The thaw came slowly.
Not the dramatic kind that split ice with sound and spectacle, but the gradual softening that crept into the ground first, then the air, then the habits of men who had spent months bracing against cold. Phillip noticed it not in the weather reports but in the yard outside the foundry, where boots no longer rang sharp against frozen earth and the mud returned in narrow bands along the cart tracks.
Spring was arriving.
It changed the rhythm of the days.
Phillip woke later than usual that morning, not because he slept deeply, but because nothing demanded him before dawn. No priority flags. No urgent summons from Whitehall. The sounder in the next room clicked twice while he lay there, then settled into silence. He listened long enough to be certain it was routine traffic and not something waiting for him, then sat up.
The house felt warmer. Someone had stoked the fire before he woke. Henry, probably.
