The rain had stopped by morning, but Madrid's streets were slick and gleaming, as though the city itself had been scrubbed clean. From the high windows of the Consulado, Edward Harrow watched the trickle of carts and pedestrians with the paranoia of a man who saw enemies in every shadow. His reflection stared back at him in the glass: hollow-eyed, gray at the temples, the pistol glinting faintly in his hand.
Three days ago, he had believed himself master of the board. Now he felt like a pawn awaiting sacrifice.
"Sir," came Wainwright's voice, cautious from the doorway.
Harrow spun too fast, pistol raised, before realizing who it was. Wainwright froze, his hands lifted in quiet appeal.
"You should rest," the adjutant said gently. "You've not slept in days."
"Rest?" Harrow's laugh was dry, brittle. "And leave them time to creep in and cut my throat? I rest when the King's agents burn this villa to ash."
