The morning after the illumination of Madrid dawned gray, veiled in a mist that clung to rooftops and curled along the alleys like smoke. But the city did not sleep in. It buzzed—quieter than the celebrations the night before, but no less alive. Merchants opened their shops early. Children begged their parents to walk the boulevards once more, to see the electric lights flicker out in the dawn. And up in the Palacio Real, the mood had shifted like the weather.
Prince Lancelot stood in the hall of correspondence, reading through a stack of fresh dispatches laid out on the mahogany table. Each was sealed with the crests of foreign powers—Napoli, Britannia, Glanzreich, Algiers, even one from far-off Scandinavia. Some were congratulatory. Others—thinly veiled warnings wrapped in diplomatic pleasantries.
Alicia entered, pulling off her gloves, her cheeks flushed from the wind outside. "More letters arrived while you were at morning prayers. The courier from Bordeaux brought this."
