This is the beginning of Claire and mine's second joint novel. The rest of chapter one will be posted when we've written it...

Chapter One

Mr Pailey looked upon his surroundings curiously. His companions' faces flickered in and out of his vision by the light of a candle. The wooden abode was warm due to little ventilation. All the shutters were firmly closed in a feeble attempt to prevent the moonlight from seeping through and casting a dim glow upon the room. This dim glow allowed Mr Pailey to trace the shapes of the shelves which aligned the walls, an oak table which stood to one side, and a large, solid oven which was placed all alone in the corner.

“We have just arrived at Mr Farriner's bakery,” The tour guide glanced at his watch, “The date is the 2nd of September, 1666, a little after midnight, if you will just look straight ahead, you can see an oven in the corner...” As the tour guide spoke, the aroma of bread and pastries lingered in the air.

“Farriner's bakery, Farriner, would this be in London?” The historian muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. He withdrew a notebook from his pocket and started to sketch the layout of the room.

“That's right, London. Pudding Lane to be precise,” The tour guide repeated the action of checking his watch, “You're all in for such a treat, this is a very important moment in history!”

“Pudding Lane, what a funny name! And what have we come to see?” An elderly lady demanded. She was situated towards the back of the group, trying to crane her neck over the members in front.

“Don't be stupid!” Her beloved husband snapped and added as an after thought, “Darling. We've come to see how bread was baked in the 17th century of course.”

“I'm not stupid... sweetheart. Why would we make bread at midnight you nutcase!” The elderly lady replied smugly. Mr Pailey chuckled to himself at the old couples' conversation. He was well aware that they had decided to take the tour to try and rekindle their love for one another. Although, he also knew full well that no amount of calling each other “darling” was going to aid their broken marriage.

“No, in this very building, in roughly two minutes, the Great Fire of London is going to start from that very oven,” The tour guide exclaimed enthusiastically.

“Emm... I might be wrong but shouldn't we watch the fire from outside the building?” Mr Pailey pointed out potently. As the heat of the room adjusted from simmering to boiling, Mr Pailey started to retreat. Members of the tour group groaned as he pushed against them, making an attempt to leave the room. Obviously, burning alive wasn't as big a tragedy to them. Flames had just started to erupt from the oven but the tour guide was still rooted to the spot, pointing at this very same object and explaining what it was made of, who by and most important of all, how much it weighed.

“No way! Surely it's lighter than that!” A young man objected.

“No, I swear it's the truth, on one of the trips I had someone weigh it. We had to come a whole day earlier, Mr Farriner was so confused, bless him! We persuaded him it was necessary we weighed the oven to check it's safety, oh the irony,” The tour guide chuckled. Mr Pailey was rather agitated at this point, probably because the flames had started to spread and were engulfing the whole oven.

“Has anyone realised that we are about to be burnt alive?” He shouted above the talk of average oven weights of the 17th century.

“Oh come now Mr Pailey. The real excitement is when the shop assistant comes in to warn the family that their house is on fire and then they all make to escape from the upstairs window. Perhaps we should all station ourselves upstairs now... then again, I do suppose last time many of my group got severe burns, then there was the time I miscalculated when the fire would start. Lost half the group, what a shame,” The tour guide shook his head solemnly, “Oh look at that, half the building is already alight,” His face lit up once more. After this comment, the tour group all rushed to the door and filtered out into the street. Smog hung heavily in the air. The group simultaneously raised their hands to their mouths, trying to quench the sickly feeling brought on by the smell of the sewer. The tour guide beckoned them into a nearby building, wanting to show them something of interest.

“Come, come, look a 17th century sewing device!” He beamed, “and see this roof, what is it made of?” He pointed at the cottage's quaint roof.

“Why, it's a thatched roof, made of straw!” A young woman wearing spectacles exclaimed.

“Correct, a great material for fire! Very soon the fire will spread rapidly across this roof, the interior and wooden frame won't stand a chance,” He patted the wooden wall of the cottage. In reply to this, a little boy who was gripping his mother's hand started to scream. Not long after, the fire could be seen ducking and diving through the thatched roof. The tour group once more filtered out onto the street. It was astonishing how quick the fire had spread, buildings everywhere were erupting. The smoldering fire lapped up all in it's path. The smog was now twice as heavy, a loud crackling could be heard amid the street's residents' screams. Many of the residents rushed past the tour group, shouting for help, their simple peasant clothing now baked in smoke. The little boy of the tour group started to sing the popular song 'London's Burning', to which one man who had been passing stopped and commented,

“A fine tune that be!”