The night the fire fell from the sky, the wheat fields of Lancashire burned for three days and three nights, and the children of the parish workhouse learned, in the most terrible fashion imaginable, that the world as they had known it was ended.
Arthur Pendelton stood on the roof of the workhouse with his bare hands pressed against the cold slate tiles, watching the streaks of orange light carve through the November darkness. They came silently—a thousand falling stars, perhaps, if a thousand falling stars had been bright enough to cast shadows on the ground. When the first one struck the wheat field half a mile east, the sound arrived...
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