“You don’t say,” Rose retorted with a smile. “And Romeo and Juliet as well. Aren’t you the clever one.” Her father, a high school English teacher, had begun quoting Shakespeare to her before she could talk. “Look sharp there,” she added, glancing at his neglected equipment. “You don’t want to miss a crack in that hose.”

She’d started with the Southwark Fire Brigade six months before Bryan, and she never missed an opportunity to remind him of her seniority. It was hard enough, being female in what was still basically a man’s profession, and she certainly couldn’t afford a partner with some half-baked romantic idea about their relationship.

Rose meant to go far, perhaps even divisional officer one day, and she wasn’t about to let an entanglement stand in her way. Not that she was averse to a night out and a bit of a recreational cuddle, but not with someone on her own ground. And the job left no time for a real relationship. If you wanted to be good, you had to eat it, sleep it, breathe it. She wanted more than the ability to put a fire out; she wanted to understand the why and how, and fire investigation was a way to move up in the ranks.

It was now after midnight, and she intended to use her downtime to study if things remained quiet. She’d just stowed the BA set and pulled out her books when the bells went for the second time that night.

Rose felt the familiar jolt of adrenaline, and then she and Bryan and the rest of the watch were running for the pole-house. Descending to the appliance bay, they began rigging in fire gear as the duty officer called out “Pair” over the tannoy, meaning that both the pump and the pump ladder were needed. As if of their own volition, Rose’s hands performed the familiar rituals: fastening her tunic, tightening the throat buckle, pushing back her hair before slipping on her helmet and adjusting the chin strap, clasping her belt so that the weight of the small axe rested against her hip.