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rampart near the frozen moat’s edge; it was like a thin wooden road with sloped sides. Jack easily climbed down it. The round-eyed staring of the gulls taunted him; the ducks just plain ignored him. When the boy stepped onto that black ice, he felt he had found something more mysterious than his missing father. He was walking on water; even the ducks began to watch him.
    When Jack reached the middle of the moat, he heard what he thought was the organ in the Citadel Church—just some low notes, not what he would have called music. Maybe the organist was calling upon the notes to enhance a story he was telling Alice. But Jack had never heard notes so low on the scale. It wasn’t the organ. The Kastelsgraven itself was singing to the boy. The frozen pond was protesting his presence; the moat around the old fort had detected an intruder.
    Before the ice cracked, it moaned—the cracks themselves were as loud as gunshots. A spiderweb blossomed at Jack’s feet. He heard the soldiers yelling before he felt the frigid water.
    The boy’s head went under for only a second or two; his hands reached up and caught a shelf of ice above him. He rested his elbows on this shelf, but he hadn’t the strength to pull himself out of the water—nor would the shelf of ice have held his weight. All Jack could do was stay exactly where he was, half in and half out of the freezing moat.
    The gulls and ducks were put to flight by the racket of the soldiers’ boots on the wooden rampart. The soldiers were shouting instructions in Danish; a bell in a barracks was ringing. The commotion had brought Alice and a man Jack assumed was the organist. In a crisis of this kind, what good is an organist? Jack was thinking. But Anker Rasmussen, if that’s who he was, at least looked more like a military man than a musician.
    Alice was screaming hysterically. Jack worried that she would think this was all his father’s fault. In a way, it was, the boy considered. His own rescue struck him as uncertain. After all, if the ice hadn’t held him, how would it hold one of the soldiers?
    Then Jack saw him, the littlest soldier. He’d not been among the first of the soldiers to arrive; maybe Anker Rasmussen had fetched him from one of the barracks. He wasn’t in uniform—only in his long underwear, as if he’d been asleep or was sick and had been convalescing. He was already shivering as he started out across the ice to Jack—inching his way, as Jack imagined all soldiers had been trained to do, on his elbows and his stomach. He dragged his rifle by its shoulder strap, which he clenched in his chattering teeth.
    When the soldier had crawled to the hole Jack had made in the ice, he slid the rifle toward Jack—butt-end first. Jack was able to grasp the shoulder strap in both hands while the soldier took hold of the barrel at the bayonet-end and pulled the boy out of the water and across the ice to him.
    Jack’s eyebrows were already frozen and he could feel the ice forming in his hair. When he was on the surface again, he tried to get to all fours, but the littlest soldier yelled at him.
    “Stay on your stomach!” he shouted. That he spoke English didn’t surprise Jack; the surprise was that he didn’t have a soldier’s voice. To Jack, the soldier sounded like a fellow child—a boy, not yet a teenager.
    As if Jack were a sled, he lay flat and let the littlest soldier pull him across the frozen moat to the rampart’s edge, where Alice was waiting. His mom hugged and kissed him—then she suddenly slapped him. It was the only time Jack Burns remembered his mother striking him, and the second she did so, she burst into tears. Without hesitation, he reached for her hand.
    Jack was wrapped in blankets and carried to the commandant’s house, although he didn’t remember meeting the commandant. The littlest soldier himself found clothes for Jack. They were too big for him, but Jack was more surprised that they were civilian clothes—not a soldier’s