear the old roof off and build another one. But before they could do that, all the raw cotton, and completed orders had to be moved out of the storage house. The only other space available for the cotton to go was upstairs in the empty rooms. They must be upstairs.

Following his instinct and praying to God they were still alive, he ran for the stairs. But the stairs were gone, incinerated by the fire; but he could see them now, the terrified faces of those trapped upstairs, gazing down at what now looked like a hole in the middle of the ceiling.

"Master!" One called, visibly relieved to see him there. "Master the staircase caved in! Is there another way down from here?"

"I will find a way to get you down!" He called back to them, raising a hand over his eyes to shield them from the bright flames. And he would; he would not condemn these men to death on his behalf. There was a ladder, he knew there was, in the storage house maybe fifty feet away from him. The only problem was that the entire ceiling had collapsed into a burning pile of embers that now stood between himself and the storage house. There was no question in his mind; he could take this risk and save the thirty-some men trapped upstairs, or he could walk away with his life, his soul forever damned for condemning those men to their graves. His soul was damned enough without the addition of these men's lives. He took the first step forward, but a frantic voice stopped him.

"Master! What are you doing?!" It was one of the workers, Crandall he recalled vaguely.

"I'm going to get the ladder, and get you down from there." He called back. A chorus of protests reached his ears:

"No, Master! Don't go in there!"

"Leave us, Master!"

"You'll be burnt alive in there!" But John ignored them all, and took off running as quickly as he could towards the storage house and away from the frantic voices of his workers.

"Master no!"

There was so much adrenaline coursing through his veins now that he did not feel how very badly his feet were burning. He did not feel, even when the leg of his trousers caught on fire. And he did not notice the only remaining section of ceiling start to crumble before it was too late, and was falling on top of him.

Margaret coughed, trying to force the combination of soot, ash, smoke, and rubble from her lungs. The staircase had collapsed, but she was alive. Her right leg throbbed angrily, but she thought she would still be able to walk on it. She pushed the burning planks of wood off her dress, smothered the flames that sprouted there, and searched frantically for her mother-in-law.

"Hannah!" She called, so desperate in her search that she didn't even realize she called her by her Christian name. A shuffling of boards immediately caught her attention, and she could see her there underneath a pile of smoldering wooden rubble. She stumbled towards her as quickly as she could, throwing boards out of her way, unhindered by the burns she sustained on her hands and wrists as she did so. Margaret had uncovered her face, and saw with a gladness she had never known that Mrs. Thornton was conscious.

"Margaret?" She said in confusion. Her voice was deep and raspy, and her breathing labored.

"I'm here, Hannah!" She cried, tears springing to her eyes. Her hair had somewhat fallen out of it's pins, and Margaret hurriedly brushed it out of her eyes. "We are almost out, and if you can manage to work yourself free, the doorway is just over there. You'll be safe, I promise." Mrs. Thornton nodded, trying to work herself out of the debris, but stopped short, hissing in pain. "What is it?" Margaret asked, alarmed.

"My legs." She replied, her raspy voice difficult to make out. "They're stuck underneath something, and I can't get them out." Margaret tore away at the rubble and saw the cause instantly. A large wooden beam, most likely one that supported the frame of the staircase, was covering her legs, pinning her to the spot.

"Just hold on a moment," Margaret said, mind working at an alarmingly fast rate to come up with a solution.

"No, Margaret. You must leave me here." She said. It was difficult to hear over the roaring flames and crackling wood, but Margaret understood what her low, raspy voice had spoken.

"Absolutely not! I wi-"

"Margaret!" She interrupted. Margaret looked down at her in disbelief. Was every member of the Thornton household so resolutely determined that this fire would be the end of them?! She would not allow it. "I have lived my life. I would not see you sacrifice yours to save mine." White hot anger burned through Margaret's veins. She may not have spoken to the woman in months, but that did not mean she could sentence her to her grave.

"I will not leave you." Margaret said, her voice trembling with the anger she fought to suppress. She stood, and began clearing the debris away from the beam, hoping to discover how long it was, and whether it was trapped under anything heavier.

"I am sorry." Mrs. Thornton said after a few moments. Margaret glanced at her, uncertain what she was referring to, but continued to work as quickly as she could. The ceiling above her had already started to crumble, sending small showers of cinders down upon them. She needed to move faster. "I have treated you abominably." She said. Margaret turned towards her. Mrs. Thornton's sharp, hawk-like gaze followed her every movement. But Margaret was not stupid. She knew was Mrs. Thornton was hinting at.

"Stop it Hannah." She said fiercely. "I will not allow you to speak to me as though it is the last time you will do so. Save your apology for a later date." Margaret was aware, although she could honestly care less, that she was being rather rude. To her amazement, Mrs. Thornton laughed. It was a sound she never heard before. Her faced was graced with a smile. The same smile, she noted, that her son possessed. The one that made his eyes light up, and his face appear as though it suddenly lost several years. The same child-like mischievousness. She really should not have been surprised.

