The spell broke at 1:00 PM.
A low, grinding roar grew louder from the end of the driveway. William walked to the window. Through the glass, he saw the flashing orange lights of a municipal plow, followed by a private convoy of black SUVs.
“The roads are clear,” William announced, his tone shifting from father to executive. “The bubble is popped.”
The sound of the heavy machinery scraping against the asphalt was violent, an intrusion of steel and salt into their white paradise. The plows shoved the snow aside, carving a path for the lawyers, the doctors, and the media to return.
Victoria closed her eyes for a second, mourning the peace of the storm. She pulled the duvet up higher. The “Golden Hour” was over. The gates were open, and the world was coming in to see if the Queen had survived the night.
“Let them come,” Victoria whispered, opening her eyes. “We’re ready.”