Thomas Wycliffe would never forget that moment.
As the carriage turned from St. James Street onto the main road, the wide iron fence of Buckingham Palace slowly emerged from the morning mist, resembling the ribs of a giant beast, he instinctively slowed his reins.
The air had changed completely from before.
It wasn't the damp cold of Hay Market, nor the noise of Piccadilly Square, as if even the sound of hooves was swallowed by the gray-white palace walls.
This place was unlike anywhere he had passed before, unlike the university courtyards of Bloomsbury, nor the Cabinet residences on Whitehall. It was an indescribable quiet, belonging to the highest power of the Kingdom, pressing heavily beneath the mist, making one unsure whether to look up or to hold their breath.
Wycliffe's knuckles tightened slightly on the reins.
