They'd tried, he and the elf woman. They'd pulled and dumped the buckets as quickly as they could, but still so much had been lost.

Maxwell stood in the garden, surveying the damage, his shoulders slumped glumly. The corner he'd made for himself had mostly survived, but the trunk of the tree was blackened and the grass and flowers were withered and the belongings he hadn't been able to grab had been singed and scorched. The candle he'd left out, waiting for Gavin, had melted into a pale puddle, looking like a strange stone upon the ground.

He nudged it free from the earth with the toe of his boot and bent to pick it up with a heavy sigh.