Authors: Riley Clifford
As little flames grew into larger ones, Hamilton noticed the drapes were the exact same purple as their tracksuits. He would have laughed at the coincidence, if remorse hadn’t already filled him with fear. He shouldn’t have done it. The flames were very large now, creeping up the curtains to the ceiling, then billowing out like liquid fireworks. The whole room was quickly engulfed in fire, and an almost deafening roar rose as the flames sucked in the remaining oxygen.
“Okay, children, I believe we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Mary-Todd said in the calmest motherly voice she could muster. But Hamilton couldn’t take his place in line. His eyes were glued to the snarling fire as it raged through one of the grandest rooms in Grace’s entire mansion. A scream rang out behind him.
“Reagan!” Hamilton yelled. The drapery had almost fallen on top of her in a fiery cloak. As he helped his sister up to her feet, the full weight of his actions fell upon him. And then a horrifying realization: There were still people in the house! “Fire!” He screamed the alarm at the top of his lungs. “FIRE!!”
Eisenhower stopped as soon as he heard Hamilton’s warning cries.
“Ham! What are you doing?!” Eisenhower demanded. “Stop this insubordination!”
“No,” Hamilton panted. Smoke was billowing down the hallway and quickly obscuring the image of his father, but Hamilton didn’t remove his gaze. “I’m not letting anyone die on my watch . . . sir.”
Eisenhower’s jaw clenched. “I’ll deal with you later, solider!” Eisenhower yelled, then turned and set a wall hanging on fire. “GIRLS!” he bellowed, tossing his daughters another lighter. “Keep spreading that fire. I want to be sure it catches. Do you hear me?” A chorus of “Yessirs!” followed Eisenhower as he marched his family out.
The mansion was becoming a smoky, fiery blur, but Hamilton kept an eye out as best he could for anyone still within the house. As they moved through the billiards room, Madison stopped quickly to light the pool tables and cues on fire. The green felt from the tabletops started popping with little sparks. Pool sticks, once neatly mounted in their cases, were splintering like matchsticks from the flames.
In the music room, Mary-Todd reluctantly set row after row of bound sheet music alight. Black smoke began billowing from the bookcases, clogging Hamilton’s nose and mouth. Soon, his body was riddled with choking coughs. He struggled to call out his warnings as he dodged pianos and music stands, hoping to catch anyone left in the building. As Hamilton looked around, he could barely even see Reagan bringing up the rear. But he could hear “Troops!” being yelled in front of him.
That must be Dad
.
With the help of his family, the fire was getting really bad, really quickly. The roar of it almost deafened him as they ran past the ballroom, which his father had already set alight. Behind him, Hamilton heard the tuneless clang of something falling onto the grand piano. It sent a chill down Hamilton’s spine. That couldn’t have been the ceiling.
Could it?
The Holts were running toward the exit now, Hamilton shouting alarms as they raced through the Great Hall, where the projector screen was already engulfed in flames. Taking a left out of the Great Hall, Hamilton stopped before the grand staircase to be sure that Reagan had made it through the house safely. As soon as she turned the corner, Hamilton fell in behind her, and they raced over to the staircase.
But just as they finished descending the stairs, a section of the roof caved in, sending the upstairs dining room crashing right through the middle of the grand staircase. Hamilton turned around to watch the last of it fall through. He heard a shrill scream, and through the smoke he saw Cousin Ingrid stuck in one of the fractured floorboards above the fiery hole left in the stairway.
Hamilton didn’t have to think twice. He spun around and headed straight for the fiery pit.
“Hamilton! Ham! COME BACK!” his parents yelled. His sisters screamed behind him, but their shouts were drowned by the roar of the fire. There was no way he could get to her through those flames. He’d have to find a way to douse them if he was going to cross over the gaping hole in the staircase. He looked around for a source of water. The flowers! Grace always kept a magnificent flower arrangement in the foyer to greet guests.
Hamilton ran over to the table, grabbed the arrangement, and ripped the flowers free. He carried the vase full of water as far up the stairs as he could possibly go. The flames were as high as his waist now and obscuring his view of Cousin Ingrid. He could hear her calling to him through the fire. And her signature medallion necklace was gleaming through the smoke like a beacon, refracting the light of the flames.
Hamilton knew he didn’t have much time left. He held up the vase, feeling the cool china beneath his hands. It was strange to feel something besides heat when you were inside a burning mansion. Hamilton took aim and tossed the water at the base of the worst flames.
Success! The fire sizzled out, leaving a broken path of smoking, charred wood between him and Cousin Ingrid. There was just enough room for Hamilton to get across the gap. He took a few steps down the stairs to get a running start, then leaped across the fiery hole to the stairway above. He landed safely, but teetered a little bit on the weakened beams.
After catching his balance, he quickly grabbed hold of Ingrid’s ankle and began pulling it from the floorboards. But it wouldn’t budge. Hamilton glanced down to get a closer look.
No wonder she’s stuck!
Hamilton realized.
Why is Cousin Ingrid wearing combat boots to a funeral?
But before he could ask the question out loud, her foot popped free. The hole it left behind instantly started spewing smoke. Hamilton picked her up, just like he did his barbells while bench-pressing at the gym, leaped over the hole, and carried her to safety below the burning stairs. Together, the Holt family and Cousin Ingrid ran outside to the front lawn. Covered in soot and coughing incessantly, everyone collapsed to the ground beside the main drive, gasping for air.
When Hamilton finally caught his breath, he realized the rain had stopped. He looked up to the burning mansion. A window burst open from the heat of the flames. Smoke spewed from every possible crack and opening, forming a deep black cloud above the manor. He could hear eaves bursting inside and the horrible yawn of collapsing beams. A sense of relief washed over him as he counted his family members. Everyone had made it out alive — he’d even saved Cousin Ingrid. He looked around.
Where is she?
Before Hamilton had a chance to find her, a giant crash rang out from the mansion. He turned and caught a glimpse of the massive chandelier in the foyer falling through the air. A split second later, a giant ball of fire flamed out through the front door, like a dragon exhaling its last breath. The mansion was dying.
Daylight was fading over the Attleboro hills, and the burning glow of the house bled into the sunset. Staring into the fiery ruins of Grace’s sprawling manor, Hamilton had an overwhelming sense that something had just been set in motion — bigger than anything he’d ever known in his entire life. And he, Hamilton Holt, was already a part of it. It felt grand and old and absolutely unstoppable.
The hunt for the 39 Clues had begun.
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Clifford Riley would like to acknowledge Grace Kendall.
Cover design by Keirsten Geise; Rapid Fire logo design by Charice Silverman
First edition, December 2011
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