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paths and the ways through the underground tunnels.”
    â€œWe do not even know for sure that your mother and Cosette are at the abbey in the Sonian Forest,” Frost says.
    â€œIt was you who told me they were,” Willem says, angry now, despite himself. “Do you doubt your own spies?”
    â€œI believe the information was good,” Frost says. “But they could have been moved.”
    â€œAnd wouldn’t your spies know if that was so?” Willem asks.
    â€œMost probably,” Frost admits.
    â€œWhat do you know that you are not telling me?” Willem demands.
    â€œIt is not my place to talk about your mission,” Frost says.
    â€œI ask you not as an officer, but as my friend,” Willem says quietly.
    They fall silent as the lieutenants line up once again in front of them.
    This time Lieutenant Patrick, a round-faced man, wins it by a nose. It earns him a sour look from McConnell. Patrick congratulates his crew, shaking each of them by the hand.
    â€œRace three,” Willem calls, and the gun crews haul the trojansaurs back to the starting line.
    He turns to stare at Frost, who seems aware of it.
    â€œWillem, there is talk that your mission will be canceled,” Frost says.
    Willem draws in a sharp breath.
    â€œThat cannot be! I have an agreement with the Duke of Wellington himself,” Willem says. “I trust the honor of a British officer, a nobleman, in upholding his promises.”
    â€œPromises he may find it hard to keep,” Frost says. “This is the news I dreaded telling you. Word has come that Napoléon encamps his army in Calais. An invasion of England is imminent.”
    â€œAn agreement is an agreement,” Willem says.
    â€œUntil it is not,” Frost says. “He will need every man to resist the invasion.”
    â€œHe is coming tomorrow for the rocket demonstration,” Willem says. “I will ask him about it then.”
    â€œAnd if he says no?” Frost asks.
    â€œThen I will go on my own,” Willem says bitterly.
    â€œNot on your own,” Frost says, and smiles.
    Willem breathes in deeply and exhales his aggravation in a soft white mist. He finds that he has clenched his fists, and slowly relaxes them. His anger is misdirected. And Frost is wrong. The duke will not go back on their agreement. Willem is sure of it.
    The third trojansaur race begins, but halfway down the course one of McConnell’s men trips and falls. The man behind him stumbles over him and falls also. Their carriage slews to the side and the trojansaur comes to a brief stop before the men pick themselves up. They resume the race, but well behind.
    Five out of the six pistols sound. Five of six trojansaurs cross the finish line. Lieutenant Patrick’s team again is in front. Willem is about to declare them the overall winners when McConnell lowers his pistol and draws his sword. Before Willem can say anything McConnell rushes at Harry, yelling an incoherent war cry.
    He reaches high and slashes up at the wooden face using both hands in a powerful strike. Paint and wood chips fly.
    â€œLieutenant McConnell!” Willem calls. The tall Scotsman does not seem to hear. He raises the sword again, but it is wrested out of his hands and he flies backward onto the cobblestones as the trojansaur rumbles slowly past him to a halt.
    Jack towers over the lieutenant. Willem is too shocked to speak. He has never seen Jack angry before.
    McConnell scrambles back to his feet, his face red with rage and embarrassment. He shouts, “You have struck an officer! You will hang for this, Private.”
    Jack tenses, then he lowers the sword, looking around at Willem with a horrified expression as he realizes the extent of his crime.
    McConnell snatches the sword out of Jack’s hand, raises it, and cuffs him across the side of the head with the hilt. Jack staggers and blood flows from a cut above his ear.
    â€œWithdraw, Lieutenant,” Frost