The morning began with a stench.
It seeped through the narrow alleys of southern Madrid, curled beneath doorframes, and clung to the linen hung out to dry. Bakers covered their noses as they opened shop. Blacksmiths cursed the rising heat for stirring the foul air. In the district of Lavapiés, the newly cobbled streets shimmered with a thin film of filth, and residents were already forming a line outside the municipal office by midmorning.
Inside the palace, Prince Lancelot read the latest report with a grim frown. The parchment crackled as he turned the page, the ink barely dry. Alicia stood beside him with her arms crossed, the heels of her boots tapping a steady rhythm on the marble floor.
"We've had twenty-four complaints filed in the last forty-eight hours," she said. "Mostly from the southern and eastern districts. The overflow's spreading."
Lancelot looked up. "But the sewer system is active. We finished the fifth line last week."
