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says.
    â€œAnd what reason do you have to think this?” Napoléon asks. “What evidence to refute what I see with my own eyes?”
    â€œNone but my instincts,” Ney replies. “But they have seldom let me down.”
    â€œA less magnanimous leader than myself might detect a note of jealousy in such words,” Napoléon says.
    â€œSuch a leader would be cruel and wrong,” Ney says. “What possible cause is there for envy?”
    â€œThibault commands the first invasion fleet,” Napoléon says. “His troops will be the first to set foot in Great Britain. Would that not be cause for resentment?”
    â€œA small force only,” Ney says. “A diversionary tactic.”
    â€œYet an important one, one that will open the door to England,” Napoléon says.
    â€œEven so,” Ney says, “it is I, not he, who will be leading the main force. Who will march first in the streets of London and demand the surrender of their king.”
    â€œActually, it is I who will accept the sword of capitulation from the English,” Napoléon says. “Although it will be from their prime minister, I would imagine, not their old, sad, mad king.”
    â€œOf course.” Ney bows his head. “You are correct on both counts. But still I count it a greater privilege to be riding alongside you than to be in charge of a lesser piece in this magnificent chess game of yours. And that notwithstanding, I urge you to exercise great caution when dealing with Thibault. You have my loyalty until the day I die. I fear Thibault has a lesser commitment.”
    â€œI will heed your words,” Napoléon says. “Now come, we must breakfast.”

 
    THE RACES
    The six wooden trojansaurs have been lined up at the far end of the parade ground in Woolwich. The horse teams are now uncoupling and drawing away. Behind them the gun crews assemble, ready for the exercise.
    To the south of the parade ground are the training fields. A series of sharp reports sounds from a battery of cannon and the acrid smell of cannon smoke is carried on a sharp and bitter wind that cuts through the jacket of Willem’s uniform. The combination of cold and smoke makes his skin burn and his eyes water.
    â€œThis weather is sharp and foul,” Frost says. “Use your magical powers and bring us some sunshine.”
    Willem laughs.
    To the north is the façade of the main barracks building, a huge brick edifice, dotted with long lines of windows, three stories high and stretching to the end of the long parade ground. All the buildings in Willem’s tiny village home of Gaillemarde combined would fit inside this one with room to spare.
    The main entrance consists of three archways flanked by massive white stone pillars. Above them statues of a lion and a unicorn form the British royal crest, with the motto in French: Dieu et mon droit (“God and my right”).
    It seems odd to Willem, the language of the enemy on the British crest.
    â€œYou have yet to answer my question about Héloïse,” he says as they wait for the horse teams to leave. “Do you bring me good news?”
    â€œThe answer to your question is complex,” Frost says. “That is why I came to see you in person.”
    â€œYou have either found her or not,” Willem says, a little more brusquely than he intends.
    â€œI have,” Frost says.
    â€œShe is alive? She is in good health?” Willem asks. “I need her for the mission. She is the only one who knows the way through the caves.”
    â€œShe is alive, and well in body,” Frost says reluctantly. “The doctors do not say the same for her mind.”
    â€œShe never belonged in that place,” Willem says.
    â€œI agree,” Frost says. “But the doctors have their own view. And now…”
    â€œWhere is she?” Willem asks with sudden concern.
    â€œHéloïse’s identity and