Blueblood slid out of his chair and picked up the newspapers in his field, then stomped over to the fireplace. While he couldn't really solve his problems with fire, he might feel some satisfaction watching them go up in smoke. Knowing my luck recently, some of them would go up the chimney, and they'd either set the roof on fire, or else land intact enough to convince my groundskeeper to join the chorus protesting Lyra.