(Mid-March – The Hall of Inquiries, Parliament Square)
The carriages lined the square like a row of dark sentinels, their lamps flickering through the fog. Above them, the old stone façade of the Hall of Inquiries rose like a mausoleum — beautiful, austere, and cold.
Inside, it smelled of rain-soaked wool, ink, and nerves.
Baroness Emily Evans stood near the front bench, her gloves clasped tightly in her hands, her chin lifted. The morning light caught in the silver threads of her gown — the only trace of nobility she hadn't yet lost.
Serena sat behind her, Charlton beside her. Leonard had insisted on coming, his crutch echoing faintly each time he shifted.
The gallery was full — not just of ministers, but of society's vultures: journalists, reformists, gossip columnists who'd come to see a woman's name dragged through Parliament's polished floor.
The Summons
The Inquiry Clerk read from a scroll, voice ringing through the chamber.
