The Boy in the Burning House by Tim Wynne-Jones

the Godless capitalist of the story. They had never talked about him at home. Was he the Devil? Had Father actually fought with his own father? Who was to know? That was the problem with Sunday school stories. Who was to know which parts were real?
    And what were the sins that made Father Fisher such a great sinner? Were they real sins or did he mean he was a bad person because he was just human, the son of Adam?
    Father’s voice suddenly cut into Jim’s thoughts. He had mounted the pulpit and Dickie Patterhew, from his control station at the back of the church, had turned on the pulpit mike.
    â€œLet us pray,” said the pastor.
    Everybody bowed their heads. But as Jim bowed his, he heard the sound of the entrance door opening. He turned to look.
    It was her!
    She was dressed all in black. Like a thief.
    Jim glanced over to where Nancy Fisher was sitting in her corner. She had seen her daughter, too. For a moment her face lit up and then, just as quickly, she paled.
    Jim’s gaze returned to Ruth Rose. She was standing perfectly still, her head bowed, her hands folded in front of her. She looked humble, as if she were praying along with the rest of the congregation. But there was something in her hand. Something dark. For one horrible instant, Jim thought it was a gun. But it was too small.
    Jim snapped his head back to look at the pastor. If Father had seen Ruth Rose, he showed no signs of it. And then Jim figured that from the pastor’s angle up high, he probably couldn’t see her under the lower roof of the narthex. Father Fisher’s head was bent solemnly in prayer and his voice did not falter.
    Jim dared to look back at Ruth Rose. She was sidling along the back wall of the church. Her mother was watching her intently with a frightened look in her eyes, her hands grasping the rims of her wheelchair.
    What was going on?
    Jim’s mother touched his arm and gave him a look that he hadn’t seen in years. It was a quit-squirming-around-in-your-seat look.
    Jim faced the front again, but as the pastor finished his prayer and asked the congregation to please be seated for the sermon, Jim managed another quick glancetowards the back. Ruth Rose was nowhere to be seen.
    â€œThe leaves are turning to glorious gold,” began the pastor. “And we, Lord, call it fall.”
    Slowly, so as not to draw his mother’s attention, Jim turned his head to the right until he could see Nancy Fisher. Her eyes were rivetted on something happening on the other side of the church.
    Jim carefully returned his attention to the front, glanced at his mother to see if she was watching, and then very cautiously turned his head to the left until he could see all the way to the back. He could see Dickie the sexton, the only person in the back row. He was seated but his head was bowed in prayer. Or so it seemed. Upon further inspection, Jim was quite certain the sexton was dozing.
    Behind him, Jim caught a glimpse of black. It was Ruth Rose. She must have ducked down behind the last pew.
    â€œWe see in the fallen leaves, the bare trees, the end of things. Death. But the Lord in His bounteous wisdom has seen fit to give busy Mother Nature a break. A nap. That’s all. The beautiful maple isn’t dead, it’s just having a little snooze.”
    The members of the congregation chuckled and took the opportunity to make themselves more comfortable in their seats. In the resulting racket, Jim caught sight of Ruth Rose again. She had dashed behind the wooden podium that housed the controls of the public address system.
    Suddenly he knew what he had seen in her hand. An audio tape.
    His mother nudged him and frowned. Obediently, Jim looked towards the front.
    â€œCome spring, as we all know, the sap will runagain. The gold of the fall will have been distilled. We will see it again, taste it again — and, oh, how sweet it is! — that golden syrup of which Lanark County is so justly famous. It is