She and her partner, Bryan Simms, were checking their breathing apparatus after the first bell of the night – a little old lady in a council flat, having decided to make herself a bedtime snack, had dozed off with the chip pan on the burner. Fortunately, a neighbor had seen the first sign of smoke, the blaze had been easily contained, and the woman had escaped serious injury.

But every fire call, no matter how minor, required a careful examination of any equipment they had used. Tonight she and Bryan had been assigned BA crew and their lives depended on the efficiency of their breathing apparatus – and on each other. Simms, at twenty-three a year older than Rose, was as steady and reliable as his square, blunt face implied, and not inclined to panic.

He looked up at her, as if sensing her regard, and frowned in concentration. “‘What’s in a name?’” he asked, as if continuing a conversation. “‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

For a moment, Rose was too startled to respond. Not that she wasn’t used to being teased about her name, or her fair looks, but this was the first time one of her fellow firefighters had resorted to Shakespeare.

Taking her silence as encouragement, Bryan went on, grinning, “‘But earthlier happy is the rose distilled, than that which withering on the virgin thorn grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness-’”

“Piss off, Simms,” Rose interrupted, smothering a laugh. She had to admit she was impressed he’d gone to the trouble of memorizing the line. “I’d never have taken you for a Shakespeare buff.”

“I like the second one. It’s from A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” said Simms, and she wondered if she had imagined a blush in his dark skin as he bent again over his task.