The tall dark shadow smiled. ‘Well, black man, you’ll be finding out soon enough.’

THE WORLD IS ALWAYS DIFFERENT IN THE DARK

Elisabeth von Hoffmann opened her eyes and, for a brief disconcerting moment, had to remember where she was (a hotel, Bordeaux). She slipped out of bed without waking the général. She’d had a dream.

Elisabeth lit a candle and sat down at the dresser. In the mirror, she gazed at her face. The dream had returned her to a window in Berlin, the day Napoleon Bonaparte marched through the Brandenburg Gate, the day she’d seen the boy, the one who’d looked up at her from the couch. This time, in the dream, he didn’t look up and Elisabeth had waited at the window, desperate for his eyes, for his head to turn in her direction. Somebody was tugging at her arm at the same time (it was the man she’d seen, with the arms pinned like a bird, she remembered). He was trying to pull her away, yet Elisabeth knew that she had to see the boy look up, it was an explicit requirement of the dream, and she couldn’t go before he had. Even inside the dream, she knew that it had happened before in real life, but it was crucial that it happen again.

She held her ground, resisted, but the boy didn’t turn around. She waited a few moments more, then relinquished to the pull at her arm. She allowed the man to drag her away. That was when she woke up.

The candle flame on the dresser flickered in the corner of Elisabeth’s eye. She glanced at it, the space of a breath, then looked back into the mirror. Now, suddenly, it was the boy she saw reflected back at her. She blinked and he was gone.

In the morning, Bordeaux was rainy. By late afternoon, the ships in the port were bare-masted and ghost-like in the grey mist. Elisabeth, Général Fourés and his aide-de-camp, Christophe Bergerard (whom the général had been able to retain), were drinking vin chaud in the hotel, waiting to board.

‘It will do you good,’ the général said to Elisabeth.

‘Yes.’

‘I only hope the journey won’t make you worse.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Elisabeth said. ‘A cold. I’ll be fine.’

‘You said that earlier and now you look worse. Doesn’t she, Bergerard?’

‘Maybe the same, Mademoiselle?’

‘Better!’ Elisabeth smiled. She picked up her vin chaud. ‘To your health, gentlemen.’

‘To yours,’ Fourés said seriously. ‘I want the colour back in those cheeks!’

Bergerard finished his wine and stood. ‘I’d better see to our luggage, Général. It’s nearly time.’

‘Good, Christophe. And tell Captain Mènard I wish to speak to him onboard.’

‘Yes, Général.’