Westminster

In the London of 1893, Westminster is not merely a district – it is the very seat of the British Empire’s heart and tongue. Here, power wears a robe, speaks Latin in echoing chambers, and signs its name with ceremonial pens on parchment thicker than some noble lineages.

Stretching from the Palace of Westminster along the north bank of the Thames, the borough encompasses the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Whitehall, and a cluster of stately ministries and government offices. This is the London of laws, lords, and lamplight – where a late vote may ripple out to affect distant colonies by breakfast.

By day, the streets bustle with black-coated civil servants, clerks with ink-stained fingers, and messengers darting between offices. At dusk, gaslight softens the edges of grandeur, and the Abbey’s great bells toll across the rooftops like a slow, solemn heartbeat. Big Ben strikes the hours with unflinching dignity, heard in every club and drawing room with a clock near the window.

The buildings themselves are a study in imperial confidence: Gothic spires, colonnaded porticos, and façades carved with lions, laurels, and Latin mottos. This is where Sir Christopher Wren’s baroque vision gives way to the Victorian Gothic revival, with architecture not just made to impress, but to intimidate forgetfulness and command reverence.

While Westminster may seem all ceremony and granite, rumour has it that some offices keep darker secrets. It is whispered that beneath Whitehall, ancient vaults remain sealed since the days of Henry VIII. Others murmur of a certain windowless wing attached to no named ministry, where flickering wards burn coldly behind iron-banded doors. Such tales are, of course, quite unofficial.

To walk through Westminster in 1893 is to feel the weight of empire on your shoulders, the chill of marble at your back, and the quiet knowledge that someone, somewhere, is always listening.