Madrid awoke the next morning to the distant toll of church bells and the rumble of cart wheels over slick cobblestones. To the city's common folk, life continued in its weary rhythm—fishmongers shouting by the river, bakers shoving loaves into brick ovens, washerwomen bending over basins. But beneath the surface, in the cramped arteries of Lavapiés and the winding alleys of La Latina, another world stirred, one unseen by the ordinary eye.
For Edward Harrow, Britannia's chief in Madrid, the morning promised certainty. The previous day's reports had landed like coins on a gaming table, each more gratifying than the last. Warehouse—destroyed. Rebel lines of communication—cut. Watchers—still in place. To Harrow, the city was slowly closing its fist around the phantom insurgency.
