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whereabouts have been kept most secret,” Frost says. “As have yours.”
    Willem nods his understanding. The French have many spies in England.
    â€œBut Héloïse was recognized,” Frost says. “Another patient at St. Luke’s was the widow of a British officer. This lady was at her husband’s side at Waterloo, and by his deathbed in the field hospital in your village.”
    Willem is not surprised to hear that the officer’s widow had lost her mind. What he witnessed in the makeshift hospital in the aftermath of Waterloo was enough to drive anyone to madness.
    â€œFor security, the High Command decided to move Héloïse to another … location,” Frost says.
    Willem wants to ask more but refrains as the six lieutenants approach within earshot and form a line in the center of the parade ground, directly in front of where Willem, Frost, and Jack are standing. They look expectantly at Willem.
    â€œLoad,” Willem orders.
    The soldiers draw their flintlock pistols. They feel for powder cartridges in their leather pouches, insert them, and ram them home.
    â€œReady,” Willem calls.
    At the start line, the gun crews lift the trails of the carriages, lowering the heads of the wooden saurs. Some soldiers take hold of the wheels.
    â€œAttack!” Willem calls.
    The soldiers strain and the trojansaurs begin to move, slowly at first, but increasing in speed. The soldiers gasp and grunt, calling encouragement to one another. At the other end of the parade ground the lieutenants wait, raising their pistols as the trojansaurs approach. Faster and faster the carriages rush down the parade ground.
    As they draw closer, the soldiers holding the trails of the carriages lift them higher, lowering the heads as if they are stooping to attack.
    The pistols sound, a ragged series of crack s, and from each muzzle spurts a cloud of pepper, enveloping the oncoming wooden heads.
    This is the real point of the exercise. The “race” is merely to add speed and urgency. The officers must learn to stand their ground in front of a charging battlesaur, holding their nerve until the beast is within range of their pepper cartridge.
    The lieutenants leap to the side, crouching down out of the path of the carriages and reloading as the trojansaurs rumble slowly to a stop.
    â€œLieutenant McConnell, I declare you the winner,” Willem says, not without some reluctance. McConnell’s trojansaur, Harry, was a foot in front as the wooden beasts crossed the line.
    McConnell struts and preens as if it was he who had pushed the carriage, not his men. Willem observes a few sour expressions and rolled eyes among his gun crew and thinks McConnell would have been wiser to thank them than to steal their glory.
    â€œIs that it?” Frost asks.
    â€œTwo more races to go,” Willem says. “Best of three, then a final if there is no clear winner.”
    The gun crews drag the trojansaurs back to the start line. The lieutenants follow, to give instruction and encouragement.
    â€œWhere is this other location?” Willem asks. “You sound uneasy.”
    â€œIt is very old and has a dark history,” Frost says.
    â€œThen we must go to her,” Willem says. “Today.”
    â€œWillem, I understand your desire to see her,” Frost says, “but the doctors say she is unwell.”
    â€œShe is not mad,” Willem says. “She is just odd. As would you be if you had lived for so many years alone in a forest cave.”
    â€œThe doctors say differently,” Frost says.
    â€œYou owe her your life!” Willem says, aware of the heat in his voice. “We all do. Have you forgotten our narrow escape from Antwerp?”
    â€œWe owe her a great debt,” Frost says. “But that does not heal her illness.”
    â€œIt is more than that,” Willem says. “The mission cannot succeed without Héloïse. Only she knows the secret forest