August 5, 1997, London Heathrow Airport.
The rain fell densely and coldly, casting a leaden gray light on the runway. Prince Charles's private jet landed in the morning mist, heavy as if it carried not people, but the entire Royal Family's twilight.
The cabin door opened, and Charles appeared at the top of the gangway. He wore no hat, his sparse blond hair was wet with rain, sticking to his forehead. His complexion was even more ashen than before he went to Mexico, the shadows under his eyes were impossibly dark. He refused the umbrella offered by his assistant, walking down the gangway step by step, his footsteps unsteady, yet at the moment he touched the soil of the United Kingdom, his back involuntarily straightened—a habit built over seventy years, the Royal Family's demeanor engraved in his bones.
