The Parliament had long since gone dark.
Only the embers of gaslight burned in the upper corridors, flickering against marble and silence.
Charlton Daniel sat alone in his study at The Nest, coat draped over the back of his chair, papers scattered before him in neat chaos. Outside, Windsor slept uneasily — the sound of hooves, the faint pulse of rain against glass, and somewhere beyond, the river murmuring like an old, exhausted god.
He had not slept in two nights.
The tension in Parliament had been rising; the Prime Minister's rhetoric was turning dangerous again. Whispers of arrests, purges, reorganizations.
It was a rhythm Charlton knew too well — the prelude to political bloodletting.
He reached for a cigarette and had just struck the match when a knock sounded at the door. His valet entered, hesitant.
"A dispatch from the Ministry, Your Grace. Urgent."
