notes1

For something so evidently temporary it seemed oddly like Fort-Lamy, a

statement of intent, of privilege and power. As they approached it, Sarah
noticed that the clearing they had set up camp in was not natural but built from
scorched earth and ashes. Lisbeth called to a porter and talked to him in Flemish
Dutch. “Take their girl and fetch their luggage. On the way, burn the gloves on
the path and . . . empty the soup out into the bushes. Carefully, so it won’t be
seen. Leave the pots by the barricade.”
• The Belgian waved to Clementine to follow him, who did after an insolent
delay. “Not eating the soup?” Sarah asked. “I’m . . . too scared, to be
honest. I’m not sure we’ve got all of this bottled up here.” “You touched
her face,” Sarah mentioned quietly. Lisbeth shrugged. “She needed to be
touched . . .” Something occurred to Lisbeth. “You speak Dutch,” she said
with a smile. Sarah’s command of languages, one of her mother’s few gifts
to her, came so easily that she sometimes forgot what she was listening to.
She was going to have to be more careful around the doctor. “Now I see
why he keeps you around,” Lisbeth continued. “What does he want,
Ursula?” The Captain hovered, but Lisbeth ignored him, turning her back to
him as he moved. Sarah struggled momentarily to unpick the truth from
the lie, the cover from the real mission, uncertain what that was. “You’re in
enemy territory, you need to be escorted to safety,” she managed. “Well,
enemy territory is where we’re needed right now,” Lisbeth replied.