[Ferran presses his lips together in thought as he moves his gaze up again, though he hardly needs it to remember the layout of the house. What kind of aspiring architect would he be if he hadn't at least looked at the blueprints of his own home?]

A corner of the attic. But all that was up there were some old pictures and antique furniture.

[He pauses briefly, a dejected look crossing his face and eyes tightening.]

Which... could make good kindling... I guess. [Would that support the theory the authorities gave him, that it was nothing more than an unlucky strike of lightning? He shakes his head—that can't be the entire truth.

His voice goes quiet, hardly a whisper. If it sounds like a desperate denial, he won't admit to it.]

It wasn't just a storm.