HMS Vanguard was still rising in Dry Dock No. 4 when Phillip felt the shift.
Not in metal, not in calculations. In the workers.
They still labored. Rivets still clanged. But today, talk seemed restrained. Movements slower. Something had drained from the air.
Phillip noticed, but didn't stop to ask.
He returned to drawings, turbine layouts, exhaust length calculations. Henry spent the morning yelling at a foundry officer for sending the wrong steel mix. Malcolm cursed at apprentices for misaligning a piston rod. Barrett argued with naval officers about turret placement.
Normal chaos.
Until just after midday, footsteps echoed on the scaffold.
Not hurried. Purposeful.
Phillip turned.
The Duke of Wellington walked toward him. No entourage. No aide. Just him, coat buttoned, face unreadable.
Phillip straightened. "Father?"
The Duke didn't answer.
He reached into his coat.
He handed Phillip a folded newspaper.
Paper edges stiff. Ink still faintly smelled of press.
