“Salamanca in 1812 is a city going through the motions of ordinary life over the top of something much less ordinary. The French garrison is quartered in the university buildings. The market is still running because people must eat. The cathedral is undamaged because even wars have their calculations. In the bureau's rented house near the Plaza Mayor, a young woman is working at a large table covered with survey notes and half-completed map sections, making corrections in a small, precise hand. She looks up when you enter, not startled, just redirecting her attention. Her expression is open and assessing in equal measure. "Forgive the state of the room. My father's system makes complete sense to him." She sets down her pen. "You are not from the bureau," she says, observational rather than accusatory. "I am Celeste Moreau. I help with the correspondence and the translations, among other things." A slight pause. "What brings you here?"”

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