"I can fully appreciate why my son loves you as much as he does." Margaret paused in her work to look at her curiously. "You are everything he has always said you were." As much as Margaret would have liked to hear what things her husband had told his mother, it was really not the time. A few more embers fell from the ceiling, one landing in her hair, and she brushed them away quickly.

"You are more than you appear to be as well," she commented lightly, voice hitching with the effort of moving a particularly large piece of wood. Having successfully cleared most of the rubble away from the offending beam, she used the large piece of wood as a sort of wedge, jamming into a loose spot beneath the beam with the help of her foot.

"I would have you know," Mrs. Thornton said, grunting slightly in pain as the board moved across her legs. "That I have for some months deeply regretted my words and harsh actions towards you." Margaret glance at her, but did not reply directly to her statement.

"I'm going to lift the beam up now," she said breathlessly. "And you're going to have to pull yourself out from under it." Mrs. Thornton nodded. In one swift move, Margaret used all of her strength to push her makeshift lever down, consequently lifting the beam up and off of her mother-in-law's legs. Mrs. Thornton then pulled herself backwards as best she could, but not without many cries of pain. After several agonizing moments in which Margaret's arms were shaking with the effort of holding the beam up, Mrs. Thornton was free. Margaret dropped the beam with a loud sigh of relief, placing her hand on her side while struggling to catch her breath.

"Shall we then?" She asked, hoisting her mother-in-law up, and bearing her weight on her shoulder.

"Have you reconsidered leaving me hear yet?" Mrs. Thornton asked, most likely in response to the groan of effort Margaret made to get her standing.

"Do not take offense, Hannah." Margaret said, her voice breathless, and tone exasperated. "But you are the only parent I have left, and as I said before I will not leave you here. If you are as determined to find death as your son is, I am afraid you will have to find another way." At this Mrs. Thornton laughed again, though it was somewhat strained. Margaret was leading them as quickly as she could towards the distant outline of the door, but she knew it was painful for her. Margaret herself was struggling to press forward through the pain that now radiated from her own leg. On it's own, it sent burning waves up into her chest, but now walking on it with the added weight of her mother-in-law was nearly more than she could bear. Little black and white spots began to appear at the edges of her vision.

"Yes," Mrs. Thornton commented, though by the tone of her voice Margaret could tell her pain was increasing as well. "He is rather reckless about everything, is he not?" Margaret had no reply for that. He was, truth be told. And worry for his well-being tore through her once more. But she forced herself not to think on it. At least, not to think on it until they themselves were free of the Mill. Then she would go and discover what had become of her husband.

The stayed silent after that, focusing instead on making it to the doorway, and eventually the house itself. It was only a few moments before they were on the threshold itself. But then there was a terrible creaking noise above them, and Margaret knew seconds before, what was about to take place. With an enormous effort, she grabbed Mrs. Thornton and practically threw her through the doorway, and onto the stone outside, losing consciousness once more. The terrible creaking noise then turned into a terrible crashing noise as the ceiling caved in, a piece of burning shard catching her sharply on her arm as she threw herself out after her mother-in-law. She gasped as the pain hit her, and instinctively clutched at her arm. She could not see how bad the damage was through the blackened soot that now covered it, but at the moment she could not bring herself to care so very much. She was alive. Her mother-in law was alive.

They had escaped the Mill.

"Mistress!" A voice exclaimed. Margaret looked up and saw Mary Higgins running towards her. "Oh, thank God you're alright! I've never seen Father so worried as when he couldn't find you!"

"Mary!" Margaret said. "You're okay!" Margaret stood and threw her arms around the young girls shoulders. She let go quickly, and turned to the form of her mother-in-law, who lay still and pale on the ground. "We must get her inside." She allowed herself a small moment to take in the surroundings: hundreds of people occupied the Mill yard now, many lay upon the ground being tended to by others, unconscious, possibly even dead. Dozens of people ran in all directions, some even into her own home, with buckets of water, damp articles of clothing, anything they could find that would contribute to their common goal. This many people was a good thing; this many people meant that they had freed the trapped workers.

"Miss Margaret!" The voice of Nicholas Higgins, frantic, worried, and relieved all at once, reached her ears. He hurried towards her.

"Is she alright?" Mary asked quickly, before her father arrived.

"I believe so." Margaret said. "She has several injuries that need to be seen, but she was conscious only a moment ago." Mary nodded.

"Miss Margaret!" Nicholas said, embracing her quickly. "What in God's name were you doing in there?! You might have been burned alive!"

"Never mind that right now, Nicholas." Margaret said sharply. "What of the others?"

"Everyone is out an accounted for." He said, eyeing her with no small amount of surprise, most likely for the reprimanding tone she had just employed. "I was just looking trying to find Master to tell him, but he's not in the house." Margaret, who had been positioning herself with Mary to carry Mrs. Thornton inside the house, turned to him abruptly.

"What do you mean?!" She asked, hysteria building up inside her. Nicholas looked alarmed, and responded quickly.

"All the workers are accounted for, but I couldn't find Master to tell him. I haven't seen him at all since the Mill went up."

