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One black dot ran down the slope, then two, then four, then a scattered mass that halted and broke and halted again, then shredded apart and rushed downward in a flood.

"The Old Guard is beaten!" An officer with a livid face galloped past her. "The Guard retreats!" His cry passed through the field like fire through dry grass.

Shouts of "Sauve qui peut! Save yourselves!" burst through the plain.

The retreat became a rout became a flood.

The horse shifted beneath her, restless, sensing the fear. She tightened her grip and pressed her heels in, riding through men running without formation.

Ahead, on the ridge, a French battery stood drawn up. Twelve-pounders. Six of them. The gunners waited at their stations, but her father's beautiful daughters were silent.

She pulled up beside the colonel. "Why do you not fire?"

The grizzled officer turned his head. "Our powder is finished."

"Then why not retire?"

"Our appearance may hold them back." He did not look at her when he said it. He was watching the ridge. "We must give the Emperor time to escape."

She could not speak. Pushing her heels into her horse's sides, she rode away.

A cuirassier major reined in at the road's edge. She saw him draw one pistol from the holster. One shot for the horse. The second for him.

Tears streamed down her face, and the wind was not fast enough to dry them. She pressed the horse harder, drove through the press of bodies, through sounds she would hear in the dark for the rest of her life.

Her father was on the road. He didn't know Rodrick was coming.

The press thinned as she pushed south. The road to Genappe opened ahead of her, the worst of the rout spreading laterally into the fields, the fleeing men seeking ground rather than road.

She bent low over the mount's neck and galloped as though she had a tricolor at her saddle and de Brissac's voice in her ears telling her this was exactly the kind of lunatic courage France needed.

The road stretched before her.

She had no flag. She had no regiment. She had no loving spy. She had a stolen horse, a borrowed coat, and a breaking heart.

The horse's heavy breathing pushed against her knees. His neck lowered, tugging the reins from her hands. The poor beast was sniffing the earth road. Would he collapse? She had never seen a horse collapse, and Rodrick had not mentioned the signs. Cotton filled her skull, and if the horse collapsed, she prayed it would be in the shade.

A breeze ruffled her helmet's crest. It was coming from the south. For the first time since the battlefield, she breathed sweet air instead of smoke. She allowed the horse to take the lead, and he pushed off the road and into a copse of trees. Strange to see green after all that black.

A river slipped between the trees, carrying the late light over its dark surface. It had to be the Dyle. Her boot snagged on the stirrup as she slid to the ground. Louise caught the saddle with both hands, the leather slick under her palms, and stood with her forehead against the horse's flank, breathing until the ground stopped moving. The moss received her almost gently. Grass entered her nails as she crawled to the bank.

The horse drank with sobbing pulls. Louise managed to sit and pulled the helmet from her head.

The images struck her. The grenadier. The major. The way the Guard came down. She turned her head toward the water and retched, the motion tearing through her chest, leaving her throat raw.

She drew in a breath that did not fill her lungs and tried again, slower this time, forcing it down.

The willows along the riverbank stirred. She lifted her head, hand fumbling for her saber. Panting, she crept closer. Beyond the leaves, a black shape stood in sharp contrast to the greenery, half-hidden by the drooping branches, not fifty feet away.

A carriage listed at the water's edge, its wheels sunk into the soft ground and its sides streaked with mud. The horses hung in the traces, heads low, flanks dark with sweat, foam clinging to the harness.

It could be any carriage. Louise moved closer. Her fingers stayed around the hilt of her saber, though the grip had gone slippery against her palm.

The box was dark blue, ornamented in gold. The gilt crest flashed between the hanging fronds. A streak of light filtered through the willow and struck the Imperial Eagle.

Her breath caught so sharply that her chest hurt. The cotton that had filled her skull since the battle tore away at once, leaving every sound too clear—the river against the bank, the horses drawing air through their nostrils, the clink of harness.

It was Napoleon's carriage.