Kite. Saltee colours. The flag.

On the parapet, Conor pounced on the flagpole, pulling at the knots holding the bamboo frame. The knots twisted in his hands, pulled by the wind that flapped the flag in its frame.

‘Help me, Isabella,’ he cried. ‘We must untie the flag.’

‘Forget the flag, Captain Crow,’ said Isabella dully. ‘Leave the goat too. I don’t like goats. Sneaky little beards.’

Conor struggled on with the knots. The ropes were thicker than his slim fingers, but they were brittle from the heat and fell apart quickly. With one momentous wrench, he pulled the flapping flag out of the wind, wrestling it to the parapet. It bucked and cracked under him like a magic carpet, but Conor kept it secure with his own body.

He could barely see Isabella now. She was like a ghost in the smoke. He tried to call her, but smoke went down his throat faster than words could come up. He retched and arrked like a seal, flapping his arms at the princess. She ignored him, deciding instead to lie down on the parapet and wait for her father.

Conor fumbled with his belt buckle, pulling the leather strip out from the loops of his trousers’ waistband. Then he rolled on to his back, and passed the belt behind the flag’s bamboo diagonals.

This is an insane plan. You are not a pirate on some fantastic adventure.

This wasn’t a plan, there was no time for plans. This was a desperate act.

In the melee of smoke, explosions and jets of flame, Conor struggled to his feet, keeping the flag’s tip low, hiding it from the wind.

Not yet. Not yet.

He almost stumbled over Isabella. She seemed to be asleep. There was no reaction when his fingers pulled at her face.

Dead. Is she dead?