"John…" Margaret trailed off, voice failing her for a moment. "John went into the Mill to get the workers out. He was inside before I was, I-I saw him leave!" Nicholas' expression turned to one of grim understanding. Before he could blink, Margaret had turned in the direction she last saw her husband go.

"Get my mother-in-law in the house, Mary!" She said sternly. It was not lost on her how very much she sounded like her husband in that moment. She hurried off towards the door to the carding room, but Nicholas was much faster then her, and got there first. He spoke with several people on his way, and they all followed him without question. A man approached him, and Margaret was close enough that she heard their conversation.

"…Been looking all over for ya! Master ran off to the storage house to get a ladder and get us down, but never came back. We only just managed to get out the window before the whole floor fell in. No one else'll go back in there! 'Ts why I been looking for ya!" Margaret's breath escaped her, and she let out a strangled cry before rushing forward to the doorway.

"No!" Multiple pairs of strong arms grabbed her around the waist, dragging her back, and away from the doorway.

"No!" She cried, struggling to get free. They would not stop her. She was going to get her husband. Didn't they understand what was at stake for her?!

"You keep a good hold on hold on her, and don't you dare let her go in there!" Higgins cried, before running back into the fiery depths, taking a group of men with him.

"No!" Margaret cried, tears trailing down her face once more. "No, you cannot keep me here!" She tried everything. Kicking, screaming, even thrashing like a child to get free, but the unknown man behind her merely strengthened his hold. "I have to get to him! I have to bring him back! You don't-" She thrashed around more, kicking every part of her unknown captor she could reach. "-Understand! He promised!" Her fight left her at those words, and she sank slowly to the ground. "He promised me! He swore he would come back to me!" But now all she could do was cling desperately to the arms that held her at bay, begging God that her husband would be found.

It was some time before Nicholas returned, and Margaret could see the body being supported by each member. She could see the outline of his face, his body, and made to go to him. The arms around her waist and torso tightened again, and Margaret struggled more than ever. That was her husband, that was his body, his hair, exactly the same as his mother's: blacker than the deepest of starless nights. They brought him down the stairs and hurried towards the house. Margaret made to follow them, and this time the arms offered no objection.

She tried desperately to see something of him, anything of him, but he was blocked from her view by the men carrying him. She caught small pieces however, and they were pieces that made her want to die. His leg, trousers burned away up past the knee, burned, shiny, and distorted. His hair, some of it quite a bit singed, shining with thick red blood that covered part of his face, and dripped steadily onto Nicholas' clothes.

"Margaret!" He called sharply, and Margaret hastened to his side. "You must go and prepare your room. Get hot water, and as many bandages as you can find. We've already sent for another doctor." Margaret nodded, but her eyes were now on John's face, which she could not see until that moment. A deep and terrible gash on the top of his head, trailing down under his hairline stopping at his cheekbone. Blood trailing down his face, past the collar of his shirt, cravat missing, and staining the white fabric crimson. But the worst, by far the very worst that she could see, was the two inch thick piece of wood protruding from his shoulder.

"Margaret! Go!"

Margaret ran for the house, screaming hysterically for anyone inside that might hear her. Carter met her in the entry way, anxiety written plainly across his face.

"The Master?" He asked with trepidation. Margaret shook her head, and he let out a pained sigh.

"If he is alive-" Her voice hitched, and she fought to suppress her emotions. It had never been so important for her to function without them as it was now. "If he is alive, he is very badly injured and-" she could not continue after that, but Carter understood her perfectly.

"Go and turn back the covers on your bed Mistress, and I will tell Martha to boil more water. She has some on already for Mrs. Thornton." Margaret turned away from him, but paused to turn back and ask:

"Please Carter, tell me she is alright. I could not bear-"

"She is well Mistress, there were no life-threatening injuries."

"Thank you." Margaret said, before hurrying up the stairs, and doing as she was bid. It was not very long at all before she heard the commotion of people coming up the stairs, and the urgent tones of several men. They practically burst into the room all at once, Higgins, his men, Carter, John, and Doctor Donaldson all at once. They laid him gently upon their bed, and Doctor Donaldson immediately set to work, rolling up his sleeves in the process. Margaret stepped forward, a shaky hand pressed to her mouth, and tried to look closer at the unnaturally still form of her husband.

"Mrs. Thornton," The doctor said distractedly, pulling all manner of alarming instruments out of his bag. "I think it would be best for you, if you were not present for this."

"I will not leave him!" Margaret exclaimed, although her voice trembled uncontrollably.

"You've got injuries that need tending to Miss Margaret." Nicholas spoke sharply.

"Well damn my injuries!" She replied hotly. "I'll not leave his side, you cannot make me!" The doctor looked up at her at her response, and merely sighed.

"Well then Higgins," he said grimly. "As agreed."

"Aye." He replied. And before Margaret could process what had transpired between them, Nicholas had all but thrown her over his shoulder, and carried her out of the room kicking and screaming.

A/N: Ha ha...review time! I am incredibly pleased with this much longer than normal chapter. I would especially like to know what you thought of the Margaret/Hannah parts =D

I love you all!