Lucerne, Switzerland, December 1938.
The lake was still.
So still that it mirrored the pale morning sky without distortion, as if refusing to ripple in respect for the moment.
Across the water, the snow-dusted peaks of the Alps loomed like ancient sentinels, impassive and eternal.
The mountains which once hosted Hannibal's march to Rome stood proudly beneath the glint of the sun that was otherwise drowned by its spires.
The Grand Hotel National had been cleared of guests for the occasion.
Snipers lined the rooftops. Black cars with curtained windows waited silently in the snow-lined courtyard.
Every movement, every breath, was measured.
Inside the gilded ballroom, beneath a vaulted ceiling of faded frescoes and chandeliers dimmed out of deference to wartime austerity, the final threads of a world were being severed.
King Edward VIII stood beneath a banner not of his own making.
