Harry and Dax emerged from the final stairway landing into the open air of the Golden Gallery. The horizon allowed Dax to shake off the twitch of claustrophobia from their climb through narrow passages originally meant for young altar boys.

“She’s quiet,” said Harry, pressed against the stone railing. “Probably all choking on smoke by now.”

Dax, thighs stinging, lit a rumpled cigarette. “How many do you think are still here? I heard most people were gone one way or another by Tuesday.”

“Upper crust got out, maybe. Common folks are still around.”

From the distance, muted residual explosions echoed between the buildings. The tarnished ball and cross above them squeaked as it wavered, and below them, a handful of people darted in and out of doors and windows.

Dax blew smoke that got lost in the haze. “You think,” he said, snorting, “there’s anyone stuck in the old War Rooms basement, pondering the irony?”

“I think most people saw this coming,” said Harry. “Just not from our own bloody people.”