Madrid in late autumn carried a peculiar tension, as if the air itself had grown heavy with secrets. The rain that had soaked the city streets days before was gone, but the cobblestones still gleamed with dampness, catching the lantern light like glass. Citizens hurried along narrow alleys, cloaks drawn tight against the chill, speaking in lowered voices. To the ordinary passerby, life went on—markets bustled, taverns roared with laughter, priests tolled bells. Yet beneath that surface, the city had changed.
The Englishman was gone.
No public trial, no procession of soldiers, not even a rumor of where he had been taken. One day he was seen pacing the Consulado's halls, and the next he had vanished as though Madrid's stones had swallowed him whole.
