Scene from a novel-in-progress

The flames exposed the high cliff of a brick facade, but only for seconds at a time, and only incompletely. It was like a film plotting through its final sprockets, running out of light, and then the flames would leap again and Sophie could see the unsprung curl of a spiraling stair, or the steel curvature of a balcony wall, or the imploded wicker of a roof, the tentacled bones of old ivy. The bonfire had been set high up, in the building itself, and like a wild, unkempt song it kept changing tune and direction.