“The Jacobin's Gambit”
The mob's roar outside Parliament was a living thing, throbbing against the stained-glass windows like a malarial fever. He adjusted his cravat with fingers still sticky from sealing those damning letters with wax—black, of course. “You've a talent for making enemies, my lord,” sneered the Chancellor, his rheumy eyes tracking the dagger-shadows on the wall. A half-smile. “Only way to know you're moving forward.” The pistol in his desk drawer weighed heavy with its single silver bullet. The first rock shattered a window. “Ah,” he murmured, watching the bloodied cobblestones below, “right on schedule.” History, after all, was just violence with better lighting.