“We found a few things,” the lieutenant replies when I enquire how went the night. “What we did not find was as important.” She gulps down her milk, sitting back and kicking off her boots. She puts her plate on her lap and her grubbily stockinged feet on the table, selecting and spearing morsels from on high.

“What was it you did not find?” I ask her.

“Many other people,” the lieutenant tells us. “There were a few refugees, camped out, but nobody… threatening; nobody armed, nobody organised.” She picks a few more mouthfuls from her plate of meats and eggs. She gazes ceiling wards, as if to admire the painted wood panels and embossed heraldic shields. “We think there may be another group around. Somewhere,” she says, then narrows her eyes as she looks at me. “Competition,” she says, smiling that cold smile of hers. “Not friends of ours.”

A soft egg yolk, surgically isolated from its surrounding white and the bed of toast it lay upon by previous incisions, is lifted intact, yellowly wobbling ~ on the lieutenant's fork and directed towards her mouth. Her thin lips close around the golden curve. She slips the fork out and holds it vertically, twirling it as her jaw moves and her eyes close. She swallows. “Hmm,” she says, collecting herself and smacking her lips. “The last we heard of that happy band they were in the hills, north of here.” She shrugs. “We couldn't find any sign of them; it may be they've headed cast with everybody else.”

“You still intend to remain here?”

“Oh, yes.” She puts the plate down, wipes her lips on a napkin, throws it on the table. “I like your home very well; I think the boys and I can be happy here.”