By London Bridge, a newspaper boy who had just emerged from a pile of sacks rubbed his drowsy eyes and watched the silent yet grand procession of mounted police and carriages pass before him. He gaped, still clutching yesterday's unsold copy of The Times, which bore an outdated piece of news — His Majesty William's condition was stable.
Meanwhile, in the newspaper office on Fleet Street, the coal stove had just been lit, and unproofed morning papers were piled high on the desks.
The editors, rushing in, feverishly transcribed and cleaned up the cold, stark telegraph lines before pasting them onto the top draft of the front page — the Tower of London had fallen.
The heart of this Empire had changed its blood before dawn.
By the time the convoy reached Kensington Palace, dawn had broken, the orange glow of first light casting an ethereal warmth on the old red brick walls, making every crack seem to glow with heat.
