The bells of Westminster tolled across the Thames, rolling through the fog like distant thunder. London had been restless all morning—coaches rattling over the cobblestones, messengers sprinting through Parliament Square, even the newspapers whipping out rushed editions with headlines that seemed unable to contain their own excitement:
"BRITAIN AND FONSEINE SIGN HISTORIC RAIL ACCORD!"
"PHILLIP WELLINGTON SECURES EUROPE'S FIRST FOREIGN RAIL CONTRACT!"
"THE IRON ROAD GOES GLOBAL!"
And yet, inside Imperial Dynamics' London headquarters, Phillip Wellington sat in his office with a half-finished cup of tea and a ledger open before him.
He wasn't celebrating.
Not yet.
Henry burst into the room without knocking.
"You're impossible," he declared. "The entire country is cheering your name and you're sitting here doing accounts."
Phillip looked up with mild annoyance.
"These accounts fund the cheering."
Henry threw his hands up. "By God, Phillip, at least pretend to enjoy yourself."
